Awakening

By Richard C. Sammis

In 1939, life is good for Charlie Scudder and his fellow members of Psi Upsilon at Dartmouth College. Drinking, poker and hockey are favorite activities at the house. Following graduation, however, war breaks out in Europe and the course of Charlie's life suddenly turns in a very different direction.

Charlie's cherished experiences at college do not prepare him for unprecedented future events that challenge him mentally, morally, and physically. He is surrounded by war, and his actions now have profound consequences for himself and the people he loves, especially when he befriends Frieda Pelle, a charming secretary in Germany.

Awakening is an atmospheric tale, bringing to life Dartmouth, New York, and Europe in the age of the "Greatest Generation." Told with rich, historical detail and anchored in time by colorful facts, it is the story of a boy becoming a man as he learns the value of character over beauty and the need to courageously answer when duty calls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480858497

Richard C. Sammis

Richard C. Sammis was raised in Huntington, Long Island and graduated from Dartmouth College. He was a long time partner in the New York law firm, Willkie Farr and Gallagher LLP. He lives in Naples, Florida, with his wife, Sally. They have two children, Katie and Peter.

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Copyright © 2018 Richard C. Sammis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-5848-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5849-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018901413

Archway Publishing rev. date: 03/07/2018

Contents

Part One Dartmouth

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part Two Munich

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part Three The Navy

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Part Four Berlin

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Epilogue London

Acknowledgement

The Author

For my mother

Sorry, Mom

PART ONE

DARTMOUTH

CHAPTER 1

On February 16, 1939, the Psi Upsilon House at Dartmouth College was the scene of great activity. Everyone was working toward a deadline of five in the afternoon the next day when the advance team for the movie Winter Carnival was expected to arrive in Hanover and assemble there for a cocktail party. The brothers were feverishly trying to clean and generally bring order to the place. One crew toiled in the front yard, which was now largely taken up by the customary Psi U hockey rink. When winter temperatures arrived in earnest, the hockey enthusiasts would mound snow around the edges of the lawn and fill the interior with water. Lights were strung through the trees for evening play, at which visiting players, even casual passersby, were always welcome. Another crew tackled the living room with carpet sweepers and mops while a third, which had drawn the short straw, cleaned the first floor bathroom. Charlie Scudder, Class of ’39, and two sophomores labored in the library, a handsome room with heavy leather furniture, walls of unread books and an aging mahogany bar. Applying a solution of water and vinegar, they sought to eliminate or at least overpower the unmistakable smell of stale beer. On the upper floors of the building, which were not receiving any attention, were a chapter room and a number of Spartan bedrooms where most of the upper classmen lived. Since the fall of 1937, the house had been Charlie’s cherished home at the College.

Well guys, I think that does it here for now; we can finish up tomorrow. Now, I’m off to the rink. Charlie drained his beer and tossed the empty bottle in a nearby trash basket.

Mind if I join you, Charlie? Denis O’Neill, had played hockey in boarding school but realized during his freshman year at Dartmouth that a spot on the varsity was not in his future.

Sure, Denis. You can be on my team. I like teammates who can actually skate. Charlie’s hockey experience before college was almost entirely limited to Paulding’s Pond, a mere splash of water in his hometown of Huntington, Long Island.

Just then a motley group of Psi U brothers and a few visitors were free skating and taking shots at unguarded nets on the house rink. When Charlie and Denis arrived, an indifferent cheer went up from one of Charlie’s old roommates, Rob Carter, who, with two sophomores, was now standing at the far end of the rink. The costumes worn by the players were as mixed as their skills. Rob wore an odd collection of old football garb, while Charlie and Denis were in corduroy trousers and ripped Dartmouth sweatshirts. The other players seemed to have added only skates and snow gloves to their normal college attire.

Soon, Charlie, O’Neill and an unknown goaltender were facing off against Carter’s team in a spirited, if sloppy, session. It would be hard to call what they were doing a game. There was no set time period for play and people routinely left the ice without warning for any number of reasons, a call of nature, boredom, fatigue or, sometimes, a school commitment.

After Charlie and Denis had combined for their second goal, Carter was visibly agitated. A sturdy young man, he was still carried on the football team and what he lacked in hockey skills he made up with sheer physicality. Charlie was well aware of the risk this could present on a small rink like theirs, but in his exuberance following the last goal it slipped his mind. He foolishly allowed himself to carry the puck up ice with his eyes focused on his skates instead of his destination. This was a mistake. Right shoulder low, Rob took dead aim and moved swiftly from center ice to the precise spot where he would intersect with Charlie’s path. Charlie seemed to be the only person who did not see what was coming; a split second later he was tumbling over the border of the rink and out on to the street. A moment of respectful silence ensued while everyone waited for a sign of life, upon sight of which came forth a mighty roar from players and spectators. Sending an opponent entirely out of the rink and on to the road was a highly respected feat.

Hey, Charlie; sorry, you’re not hurt, are you? Rob called out as he walked over to his friend in the herky-jerky way one does when wearing skates off the ice. He lightly placed an arm on Charlie’s shoulder.

No, not too bad, you big oaf; nothing that a few beers and a hot shower won’t cure.

I am sorry I hit you so hard. Really, it’s just that, well, there you were, head down, skating up ice…

Yeah, I get it, a sitting duck. Listen come on in and have a beer with me.

Sorry, no can do. Big exam on Monday in mechanical that I have to get a head start on.

Same old story, huh, Rob?

Afraid so, he said. Rob then changed into street shoes and ambled off in the direction of the Thayer School of Engineering, his blond hair flipping in the breeze. Seen walking from behind, he resembled John Wayne.

Charlie limped into the house bar and flopped down on the seat of a comfortable winged back chair. Geoff Scott, also known as Bow Tie for his habit of wearing a horizontal neck-piece, was shuffling a deck of cards.

Wow, Charlie, what happened to you?

I failed to look when Carter plowed into me and I landed on the street. Say, could you do a friend a favor and get me a beer?

Sure, happy to help. Bow Tie soon returned with two bottles and joined Charlie. They were silent for a moment while each tipped his head back and downed a long swig of beer.

What do you think of this movie business?

I think it’s great. And why not, maybe some of us will actually be in it.

Charlie took another drink too quickly and quietly suppressed a belch. Yeah, I agree. I’m looking forward to the women, actresses, I mean. Say, do you remember that nut who was up here in December scouting for locations?

God, how could I forget him? It seemed like he was here for a week.

CHAPTER 2

Two months earlier a representative of Walter Wanger Productions, John Blondel, had ventured up to Hanover from Brooklyn in search of locations for Winter Carnival. Wanger was making a movie based on the highlight of the Dartmouth College social calendar, Winter Carnival weekend. The leading lady was Ann Sheridan as Jill Baxter, a widowed countess visiting the campus and looking on as her younger sister competes for the crown of Carnival Queen, a title Jill held years earlier. The leading man was Richard Carlson as John Welden, a professor at the College and Jill’s former beau. At the center of the tale, romance between Jill and John is rekindled and set alight in the snowy New Hampshire winter. The unlikely trio of Bud Schulberg, Dartmouth ’36, Maurice Rapf, Dartmouth ‘35 and F. Scott Fitzgerald developed the story and wrote the screenplay for the movie.

Blondel could have selected a New England hotel or a large private home, but from the moment he was given the assignment he appeared determined to locate an actual college fraternity house. And why not? There would be a good supply of age appropriate extras and many attractive college scenes readily available. He could wander the campus and sample half a dozen or more houses in order to make the very best choice. He could analyze each one in several respects and keep detailed notes throughout the process. But Hanover presented something for which Blondel was not prepared, winter weather so cold that it could freeze the discharge of a runny nose before it passed your upper lip. Thus, after a long trek across campus on a cold December evening, he was happy just to be sitting comfortably in front of a warm fire at the Psi U house.

Really, you want to make a movie about Winter Carnival weekend and use a Dartmouth fraternity house? Charlie had just been introduced to Blondel in the house bar by Bow Tie, who was handing their visitor a scotch on the rocks.

Well, maybe. Take your house. I like the feel of the place, and the living room and this bar would be great on film. I don’t much care for the outside but we probably won’t use any exterior shots. Of course, we could always use one of the brick piles if we needed some. Three stories of white clapboard with shed dormers and white brick chimneys made the Psi U house look more like a farmhouse than a fraternity house.

Audibly stifling a yawn, senior Jock McKernan unfolded from a sofa and crossed the room to toss a few more logs on the fire. Anybody want to play poker?

It was understood, of course, that Charlie and Bow Tie would play. Jock was really only asking the visitor and the two other brothers in the room who were napping in leather club chairs. The nappers and Blondel quickly confirmed their interest and so they had six. This was a workable number for their normal game, seven card, high-low poker, in which the pot is split between the strongest hand and the weakest hand.

The group then began to move into the living room where the card tables mingled with more sofas and comfortable chairs. Glancing back at the bar, Bow Tie noticed Blondel pouring himself another double scotch and sensed an opportunity. He lingered near the opening to the living room, and when the others had left the bar he casually circled back and grabbed the bottle to make sure that Blondel would not get thirsty during the game.

Five hours later, only four of them remained. Neat stacks of chips stood in front of Bow Tie, while small, loose collections of them puddled near each of Charlie and Jock. Blondel sat behind a near empty glass containing the last of the whiskey, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and a messy assemblage of chips, coins and green backs. His right eyelid drooped in a disconcerting way, much like one’s notion of a pirate.

OK men, here comes the last card. High hand on the table bets. Bow Tie dealt the final card down to each player and gestured towards Blondel, who had a queen and two jacks up. Charlie had a king and two other cards in the same suit showing. Blondel, it would turn out, had an early ace high flush, with the ace down from the beginning. He had continued to bet his hand, apparently believing that Charlie was working on a king high flush and thus could not beat his ace down. It seemed never to have occurred to him that with three cards down, Charlie might have some other combination that would form a superior hand. In any event, Blondel wagered a substantial amount that forced Bow Tie out but which Jock, locked with the low hand, naturally met and then raised. Of course, only Charlie knew how his hand had finally developed with the last card. Starting with two kings down and one up, he had been hoping for a full house. He was not disappointed when he lifted the corner of his last card; it was the fourth king. Knowing he could not lose, Charlie met both bets and raised each by the maximum amount. By now Blondel should have been worried, but he appeared not to be. As his other eyelid began to drop, he pushed forward with both hands virtually all of his remaining stake, calling both raises. Jock immediately met Charlie’s raise. When the cards were turned over, Bow Tie could only whistle as Jock and Charlie split the pot. Blondel burped and uttered a single obscenity.

But poker is like golf. Despite a deep bank of evidence to the contrary, every player greets a new day with the firm conviction that he will experience a completely different result the next time out. And so, Blondel returned to the Psi U poker table on each of the next two evenings; and after much scotch drunk and money lost, he had made his decision. The Dartmouth Psi U house would be in the movies.

CHAPTER 3

After an imperfect first year roommate experience, in the fall of 1936 Charlie and his pals Stan Levine from Queens, New York and Rob Carter from Alexandria, Virginia moved into a three-room suite with a fireplace in Lord Hall. Located on the side of campus closest to the Connecticut River and near the Amos Tuck School of Business Administration, Lord looked much like other Dartmouth dormitories of the day. It was several stories of red brick and limestone, reflecting traditional Georgian architecture. Their room included two bedrooms and a living room with a fireplace. They had acquired inexpensive, used furniture at stores in nearby Lebanon, New Hampshire and White River Junction, Vermont. The walls were decorated with college pennants and prints.

That these three sophomores chose to be roommates struck many of their acquaintance as odd. It was hard to understand that a bond had formed among them unless, of course, you knew the story of their Class of 1939 freshman trip, taken a year earlier.

Dartmouth College had always believed that the first year was and should remain an independent and highly valuable experience. For that reason freshmen were not permitted to join fraternities and the year always began with a camping trip immediately before the start of classes. In September 1935, Charlie, Rob and Stan were by coincidence assigned to the same three-day trip with seven other new students. They were to be led by Doug Neidermyer ’36 through fifteen miles of New Hampshire’s White Mountains in the vicinity of Franconia Notch.

Neidermyer parked the College pick-up truck beyond the gas station and in the back of a parking lot for a small restaurant at the Notch. The freshmen climbed over the sides of the bay with their camping gear and a powerful foreboding. Local weather reports featured a serious Nor’easter that was barreling through coastal Maine and heading west, straight at the White Mountains, with high winds and torrential rains. Charlie raised the issue and postponement was discussed but the team leader would have none of it. Within minutes he had ordered the team members to organize their gear, strap on their packs and prepare to push off. Waving his right arm in pinwheel fashion, Neidermyer marched his team across the parking area and straight up a steep hill. The sunlight, and with it the afternoon warmth, were beginning to fade behind them.

One and one-half hours of hiking exhausted almost all of the daylight and brought them about three miles into the woods. The wind had begun to swirl and blow with increasing force, which foretold the coming of the rain and more wind. Hoping to beat both darkness and the storm, they quickly selected a barely adequate clearing and everybody set to work erecting his tent and arranging his dinner equipment. Earlier in the day, Neidermyer had laid out a scheme for placing the tents and assigned tent-mates. Tent-mate pairs included Rob and Charlie and Stan with a guy from Chicago named Pete.

They finished before dark but did not beat the storm. Dinner was cold because they were unable to keep a fire burning long enough to cook anything thoroughly. And with nothing to do in the darkness, everyone quickly took shelter in his tent for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, the old and much worn tents provided by the College were not up to the power of the wind and rain, which howled and crashed down without pause. After a few hours of this treatment, everyone and everything, next day clothing, blankets, equipment and a good portion of the food, were soaking wet.

By noon on the second day the eye of the storm had passed through, leaving in its wake less severe but steady breezes and precipitation. Such weather would have made hiking uncomfortable all by itself, but when it came on top of everyone’s saturated clothing and equipment, hiking became downright miserable. Understandably, therefore, during the day’s trek Charlie continually peered through the trees, looking for the nearest public road; he was already considering an alternative to another night in his tent. Late in the afternoon, when the team was approaching its campsite, he finally spied asphalt at what he thought was a distance of about a mile.

Rob didn’t resist for long Charlie’s invitation to sneak out of camp after dinner and look for a café in which a truly hot meal could be expected. Stan and Pete, whom Charlie had befriended on the trail, initially declined. Pete never changed his mind but finally Stan agreed, later confiding in Charlie that, never having crossed a line of authority, he needed to find out how it felt. The three conspirators soon set about pitching their tents and preparing a meager dinner, really a snack, from what little dry food remained in their packs. After securing Pete’s agreement to remain silent, they conspicuously made ready to retire early. At eight thirty and with only the light of a half moon, the rebels parted their rear tent flaps, crept into the closest tree line and headed toward the road Charlie had identified earlier in the day.

After picking their way through the woods for forty-five minutes, they reached the public road. Believing that Neidermyer had restricted the trip to a great loop in the mountains behind Franconia Notch, Charlie was reasonably certain he knew where they were and in what direction they should travel. Another hour walking and he was relieved to see the lights of a gas station and several humble structures peeking out from the next bend in the road.

The Old Man of the Mountain Bar and Cafe was still open, although not more than three or four patrons sat at the bar, nursing their drinks while the jukebox droned on in the background. It was in fact the only public bar for miles around and almost through a sense of civic duty did it remain open for many long days each week. Charlie, Rob and Stan let out a collective sigh when finally they were seated in an old wooden booth with cracked red leather seats. It had been a tiring day so a couple of beers and several dishes of hot food were very welcome.

Well guys, this sure beats cold and wet food with Neidermyer at the campsite.

You bet, Charlie. Great idea, responded Rob.

You know, said Stan pensively, I really had my doubts but this has been fun; it’s been a kind of rite of passage for me. I’m glad I came with you. I assume the plan is to leave soon and get back to camp. Let’s see, it’s about ten thirty now so we should be able to make it by twelve fifteen.

‘Well, I’m not so sure that’s the best option, drawled Charlie. For starters, how are we going to find the campsite in the dark? We can’t be sure that we’ll still have moonlight that late. And even if we did make it back we might attract attention fumbling around in the dark trying to get back into our tents."

Fair point, responded Rob.

Holy crap, what are we going to do? Stan was suddenly less poetic about the break out.

The only thing we can do. When I went up to the bar I arranged for us to spend the night in one of the summer cabins a few hundred yards down the road. We’ll have to leave at five fifteen, walk an hour back the other way and then enter the woods at sunrise. With any luck, we’ll be able to sneak into camp around seven as if we had been up for a bit, maybe relieving ourselves in the woods.

Neither Rob nor Stan had much to say about Charlie’s plan, there really being no other viable option. And anyway, what would Neidermyer do if he caught them, have them thrown out of school? Hell, they hadn’t even started it.

Well, it worked. They walked casually out of the woods and into the campsite from different directions sometime after seven the next morning, unclean, unshaven and unobserved.

CHAPTER 4

The first night of fraternity rush in 1936 took place on a clear September evening. As unpleasant as the weather in Hanover could be in early spring, it was often simply magnificent in the fall, characterized by moderate temperatures, ample sunshine and low humidity. The bursting color of the surrounding trees and the snap of an evening chill at that time of the year made the town a place not easily forgotten.

Fraternity Rush at Dartmouth, like most American colleges and universities, involved awkward receptions followed by daylight visitations from one or more of the brothers and the painful process of acceptance and rejection. Stan did not think the fraternity experience worth the suppression of identity he believed membership required. Rob couldn’t find enough energy remaining after football and Thayer School to focus on the process but he was happy to go along with Charlie when the time came. Charlie, unlike his roommates, had a real passion for anything offering a robust social life, or at least the promise of such. Not wanting to appear too eager on the first evening, however, Rob and he stayed in their dorm room with Stan for a while after dressing in their best tweed jackets, silk ties and flannel trousers. As a Virginia man and graduate of The Episcopal High School, Rob practically lived in a coat and tie. For Charlie, it was natural enough. Back home on Long Island he went to dances at the local yacht club where such attire was customary. Stan went to no such school or dances and was not participating in rush, but he sat dressed in a jacket and tie anyway in the apparent belief that doing so was part of being a college intellectual.

First stop that night was Webster Avenue, also known as fraternity row. For a stretch of about one quarter mile this road was lined with handsome brick buildings constructed for the express purpose of providing places to socialize, relax and live. Charlie and Rob each had one connection to a fraternity that would make at least the first five minutes of conversation tolerable. Charlie’s father had been a member of Sigma Chi in the class of