Aftermath
by Philippe de la Matraque
Chapter Six: Bastogne
The air outside was crisp and somewhat cold but Zussman was wrapped well, and he could smell Spring in the air. He was lying on his side, something Doctor Harris had insisted on. He'd explained that it was to relax the skin around his incision. He'd seen the doctor hand a thick stack of papers over to the medic in the back of the truck with him. His file, he guessed. It wasn't every day that Army doctors dealt with concentration camp survivors, though he suspected it was becoming more common as the camps kept being found.
Zussman had very few possessions to go with him. He had his dog tags. (Apparently the other POWs in Bad Orb had found the discarded tags in the snow.) He still had the St. Michael medal he'd won from Aiello, and his two letters from Daniels. He didn't have a uniform, just German pajamas from the infirmary. His tattered uniform and great coat had probably been burned, as they were infested with lice. All his other things he would've had in the tent with the others was probably sent home after he was captured.
Still, he'd learned how little he needed in Berga. He had needed to be warm. His thin blanket and tattered uniform only went so far but they were better than nothing. He needed shelter. The barracks were leaky, filthy, and over-crowded. But the building cut some of the wind, some of the cold, and, most of the time, kept some separation between them and the Germans. He had needed food and water. The 'food,' if one could call it that, he got in Berga was not sufficient, in the long run, for life. The Nazis knew that. So many men had died from malnutrition or sickness brought on by a weakened immune system due to that malnutrition. Or from the cold, the dust, the cruelty of the Nazis. And it was not lost on Zussman that he'd been incredibly close to being counted among them.
Actually, he only had vague, fuzzy memories of being picked out with a few others to be shot, and then being found before he could be shot. He remembered being bundled up as much as possible by one of the medics. The medic must have led him outside because he didn't remember getting out of the camp. He remembered Metz telling a guard to wait ten minutes then shoot. He remembered the others marching away. He remembered the shots and trying to count them. He moved closer to the guard. He knew he was as good as dead already. He told the guard to let them go. But the shots rang out and he was thrown to the ground. One more shot and he was supposed to be dead.
Then he remembered Daniels and Pierson, as if in a dream. Then nothing until he woke up in Bad Orb in a bed with his friends nearby. He knew he wasn't well now, but he had been dying before. He'd take weak and tired and hungry and lonely over dying in Berga.
And now he was even leaving Germany. He wanted to be awake when he crossed the Rhine but he just couldn't manage it. He couldn't see much anyway, out the back of the truck. He slept most of the way. When he woke again, the truck was slowing to a stop. His stretcher was lifted out, and he was carried into a large tent. The cot he ended up on wasn't as nice as the bed in Bad Orb but it was a step up from the wooden bunks of Berga. He hoped he'd get some food soon but fell asleep again despite his growling stomach and the noisier environment.
The smell of warm food woke him up. He found a nurse and an orderly standing beside his cot. The orderly helped him sit up, and the nurse handed him a bowl of mashed potatoes with gravy. The potatoes were a bit runny but he expected that these days. Soft, liquidy foods. That's where they were starting. He focused hard on not shoveling those potatoes in but to take measured bites and revel in the flavors. There were even little bits of chicken in the gravy. And potatoes were filling. By the time he'd finished the bowl, he actually felt full. He hadn't felt full for months. It was a nice feeling.
The nurse handed him two pills and helped him wash them down with a cup of water, then the orderly helped him lie back down. The nurse took something from her pocket. "This came for you," she said and she handed it to him.
"Thank you," Zussman told her. She felt his forehead before she stood and walked away.
The letter was from Daniels. He explained why he hadn't written before. They'd been in a big battle, a maneuver to trap a lot of Germans. Another large camp was found and liberated by the British. Berga was a small camp but he had spoken with enough of the civilians to know the whole thing was bigger, and even worse than he could imagine. But his gut told him it was enormous, maybe the biggest crime in history. And he had been a victim of it.
He thought of some of the other POWs he knew. Some had died and some had not. He remembered the earlier ones to die, remembered helping to bury them. Everything got fuzzier toward the end of this stay in Berga. He felt like he wasn't supposed to be a victim of it. He was a POW. The Geneva Conventions meant he shouldn't have been treated that way. But then he felt guilty. None of the German's victims deserved what they had gotten.
Zussman tucked the letter under his pillow with his others. He looked at all the other patients he could see from his perspective as he lay on his side. Some were missing limbs or had bandages around their heads. Nurses and orderlies moved between them. Doctor's checked charts. There was a general bustle. He heard English, no German. But he still felt lonely.
By the time the sun set, they were just about where they had started the search for Zussman in earnest. The bridge at Remagen. A lot of traffic was going in both directions and they'd have to wait their turn. They pulled off the road near a line of tents and Pierson went looking for the commanding officer.
Daniels waited in the jeep and took out the letter he was writing to Hazel. She wasn't happy but had accepted his reasons for not coming home earlier. Still, he wanted to keep her updated, seeing as he could have been home months ago. So he wrote her about finding Zussman and the battle they'd just been through. He didn't write the details of the battle. It would only cause her to worry more. She didn't need that.
Aiello left to try and find some grub in the camp, and Stiles got out of the jeep to take pictures of the long line of refugees leaving Germany for Belgium. Most were forced-labor workers. They hadn't had good conditions but it hadn't been like the concentration camps or even Berga. Some were French POWs heading home now that they were free.
Pierson and Aiello returned at the same time. Pierson had found them a tent, no cots. At least it was out of the elements. Aiello said he'd found dinner and to follow him back to it. So Daniels folded his letter and put it away for later. They'd be in Bastogne tomorrow and surprise Zussman.
Zussman started to feel cold an hour or so after his last meal. He tucked the blanket around himself as tight as he could manage, but he just kept shivering. One of the nurses noticed and brought another blanket. A little warmer, he was able to sleep.
But not for long. The chill just wouldn't leave him, and that little tickle in the back of his throat got more insistent. He coughed and it hurt his chest as well as his stomach. Once he started coughing, he found it hard to stop. Each cough left him needing to breathe, and each inhale set up another cough. It scared him. He'd seen men die from a cough after working in the tunnels.
The coughing caught the attention of an orderly, who got the attention of a doctor. A nurse brought him some water, and he was able to take a few breaths. The doctor listened to his chest with his stethoscope, and the nurse took his temperature. Zussman shivered and tried to breathe shallow so he wouldn't start coughing again.
"Your chart says you breathed in a lot of dust during your captivity," the doctor said. "My first thought is that's what's irritating your lungs. But with your weakened immune system, we just can't' be too careful." He turned to the nurse. "We need a chest x-ray." He turned back to Zussman. "We're going to take care of you, Private."
Pneumonia. Guys had died from pneumonia. Zussman wanted to tell him but the doctor left. Some orderlies came and loaded him on a stretcher. Without the blankets, he was freezing. He just had a moment to reach under his pillow and grab his letters.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back on his cot, under his blankets. His chest felt tight on his left side, and it was harder to breathe without coughing. After a few minutes he couldn't stop coughing. When he saw blood on the pillow, he felt like it was all for naught.
He was too tired, too cold, and the coughing kept him from sleeping. Sometime later, the doctor returned, with a couple nurses and orderlies. For a moment, Zussman thought he saw Acevedo with them. "Pneumonia," he choked out. "Dying."
"I wish you wouldn't," the doctor said. Zussman felt a prick in his arm. "But you're right about the pneumonia. You a med student back home?"
Zussman coughed. "Seen it," he said between gasps. "Millstone."
"I'm guessing they didn't keep you at the Ritz," the doctor joked. "I'm gonna bet you didn't have sulfonamides there."
"Medics," Zussman told him. "No meds."
"Well, we've got meds, doctors, nurses, x-rays, surgeons." The doctor smiled. "We've got you covered. I'm gonna put you on oxygen and we're going to prop you up. Try to take deep breaths. I know it's hard. Don't try to talk. That will set you coughing again." He turned to the others. "Get some blankets and pillows to prop him up. Wrap him up good, too." He snapped a mask over Zussman's head and settled it over his mouth and nose.
Zussman was so tired. He wanted to sleep so bad. But he was afraid he'd never wake up. He clutched his letters under the blankets. He was still cold but he knew now it wasn't the air that was cold. The cold was in him.
He was still awake by morning, but he couldn't respond to the doctor when he asked how he felt. He was back at Berga and Acevedo was trying to get the guards to let him stay back from working today.
They made it to Bastogne by eleven in the morning. Daniels went to the field hospital while Pierson checked in with the commanding officer. He was stopped at the door to the tent. "I'm looking for a friend of mine," Daniels told the soldier guarding the door. "Private Robert Zussman. Really skinny guy. Came from Bad Orb yesterday."
"Let me check," the soldier told him. He disappeared into the tent. A few minutes later, a tired-looking doctor approached.
"Ah, Daniels," he said, looking at the name on Red's uniform. "You wrote his letters."
Daniels felt more anxious now. "Yes, can I see him?"
"I'm afraid not," the doctor said. "He's no longer here."
That didn't seem right. Daniels started to panic. The doctor knew about the letters, but what did he mean that Zuss was no longer here?
The doctor didn't wait for his question. "He's on his way to Paris. He took a turn for the worst last night. He's got a nasty case of pneumonia. They can do more for him in a traditional hospital."
Daniels' panic subsided about half-way. Zuss was alive, just not here. But he was very, very sick. He left in a daze. Pneumonia in an otherwise healthy person was dangerous. Zuss was nowhere near healthy. They still might lose him.
The commanding officer held up a finger as he finished his conversation on the radio. Pierson stayed at attention while he waited.
Finally, the radio conversation was over and the officer turned to him. "Sergeant Pierson, reporting, sir."
"Pierson?" the officer looked down at his desk. "Well, that was fast."
"Sir?" Pierson was confused.
"New orders just came from you CO, Sergeant. You and your men are off to Paris." He lifted a few pages of paper off his desk and pulled out two from under the stack. He handed those to Pierson. "You may want to grab some grub before you go. Dismissed."
Pierson saluted then turned and walked out, still very confused. He found a dour-faced Daniels back at the jeep. "What's wrong?"
"Pneumonia," Daniels replied. "They moved him to Paris this morning."
Aiello and Stiles both slumped against the vehicle. "Damn," Aiello cursed. "Hasn't he had enough?"
"Well, that clears up these orders," Pierson said, holding them up. "Seems Col. Davis is still keeping tabs on our boy. We're headed to Paris, too."
Doctor Peter Zelewsky worked with other US Army doctors and nurses but also French medical staff at this large hospital in Paris. Presently, he and Dr. La Pierre were looking at chest x-rays for a very thin former POW who had arrived by ambulance that morning. Zelewsky opened the soldier's chart and started to read. La Pierre spoke English well enough to follow. "Patient initially presented severely malnurished and dehydrated with some breathing difficulties. Possible silicosis. Seems he'd been forced to work in some tunnels with no protective suits or mask and inhaled dust from the surrounding rocks. So how much of that"—He pointed to the x-ray—"is the dust he was inhaling, and how much is this pneumonia that is trying to kill him?"
"Well, the part medicines won't touch is the dust," La Pierre replied in his thick-accented but very precise English.
"Patient's file said he weighed one eighty five before his capture."
"This is pounds, yes?" La Pierre asked.
Zelewsky nodded. "Looks like less than one hundred now."
"His chart did say severe malnutrition," La Pierre pointed out.
"Yeah, so how is he gonna fight this infection? He was in terrible shape before that hit. Recently had surgery for a ruptured spleen!"
La Pierre whistled. "That is a lot for one starved man to deal with."
Zelewsky nodded as he tapped his pen against the charts. "Nazis did that to him. I don't like to let them win."
La Pierre smiled conspiratorially. "Baise les Boshes!" He switched back to English. "It is not going to be easy."
"No, it isn't," Zelewsky agreed. "We'll give him his own room, keep him isolated. Mask and gloves for everyone who enters. Fluids for support. We'll tube-feed him if it comes to that, but we need to get some kind of food in him. Sulfonamides, oxygen, and rest."
"And prayer, mon ami," La Pierre added. "He will need it."
Zelewsky checked the file again to see which chaplain to call. He sighed. "He's Jewish." He snapped the file closed again. "Fucking Nazis!"
By the time they got to the hospital, Zussman was set up in his own room with a nurse present at all times. Only one of them could go in at a time so Daniels went first. Again, he had to wear a mask and gloves, but at least he didn't have to stand so far away.
Zussman didn't seem to notice when he went into the room. Daniels could hear him breathing and it sounded harsh. There was a chair to the left of the bed, so he sat down and took one of Zussman's hands in his gloved one.
"Zuss," he said, squeezing the latter's hand gently. "It's me, Red. I probably look funny in this mask but it's really me. We're all here: Pierson, Aiello, Stiles and me. And we're not going to leave this time. Col. Davis ordered us here with you."
Zuss's hand squeezed back every so lightly, and he turned his head to look at Daniels. He started to say something but Daniels put a hand on his arm to stop him. The doctor's didn't want him talking under the oxygen mask as it might start him coughing.
"You don't have to say anything. Just breathe." Then Daniels just talked to him about the weather outside—It was finally looking like Spring was there to stay—and the battle over the Ruhr Pocket, the joke Aiello told last week. Anything to give Zussman a voice he could hang on to.
At one point, Zuss's eyes started to close. He tried to keep them open but it was no use. Daniels turned to the nurse who stepped forward and checked Zussman. She smiled. "We've been trying to get him to rest," she whispered. "He's asleep."