None But The Brave: A Novel of the Surgeons of World War II

by Anthony A. Goodman

  When Himmel came through the door, there was no doubt in Berg’s mind why he was there. It was quite early in the day for him to make his visit. It couldn’t be good. And since so little had changed in the camp other than that the Americans and the Russians were rumored to be on their way into Berlin, and if Berlin, then here as well. Berg knew his days were numbered.

  “Well, Doktor Berg, you certainly have done it, haven’t you?” Berg sat quietly at his desk, alarmed by the look on Himmel’s face in spite of his calm voice. Himmel’s lips were curled into a smile, but his eyes were cold and dead.

  It’s all in the eyes. The rest of the face means nothing. This I have always known.

  “We have had word that one of your former patients has died at the front.”

  It had to be the Sturmbannführer, Berg thought. I can’t even recall his name. But, I can see myself placing the sponge next to his femoral artery just before I closed the tissues and repaired his hernia. Yes, he is dead. It has to be him.

  “You remember, surely? Sturmbannführer Heinzel? Such a nice job of surgery, hmmm? I wasn’t here that day, was I?”

  Berg was beginning to sweat.

  Even now, after so many years and months of surviving day by day, Berg couldn’t still the racing of his heart. He wanted to live more than he wanted anything. He had nothing of the serenity his father had shown at the end, when his death was inevitable. Berg knew he would do anything to live another day. Another hour. And it made him ashamed.

  “Do you want to tell me how you did it?” Himmel was smiling again. Just the mouth. Not the eyes.

  When Berg did not answer, Himmel went on, “Heinzel died at the front, of course, but there was something strange. He went into shock, you see, just as we were engaged in a major battle near Berlin. One minute he is running with his men, and the next minute he is lying on the ground in shock. They dragged him to safety, expecting to find a bleeding wound. But, guess what?”

  Himmel waited for Berg to respond, his head cocked, eyebrows raised, like a teacher expecting the correct answer in a classroom. And still the smiling lips. Berg just stared back into his eyes, hoping vainly to bluff his way out.

  “Well, of course you know the rest. There was no wound at all. When they undressed him though, they found a massive purple swelling in his groin, right under that nicely healed hernia incision you made. The swelling went down into his thigh and up his abdomen. Of course, they rushed him to the operating tent. We haven’t much left up there in the way of supplies right now, but he was alive when he got there, so they opened the hernia incision, and guess what they found?”

  Berg cocked his head this time. He would play this game out. Himmel could accuse him of carelessness, but there would be no proof of murder. But, what was he thinking? Himmel needed no proof to do anything. He was an entire system of justice himself. He killed thousands of people every day who had committed no crime at all. What would stand in the way of his killing Berg right there and then?

  Himmel drew out the silence. Berg’s head cocked painfully to the side, Himmel’s smile rigid on his lips.

  “Very good, really,” Himmel said finally. The smile disappeared. He stepped toward Berg. Berg slumped further into his chair in a pose of surrender.

  “Only our surgeon’s curiosity found you out. Very close to getting away with it, you know. How many more are out there, Doktor? Not many I suppose. You didn’t get that many chances, did you?”

  Berg looked around his little office. There was no escape from this room. And so, he did the only thing he could. He pulled himself up and smiled back at Himmel. Then he straightened his soiled white coat and nodded. And the funny thing was that his smile and his silent confession freed him from his own fear. He was completely calm; his thoughts were now with Rachel. And his father.

  At that very moment, Himmel’s lips curled down, and his brows furrowed, and his teeth showed like an ape. He reached down and unbuckled the leather flap that held his nine-millimeter Luger in his holster.

  He slid the gun from its polished leather sheath. Berg could smell the oil and see the glistening surface of the meticulously maintained instrument. As Himmel pulled back on the receiver, Berg flinched at the metallic sound of the cartridge entering the chamber.

  Berg involuntarily stepped back, stumbling as his knees struck the front edge of his chair. He fell into the seat, overwhelmed with the smell of his own fear and despair and shame. Himmel raised the Lugar, pointing it straight at Berg’s forehead. Himmel was still smiling as he pulled back the hammer with his thumb.

  Berg closed his eyes and, for the first time in all those years in hell, he prayed for himself.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  20 May 1945, 0800 Hours

  A Concentration Camp near Weimar, Germany

  The day was warm and clear; the sky held not even the trace of a cloud. Schneider, McClintock, and Hammer walked three abreast down the battered road toward the camp, helmets back on their heads, the sun warming their pale skin. The red crosses on their helmets were now scuffed and marred by rough use over the past many months. The crosses were only symbolic now that the war was officially over.

  The road’s muddy surface was deeply rutted from the treads of trucks, jeeps and tanks. Along the shoulders lay the skeletal remains of the burnt-out engines of war. A Panzer tank stood on its side, staring down the twisted muzzle of a Sherman tank, both dead from shooting each other at close range. Inside the German tank were the burnt remains of the crews, sealed in their coffins by the horrendous temperatures of their final conflagration. Charred American jeeps were recognizable only by their square shapes and the faint outline of the insignia on the hood, burned black against the remaining olive paint. Twisted hulks of blackened steel defying identification arched from solidified pools of melted rubber.

  No fires remained. No smoke. All the wasted rubble was now cold. Most of the American bodies had been removed some days ago, taken to processing depots for identification and burial. The familiar smell of cordite was gone. The only odors that remained were of burned rubber, steel and paint.

  The three men walked down the center of the road, hardly looking at the debris. Over the past many months, they had seen more than enough of the same scenery everywhere the war took them. They had followed immediately behind the fight, always arriving in time to witness the resulting carnage and the destruction, but rarely any more of the battle itself. It was an odd perspective from which they witnessed the war. It reminded Hamm of his interminable ER duty in civilian life, where he saw the results of the violence, but rarely the actual acts of violence.

  It had been ten days since Molly and Steve had their terrifying adventure in the minefield. To Hamm, they both seemed changed somehow, but it was not something he could put his finger on.

  What a hard act for Susan to follow now, he thought, even if they did get back together.

  Susan would be struggling to regain the love of her husband, fighting against the romantic memories of a fairy tale romance and a heroine’s act of bravery. It seemed impossible to Hamm. But, he thought, you never know. Maybe when Steve gets back to the real world, everything that happened here will be like a dream, quickly forgotten…or only a dim memory.

  “How far now, Hamm?” McClintock asked, interrupting the train of thoughts.

  “Yeah. How far?” Schneider echoed in a lifeless monotone.

  “You guys sound like my kids. ‘Are we there yet, Daddy? When are we going to be there, Daddy.’ I’m not your Daddy,” Hamm said to McClintock. “And I’m not yours either,” to Schneider.

  “Easy, Hamm. Take it easy,” said McClintock. “Don’t get your yoogies in an uproar. It was just a fucking question.”

  “Well, I don’t have the vaguest idea. And while we’re at it, I’d like to know why we’re walking. Where’s our jeep?”

  Just as he spoke, the roar of an engine made all three of them jump and turn sharply around. A battered jeep marked with a red cross skidded around the turn behind them
, grinding gears, coming to a stop just short of running them down. McClintock and Schneider jumped to one side. Hamm just turned, planted his feet, folded his arms, and stood his ground. He was so pissed at having to walk all that way, he was damned if he was going to jump out of the way of his own jeep. Or maybe he was just angry at what he had seen along the walk. Or the memories…of what? He didn’t know, but he was in no mood to screw around.

  The front bumper of the jeep came to rest against his shins. Hamm stared into the eyes of Gwerski, his driver, who seemed totally undeterred by his officer’s glare.

  “Sorry, sirs. Had a little traffic back there. Refugees. They’re all over the fuckin’ place. I’ve never seen so fuckin’ many people on the fuckin’ roads. Fuckin’ good thing they’re not armed.”

  “Gwerski, you think you could say a whole sentence without ‘fuckin’ in it?’” Schneider said shaking his head from side to side.

  Gwerski shrugged. “What? Oh, yeah. Absa-fucking-lutely, sir.”

  In fact they were thrilled to have Gwerski as their driver. He was new to the group, but had proved himself capable and fearless. He planned ahead and took no chances. But, at the same time, very little deterred him. Apparently, he had grown up in Brooklyn and had never left there until he embarked for Europe on a troop ship. And just as thousands of other GIs, he puked nearly all the way over, but he recovered and hit the ground running.

  The three docs climbed silently and sullenly into the jeep. Hamm took the front passenger’s seat. McClintock and Schneider vaulted into the back.

  “Let’s go, Corporal,” Hamm said, slapping the dashboard with his palm. “Straight ahead. Let’s see what this is all about.”

  Half an hour later the jeep slowed to a crawl. McClintock and Schneider had nodded off, chins on their chests; McClintock was drooling a little. They had all grown proficient at sleeping deeply in the noisiest places and most uncomfortable positions imaginable. Hamm, like the captain of a ship at sea, remained awake, sitting forward in his seat, one hand on top of the windshield frame.

  As they reached the crest of a tiny hill, Hamm reached back without looking and shook Schneider’s knee. Then he nudged McClintock as well. Both men bolted awake, confused and muzzy-headed.

  “What? Where are we?” Schneider asked.

  Hamm pointed ahead down the center of the road. McClintock and Schneider were now awake and alert—another legacy from their surgical training as well as the war. Schneider’s mouth sagged, but he said nothing. McClintock slowly moved his head back and forth in stunned disbelief.

  Gwerski stopped the jeep, turned off the engine, and pocketed the key. None of them moved. Minutes passed. Still, all four remained motionless in their seats.

  Finally, it was Schneider who rose to leave the jeep first. He swung his right leg over the side of the rear seat and hopped to the ground. Then, in a single motion, the others stepped from the jeep and began walking slowly forward.

  They were a hundred yards from the camp. A large black sign with the name of the camp had been torn down and was now a smoldering pile of ash. Behind the destroyed sign, a brick wall bore German words painted in black gothic letters.

  Arbeit Macht Frei

  Some men dressed in gray rags were slashing at the rugged sign, trying in vain to obliterate it.

  Gwerski stopped in front of the jeep. He would not, could not, walk any further. He leaned, half sitting, against the muddy bumper.

  Hamm knew it was only his own pride that kept him from jumping into the vehicle and driving back from where they had come. That was exactly what Gwerski wanted to do. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Nor the rest of them.

  Schneider, McClintock, and Hamm began to walk forward, paying no attention to Gwerski.

  “My God,” Hamm said quietly to no one. “My God.”

  “What do the signs say?” McClintock whispered to Schneider.

  Funny thing, the whispering, Schneider thought. It was as if normal conversation would have been disrespectful.

  “Don’t know the name of the camp,” Schneider answered. “I heard of a Buchenwald somewhere around here, but I don’t think this is it. Saw it on the map once. Still…I’m not sure where we are. ‘Arbeit Macht Frei.’ That means, Work makes you free…or makes freedom, or work liberates, I guess. Something like that.” He thought for a moment more. “Yeah, it’s Work Makes You Free.”

  “So, what’s it mean?” McClintock asked again.

  “Beats the shit out of me. I don’t know.”

  They moved slowly forward toward the barbed wire fencing. The gates were open, and it seemed as if hundreds—no, thousands—of people were milling about in slow motion. There was no pattern to the movement. It resembled a dusting of snow blowing across a black tarmac road in amorphous swirls. Hypnotic. Disorienting. As many people were still hovering around inside the camp as were drifting around outside the gates. There seemed to be no destination, only aimless movement. It was the Brownian motion of human molecules. But, these were like no humans that any of the men had ever seen before: not the most dangerously sick from civilian days, nor the most pitifully poor. These were ghosts from some other world. An asylum filled with demented souls of war. Crazed. Mute. Drifting with the breeze like dead leaves in the fall.

  Hamm started for the gates and was soon surrounded by a small mob of maybe fifty of the ghosts. They spoke to him in words he could not understand, in voices he could hardly hear. It was Babel. But worst of all, he recoiled from them. He actually drew away. In that very moment, he was as ashamed of himself as he had ever been. Ashamed of his reaction, of his lack of humanity. Of his own revulsion.

  I should rush to them, he thought. I should offer my aid. I should care for them. I should embrace them. I should feed them. I should clean their wounds. I should show them love.

  But, he could not.

  Instead, he stood frozen in his place: repulsed, horrified, unable to move, unable to reach out. This was not a rumor. Not scuttlebutt. Not any longer.

  “I’m a doctor, for God’s sake!” Hamm said aloud, but to no one. And no one answered.

  For the rest of his life, he would recall with shame his emotions at that particular moment; not a day would go by without some memory of this. But he would never tell another soul.

  A few seconds later, Schneider was at his side; he, too, was paralyzed by his revulsion. The crowd moved closer. Then, suddenly, both men were overwhelmed by an odor they had never before experienced. It was not even close to the worst of the surgeons’ vast repertoire of foul smells: not the gangrene of infected limbs; not the feculent odor of the cholera ward; nor the sickening sweet smell of kidney failure. Not even the intangible smell of death that they all knew more of than they would have wished.

  It was something else. Something they could not quite define. Something….

  The odor clung to their noses; it stuck in their throats and became part of their being. It permeated their clothes, their skin. It reminded them of their days in the anatomy lab when the smell of the embalming fluid became part of their life for nearly a year. But this…. this was something new. Something vastly more terrible. Unlike medical school, new clothes and a shower were not going to expunge this terrible haunting odor.

  The crowd took on form now as the bodies pushed closer. Neither Hamm nor Schneider saw any people. They saw bodies. Bodies were drifting, floating around them. Most were naked, and though the day was still chilly, these bodies did not shiver nor did they cower with their arms folded about them; there was no covering their genitals as Hamm knew he would have done were he naked outside among strangers. Instead, they walked in their nakedness as if that were the normal way of life. And then it struck Hamm as it did Schneider: this was their normal life. The nakedness and the smells and the starvation, even their internal anatomy visible through the thin veil of skin, with their bones protruding through translucent parchment. Their mouths were without teeth or had teeth blackened through crusted lips. Their skin was covered with runni
ng sores. All the horrors of the pathology books assembled there to meet them in a giant diorama of the complete degradation that humankind could survive; worse, that humankind could inflict.

  Hamm never felt it coming. One moment he was focused on the sights in front of him, the next he was on his knees, retching and retching without letup; he paused only long enough to catch his breath, cough, gag, and vomit again. When his stomach was empty, his abdominal muscles contracted hard, painfully trying to empty his body of something. Anything. When there was nothing at all left inside him, he began to sob. He had not behaved like this since that very first day of this war; the day he dropped to the sand on Dog White Beach after seeing the first of the terrible slaughter on D-day. But that day was nothing compared to this. He might, he thought, with the passing of decades, forget some of the horror of D-day. But the memories of this day would be with him, he knew, until he died.

  In all his years of training, all the nights in the emergency rooms, all the months in the battlefield, all the human detritus of war, none of the terror and agony before this moment had caused him such depth of grief.

  Schneider sank to his knees next to Hamm, taking him by his shoulders and holding him as only Hamm’s mother ever had. And Schneider began to cry, too.

  The crowd, maybe twenty souls now, for some of the others had lost interest and drifted on, pushed closer. Those who stayed paused in reverence at the sight of the two men—their rescuers, their heroes—down on their knees, crying. A small naked man stepped forward and kneeled down next to Schneider. The man was an anatomy lesson: every bone in his body showed through his skin. Schneider could count the bones and see the insertions of ligaments into joints. The man’s penis was contracted and invisible into a swollen and inflamed scrotum. The man’s bare feet were edematous, red, and ulcerated. He was completely bald. And his teeth protruded as if there were no room left for them in his mouth. The teeth were black.