‘What do you think?’ said Abel, not thinking. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he corrected himself quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that no one wants to let me take part in this damn war.’
‘What do you want to do in this damn war?’
‘Sign up and fight the Germans.’
‘As a foot soldier?’ asked the general incredulously.
‘Yes, sir. Don’t you need every man you can get?’
‘We most certainly do,’ said General Clark, ‘but I can put your particular talents to far better use than as a foot soldier.’
‘I’ll do anything,’ said Abel. ‘Anything.’
‘Will you, now? Anything? If I asked you to place your hotel at my disposal as our army headquarters in New York, how would you react to that? Because frankly, Mr Rosnovski, that would be far more use to me than if you personally managed to kill a dozen Germans.’
‘The Baron is yours. Now will you let me go to war?’
‘You know you’re mad, don’t you?’ said General Clark.
‘I’m Polish,’ said Abel, and they both laughed. ‘You must understand,’ Abel continued, his tone once again serious, ‘I was born in Poland. I saw my home taken by the Germans, my sister raped by the Russians. I escaped from a Russian labour camp, and was lucky enough to reach the safety of these shores. I’m not mad. This is the only country on earth where you can arrive with nothing and make something of yourself through hard work, regardless of your background. Now those same bastards who tried to stop me the first time round want another war. Well, I’m going to make sure they lose it.’
‘Well, if you’re so eager to join up, Mr Rosnovski, I could use you, but not in the way you imagine. General Deniers needs someone to take overall responsibility as quartermaster for the Fifth Army while they’re fighting in the front line. Napoleon was right when he said an army marches on its stomach, so you could play a vital role. The job carries the rank of major. That’s one way in which you could unquestionably help America to win the war. What do you say?’
‘I’ll do it, General.’
‘Thank you, Major Rosnovski.’
Abel spent the weekend in Chicago with Zaphia and Florentyna. Zaphia asked him what he wanted her to do with his fifteen suits.
‘Hold onto them,’ he replied. ‘I’m not going to war to get killed.’
‘I’m pretty confident you won’t be killed in a Baron hotel,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. It’s just that your suits are now all three sizes too large for you.’
Abel laughed, and took all his old clothes to the Polish refugee centre. He then flew back to New York, cancelled any advance reservations for the Baron, and twelve days later handed the building over to the American Fifth Army. The press hailed this act as ‘the selfless gesture of a man who had been a refugee during the First World War’.
For the next eight months Abel organized the smooth running of the New York Baron for General Clark and only after continual grumbling was he finally called up for active duty. He reported to Fort Benning to complete an officers’ training programme. When he finally received his orders to join General Deniers of the Fifth Army, his destination turned out to be somewhere in North Africa. He began to wonder if he would ever set foot on German soil.
The day before Abel left to go overseas, he drew up a will, instructing his executors to offer the Baron Group to David Maxton on favourable terms should he not return. He divided the rest of his estate between Zaphia and Florentyna. It was the first time in two decades that he had thought about death - not that he was sure how he could get himself killed in a regimental canteen.
As his troop ship sailed out of New York harbour, Abel looked across at the Statue of Liberty, remembering how he had felt on seeing the statue for the first time nearly twenty years before. Once the ship had passed the Lady he did not look at her again, but said out loud, ‘Next time I look you in the eye, ma’am, America will have won this war.’
Abel crossed the Atlantic with two of his top chefs and five kitchen staff who had recently enlisted. The ship docked in Algiers in May 1942. Abel immediately commandeered the only half-decent hotel in Algiers, and turned it into a headquarters for General Clark. He spent almost a year in the heat and the dust and the sand of the desert, making sure that every member of the division was as well fed as possible.
‘We eat badly, but my bet is that we eat a damn sight better than the Germans,’ was General Clark’s comment.
Although he knew he was playing a valuable role in the war, Abel still itched to get into a real fight, but a quartermaster-major in charge of catering is rarely sent to the front line other than to fill empty billycans.
He wrote regularly to Zaphia and George, and watched by photograph as his beloved Florentyna grew up. He received the occasional letter from Curtis Fenton, reporting that the Baron Group was making steady progress, as every hotel on the Eastern Seaboard was packed because of the continual movement of troops and civilians. Abel was sad not to have been at the opening of the Montreal Baron, where George had represented him. It was the first time he had missed the launch of a new hotel, but it made him realize just how much he had achieved in America, and how much more he wanted to return to the land he now felt was his home - but not before the war was over.
Abel soon became bored with Africa and its mess kits, baked beans, blankets and fly swatters. There had been one or two spirited skirmishes out in the western desert, or so the men returning from the front assured him, but he never saw any action himself. He even drove one of the supply trucks to the front so that he could hear the firing, but it only made him even more frustrated.
One day, to his delight, orders came through that the Fifth Army was to be posted to Italy. Abel hoped this might eventually lead to a chance to see his homeland once again.
The Fifth Army, led by General Clark, landed in amphibious craft on the southern Italian coast, with aircraft giving tactical cover. They met considerable resistance, first at Anzio and then at Monte Cassino, but the action never involved Abel. His chest was now covered in medals that showed where he’d been, not what he’d done. He began to dread the end of a war in which he’d seen no combat, and would end up decorated for serving a million meals. But he could never come up with a plan that would get him to the front line. His chances were not improved when he was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and sent to London to await further orders.
After D-Day in June 1944, the great thrust across the English Channel and into Europe began. Abel was transferred to the First Army under General Omar N. Bradley, and detailed to the Ninth Armored Division. The Allies liberated Paris on August 25, and Abel paraded with the American and Free French soldiers down the Champs Elysees to a heroes’ reception, even if he was some way behind General de Gaulle. He studied the unbombed magnificent city, and decided on the site where he would build the first Baron hotel in Europe.
The Allies moved on through France and crossed the German border in the final push towards Berlin. Local provisions were almost non-existent, because the countryside through which the Allies marched had been ravaged by the retreating German army. Whenever Abel arrived in a new town, he would commandeer the largest hotel and the remaining food supplies before any other American quartermaster had worked out where to start looking. British and American officers were always happy to dine with the Ninth Armored Division, and wondered how it managed to requisition such fresh provisions. On one occasion when General George S. Patton joined General Bradley for dinner, Abel was introduced to the fighting general, who always led his troops into battle brandishing an ivory-handled revolver.
‘The best meal I’ve had in the whole damn war,’ declared Patton.
By February 1945 Abel had been in uniform for nearly three years, and he realized the war in Europe would be over in a matter of months. General Bradley kept sending him congratulatory notes and meaningless decorations to adorn his ever-expanding uniform, but they didn’t help. Abel begged to be allowed to fight in just one battle, but Bradley continued to turn a deaf ear.
Although it was the responsibility of a junior officer to lead the supply trucks up to the front lines and supervise food for the troops, Abel often carried out that duty himself. And as he did in the running of his hotels, he never allowed any of his staff to know when or where he would next appear.
It was the continual flow of blanket-covered soldiers on stretchers into camp that March morning that made Abel decide to take a look for himself. He could no longer bear the one-way traffic of limbless bodies. He rounded up a lieutenant, a sergeant, two corporals and twenty-eight privates, and headed for the front.
The twenty-mile drive was excruciatingly slow that morning. Abel took the wheel of the leading truck - it made him feel a little like General Patton - as his convoy inched its way through heavy rain and thick mud; he had to pull off the road several times to allow ambulance details the right of way as they returned from the front. Wounded bodies took precedence over empty stomachs. Abel prayed that most were no more than wounded, but only an occasional nod or wave suggested any sign of life. It became more obvious to Abel with each mud-clogged mile that something big was going on near Remagen, and he could feel the beat of his heart quicken.
When he finally reached the command post he could hear enemy fire in the near distance. He pounded his leg in anger as he watched stretcher-bearers bringing back yet more dead and wounded comrades. He was sick of learning about the war at second hand. He suspected that any reader of The New York Times was better informed than he was.
Abel brought his convoy to a halt by the side of the field kitchen and jumped out of the truck, shielding himself from the heavy rain, feeling ashamed that others only a few miles away were shielding themselves from bullets. He supervised the unloading of 100 gallons of soup, a ton of corned beef, 200 chickens, half a ton of butter, 3 tons of potatoes and 100 ten-pound cans of baked beans - plus boxes of the inevitable K rations - in readiness for those going to, or returning from, the battlefield. He left his cooks to prepare the meal and the orderlies to peel the potatoes, while he went straight to the tent of the commanding officer, Brigadier General John Leonard, passing yet more dead and wounded soldiers on the way.
As he was about to enter the tent, General Leonard, accompanied by his aide, came rushing out. He conducted a conversation with Abel while on the move.
‘What can I do for you, Colonel?’ Leonard asked.
‘I’ve started preparing the food for your battalion, sir, as requested in overnight orders.’
‘You needn’t bother with the food for now, Colonel. At first light this morning Lieutenant Burrows of the Ninth discovered an undamaged railroad bridge north of Remagen - the Ludendorff Bridge - and I gave orders that it should be crossed immediately and a bridgehead established on the far side of the river. Up to now, the Germans have blown up every bridge across the Rhine long before we got there, so we can’t hang around waiting for lunch before they demolish this one.’
‘Did the Ninth get across?’ asked Abel.
‘Sure did,’ replied the general, ‘but they encountered heavy resistance from a forest on the far side. The first platoons were ambushed, and God knows how many men we lost. So you’d better hold that food, Colonel, because my only interest now is in seeing how many of my men I can get back alive so they can join you for dinner.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ asked Abel.
Leonard stopped walking for a moment, and studied the overweight colonel who had clearly seen no action.
‘How many men do you have under your direct command?’
‘One lieutenant, one sergeant, two corporals and twenty-eight privates. Thirty-three in all, including myself, sir.’
‘Good. Report to the field hospital with your men. Turn them into stretcher-bearers, and bring back as many wounded as you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Abel ran all the way back to the field kitchen, where he found most of his men sitting in a corner of the tent, smoking.
‘Get up, you lazy bastards. We’ve got real work to do for a change.’
Thirty-two men snapped to attention.
‘Follow me!’ shouted Abel. ‘On the double!’
He turned and started running again, this time towards the field hospital. A young doctor was briefing sixteen medical corpsmen when Abel and his out-of-breath, unfit, untrained unit appeared at the entrance of the tent.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the doctor.
‘No, but I hope I can help you. I have thirty-two men who’ve been detailed by General Leonard to join your group.’ It was the first his men had heard of it.
The doctor stared in amazement at the colonel. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t call me sir,’ said Abel. ‘We’re here to assist you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the doctor repeated.
He handed Abel a carton of Red Cross armbands, which the cooks, kitchen orderlies and potato peelers put on as the doctor briefed them on what was taking place in the forest on the other side of the Ludendorff Bridge.
‘The Ninth has sustained heavy casualties. Those of you with medical expertise will remain in the battle zone, while the rest will bring back as many of the wounded as possible.’
Abel was delighted to be taking an active part in the war at last. The doctor, now in command of forty-nine men, allocated eighteen stretchers, and each soldier received a full medical pack. He then led his motley band through the mud and rain towards the Ludendorff Bridge, with Abel only a yard behind. When they reached the Rhine they saw row upon row of blankets, covering lifeless bodies. They marched silently across the bridge in single file, passing the remnants of the German explosion that had failed to destroy the foundations of the bridge.
On up towards the forest they marched, the sound of gunfire growing in intensity. Abel found himself simultaneously exhilarated by being so close to the enemy, and horrified by the evidence of what modern weaponry was capable of inflicting on his fellow man. From everywhere came cries of anguish from his comrades who until that day had wistfully thought the end of the war was near. For many of them, it was over.
The young doctor stopped again and again, doing the best he could for each man he came across. Sometimes he would mercifully put an end to a wounded man’s suffering with a single shot of his pistol. Abel guided the walking wounded back towards the Ludendorff Bridge, and organized the stretcher-bearers to assist those unable to help themselves. By the time they reached the edge of the forest, only the doctor, one of the potato peelers and Abel were left of the original party; all the others were assisting the wounded back to the field hospital.
