by Ken Follett
As the boats approached land, Chuck could already see a flaw in the map he had prepared. Tall waves crashed onto a steeply sloping beach. As he watched, a boat turned sideways to the waves and capsized. The marines swam for shore.
"We have to show surf conditions," Chuck said to Eddie, who was standing beside him on the deck.
"How do we find them out?"
"Reconnaissance aircraft will have to fly low enough for whitecaps to register on their photographs."
"They can't risk coming that low when there are enemy air bases so close."
Eddie was right. But there had to be a solution. Chuck filed it away as the first question to be considered as a result of this mission.
For this landing they had benefited from more information than usual. As well as the normal unreliable maps and hard-to-decipher aerial photographs, they had a report from a reconnaissance team landed by submarine six weeks earlier. The team had identified twelve beaches suitable for landing along a four-mile stretch of coast. But they had not warned of the surf. Perhaps it was not so high that day.
In other respects Chuck's map was right, so far. There was a sandy beach about a hundred yards wide, then a tangle of palm trees and other vegetation. Just beyond the brush line, according to the map, there should be a swamp.
The coast was not completely undefended. Chuck heard the roar of artillery fire, and a shell landed in the shallows. It did no harm, but the gunner's aim would improve. The marines were galvanized with a new urgency as they leaped from the landing craft to the beach and ran for the brush line.
Chuck was glad he had decided to come. He had never been careless or slack about his maps, but it was salutary to see firsthand how correct mapping could save men's lives, and how the smallest errors could be deadly. Even before they embarked, he and Eddie had become a lot more demanding. They asked for blurred photographs to be taken again, they interrogated reconnaissance parties by phone, and they cabled all over the world for better charts.
He was glad for another reason. He was at sea, which he loved. He was on a ship with seven hundred young men, and he relished the camaraderie, the jokes, the songs, and the intimacy of crowded berths and shared showers. "It's like being a straight guy in a girls' boarding school," he said to Eddie one evening.
"Except that that never happens, and this does," Eddie said. He felt the same as Chuck. They loved each other, but they did not mind looking at naked sailors.
Now all seven hundred marines were getting off the ship and onto land as fast as they could. The same was happening at eight other locations along this stretch of coast. As soon as a landing craft emptied out, it lost no time in turning around and coming back for more, but the process still seemed desperately slow.
The Japanese artillery gunner, hidden somewhere in the jungle, found his range at last, and to Chuck's shock a well-aimed shell exploded in a knot of marines, sending men and rifles and body parts flying through the air to litter the beach and stain the sand red.
Chuck was staring in horror at the carnage when he heard the roar of a plane, and looked up to see a Japanese Zero flying low, following the coast. The red suns painted on the wings struck fear into his heart. Last time he saw that sight had been at the Battle of Midway.
The Zero strafed the beach. Marines who were in the process of disembarking from landing craft were caught defenseless. Some threw themselves flat in the shallows, some tried to get behind the hull of the boat, some ran for the jungle. For a few seconds blood spurted and men fell.
Then the plane was gone, leaving the beach scattered with American dead.
Chuck heard it open up a moment later, strafing the next beach.
It would be back.
There were supposed to be U.S. planes in attendance, but he could not see any. Air support was never where you wanted it to be, which was directly above your head.
When all the marines were ashore, alive and dead, the boats transported medics and stretcher parties to the beach. Then they began landing supplies: ammunition, drinking water, food, drugs, and dressings. On the return trip the landing craft brought the wounded back to the ship.
Chuck and Eddie, as nonessential personnel, went ashore with the supplies.
The boat skippers had got used to the swell now, and their craft held a stable position, with its ramp on the sand and the waves breaking on its stern, while the boxes were unloaded and Chuck and Eddie jumped into the surf to wade to shore.
They reached the waterline together.
As they did so, a machine gun opened up.
It seemed to be in the jungle about four hundred yards along the beach. Had it been there all along, the gunner biding his time, or had it just been moved into position from another location? Eddie and Chuck bent double and ran for the tree line.
A sailor with a crate of ammunition on his shoulder gave a shout of pain and fell, dropping the box.
Then Eddie cried out.
Chuck ran on two paces before he could stop. When he turned, Eddie was rolling on the sand clutching his knee, yelling: "Ah, fuck!"
Chuck came back and knelt beside him. "It's okay, I'm here!" he shouted. Eddie's eyes were closed, but he was alive, and Chuck could see no wounds other than the knee.
He glanced up. The boat that had brought them was still close to shore, being unloaded. He could get Eddie back to the ship in minutes. But the machine gun was still firing.
He got into a crouching position. "This is going to hurt," he said. "Yell as much as you like."
He got his right arm under Eddie's shoulder, then slid his left under Eddie's thighs. He took the weight and straightened up. Eddie screamed with pain as his smashed leg swung free. "Hang in there, buddy," Chuck said. He turned toward the water.
He felt sudden, unbearably sharp pains in his legs, his back, and finally his head. In the next fraction of a second he thought he must not drop Eddie. A moment later he knew he was going to. There was a flash of light behind his eyes that rendered him blind.
And then the world came to an end.
v
On her day off, Carla worked at the Jewish Hospital.
Dr. Rothmann had persuaded her. He had been released from the camp--no one knew why, except the Nazis, and they did not tell anyone. He had lost one eye and he walked with a limp, but he was alive, and capable of practising medicine.
The hospital was in the northern working-class district of Wedding, but there was nothing proletarian about the architecture. It had been built before the First World War, when Berlin's Jews had been prosperous and proud. There were seven elegant buildings set in a large garden. The different departments were linked by tunnels, so that patients and staff could move from one to another without braving the weather.
It was a miracle there was still a Jewish hospital. Very few Jews were left in Berlin. They had been rounded up in their thousands and sent away in special trains. No one knew where they had gone or what happened to them. There were incredible rumors about extermination camps.
The few Jews still in Berlin could not be treated, if they were sick, by Aryan doctors and nurses. So, by the tangled logic of Nazi racism, the hospital was allowed to remain. It was mainly staffed by Jews and other unfortunate people who did not count as properly Aryan: Slavs from eastern Europe, people of mixed ancestry, and those married to Jews. But there were not enough nurses, so Carla helped out.
The hospital was harassed constantly by the Gestapo; critically short of supplies, especially drugs; understaffed; and almost completely without funds.
Carla was breaking the law as she took the temperature of an eleven-year-old boy whose foot had been crushed in an air raid. It was also a crime for her to smuggle medicines out of her everyday hospital and bring them here. But she wanted to prove, if only to herself, that not everyone had given in to the Nazis.
As she finished her ward round she saw Werner outside the door, in his air force uniform.
For several days he and Carla had lived in fear, wondering whether anyone h
ad survived the bombing of the school and lived to condemn Werner, but it was now clear they had all died, and no one else knew of Macke's suspicions. They had got away with it, again.
Werner had recovered quickly from his bullet wound.
And they were lovers. Werner had moved into the von Ulrichs' large, half-empty house, and he slept with Carla every night. Their parents made no objection; everyone felt they could die any day, and people should take what joy they could from a life of hardship and suffering.
But Werner looked more solemn than usual as he waved to Carla through the glass panel in the door to the ward. She beckoned him inside and kissed him. "I love you," she said. She never tired of saying it.
He was always happy to say: "I love you, too."
"What are you doing here?" she said. "Did you just want a kiss?"
"I've got bad news. I've been posted to the eastern front."
"Oh, no!" Tears came to her eyes.
"It's really a miracle I've avoided it this long. But General Dorn can't keep me any longer. Half our army consists of old men and schoolboys, and I'm a fit twenty-four-year-old officer."
She whispered: "Please don't die."
"I'll do my best."
Still whispering, she said: "But what will happen to the network? You know everything. Who else could run it?"
He looked at her without speaking.
She realized what was in his mind. "Oh, no--not me!"
"You're the best person. Frieda's a follower, not a leader. You've shown the ability to recruit new people and motivate them. You've never been in trouble with the police and you have no record of political activity. No one knows the role you played in opposing Aktion T4. As far as the authorities are concerned, you are a blameless nurse."
"But, Werner, I'm scared!"
"You don't have to do it. But no one else can."
Just then they heard a commotion.
The neighboring ward was for mental patients, and it was not unusual to hear shouting and even screaming, but this seemed different. A cultured voice was raised in anger. Then they heard a second voice, this one with a Berlin accent and the insistent, bullying tone that outsiders said was typical of Berliners.
Carla stepped into the corridor, and Werner followed.
Dr. Rothmann, wearing a yellow star on his jacket, was arguing with a man in SS uniform. Behind them, the double doors to the psychiatric ward, normally locked, were wide open. The patients were leaving. Two more policemen and a couple of nurses were herding a ragged line of men and women, most in pajamas, some walking upright and apparently normal, others shambling and mumbling as they followed one another down the staircase.
Carla was immediately reminded of Ada's son, Kurt, and Werner's brother, Axel, and the so-called hospital in Akelberg. She did not know where these patients were going, but she was quite sure they would be killed there.
Dr. Rothmann was saying indignantly: "These people are sick! They need treatment!"
The SS officer replied: "They're not sick, they're lunatics, and we're taking them where lunatics belong."
"To a hospital?"
"You will be informed in due course."
"That's not good enough."
Carla knew she should not intervene. If they found out she was not Jewish she would be in deep trouble. She did not look particularly Aryan or otherwise, with dark hair and green eyes. If she kept quiet, probably they would not bother her. But if she protested about what the SS were doing she would be arrested and questioned, and then it would come out that she was working illegally. So she clamped her teeth together.
The officer raised his voice. "Hurry up--get those cretins in the bus."
Rothmann persisted. "I must be informed where they are going. They are my patients."
They were not really his patients--he was not a psychiatrist.
The SS man said: "If you're so concerned about them, you can go with them."
Dr. Rothmann paled. He would almost certainly be going to his death.
Carla thought of his wife, Hannelore; his son, Rudi; and his daughter in England, Eva, and she felt sick with fear.
The officer grinned. "Suddenly not so concerned?" he jeered.
Rothmann straightened up. "On the contrary," he said. "I accept your offer. I swore an oath, many years ago, to do all I can to help sick people. I'm not going to break my oath now. I hope to die at peace with my conscience." He limped down the stairs.
An old woman went by wearing nothing but a robe open at the front, showing her nakedness.
Carla could not remain silent. "It's November out there!" she cried. "They have no outdoor clothing!"
The officer gave her a hard look. "They'll be all right on the bus."
"I'll get some warm clothing." Carla turned to Werner. "Come and help me. Grab blankets from anywhere."
The two of them ran around the emptying psychiatric ward, pulling blankets off beds and out of the cupboards. Each carrying a pile, they hurried down the stairs.
The garden of the hospital was frozen earth. Outside the main door was a gray bus, its engine idling, its driver smoking at the wheel. Carla saw that he was wearing a heavy coat plus a hat and gloves, which told her that the bus was not heated.
A small group of Gestapo and SS men stood in a knot, watching the proceedings.
The last few patients were climbing aboard. Carla and Werner boarded the bus and began to distribute the blankets.
Dr. Rothmann was standing at the back. "Carla," he said. "You . . . you'll tell my Hannelore how it was. I have to go with the patients. I have no choice."
"Of course." Her voice was choked.
"I may be able to protect these people."
Carla nodded, though she did not really believe it.
"In any event, I cannot abandon them."
"I'll tell her."
"And say that I love her."
Carla could no longer stop the tears.
Rothmann said: "Tell her that was the last thing I said. I love her."
Carla nodded.
Werner took her arm. "Let's go."
They got off the bus.
An SS man said to Werner: "You, in the air force uniform, what the hell do you think you're doing?"
Werner was so angry that Carla was frightened he would start a fight. But he spoke calmly. "Giving blankets to old people who are cold," he said. "Is that against the law now?"
"You should be fighting on the eastern front."
"I'm going there tomorrow. How about you?"
"Take care what you say."
"If you would be kind enough to arrest me before I go, you might save my life."
The man turned away.
The gears of the bus crashed and its engine note rose. Carla and Werner turned to look. At every window was a face, and they were all different: babbling, drooling, laughing hysterically, distracted, or distorted with spiritual distress--all insane. Psychiatric patients being taken away by the SS. The mad leading the mad.
The bus pulled away.
vi
"I might have liked Russia, if I'd been allowed to see it," Woody said to his father.
"I feel the same."
"I didn't even get any decent photographs."
They were sitting in the grand lobby of the Hotel Moskva, near the entrance to the subway station. Their bags were packed and they were on their way home.
Woody said: "I have to tell Greg Peshkov that I met a Volodya Peshkov. Though Volodya was not so pleased about it. I guess anyone with connections in the West might fall under suspicion."
"You bet your socks."
"Anyway, we got what we came for--that's the main thing. The allies are committed to the United Nations organization."
"Yes," said Gus with satisfaction. "Stalin took some persuading, but he saw sense in the end. You helped with that, I think, by your straight-talking to Peshkov."
"You've fought for this all your life, Papa."
"I don't mind admitting that this is a pretty good moment."
A worrying thought crossed Woody's mind. "You're not going to retire now, are you?"
Gus laughed. "No. We've won agreement in principle, but the job has only just begun."
Cordell Hull had already left Moscow, but some of his aides were still there, and now one of them approached the Dewars. Woody knew him, a young man called Ray Baker. "I have a message for you, Senator," he said. He seemed nervous.
"Well, you just caught me in time--I'm about to leave," said Gus. "What is it?"
"It's about your son Charles--Chuck."
Gus went pale and said: "What is the message, Ray?"
The young man was having trouble speaking. "Sir, it's bad news. He's been in a battle in the Solomon Islands."
"Is he wounded?"
"No, sir, it's worse."
"Oh, Christ," said Gus, and he began to cry.
Woody had never seen his father cry.
"I'm sorry, sir," said Ray. "The message is that he's dead."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
1944
Woody stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom at his parents' Washington apartment. He was wearing the uniform of a second lieutenant in the 510th Parachute Regiment of the United States Army.
He had had the suit made by a good Washington tailor, but it did not look good on him. Khaki made his complexion sallow, and the badges and flashes on the tunic jacket just seemed untidy.
He could probably have avoided the draft, but he had decided not to. Part of him wanted to continue to work with his father, who was helping President Roosevelt plan a new global order that would avoid any more world wars. They had won a triumph in Moscow, but Stalin was inconstant, and seemed to relish creating difficulties. At the Tehran Conference in December, the Soviet leader had revived the halfway-house idea of regional councils, and Roosevelt had had to talk him out of it. Clearly the United Nations organization was going to require tireless vigilance.
But Gus could do that without Woody. And Woody was feeling worse and worse about letting other men fight the war for him.
He was looking as good as he ever would in the uniform, so he went into the drawing room to show his mother.
Rosa had a visitor, a young man in navy whites, and after a moment Woody recognized the freckled good looks of Eddie Parry. He was sitting on the couch with Rosa, holding a walking stick. He got to his feet with difficulty to shake Woody's hand.
Mama had a sad face. She said: "Eddie was telling me about the day Chuck died."
