by Eric Black
“Then we’ll do what we can to follow that order. Bite and hold.”
The Sergeant smiled viciously. “Aye, bite and hold.”
The Sergeant cuffed him on the shoulder and for the first time, Vincent noticed the pain. He looked at his right shoulder and saw blood on his uniform shirt. He examined closer and saw a tear in the sleeve. Then, he saw the small piece of shrapnel stuck in his shoulder. It wasn’t deep and as he pulled it out his first thought was, I’m glad my tetanus shot is up to date.
He stopped. The blood and pain were real. He considered for the first time with full realization that all he was experience might not be a dream after all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Passchendaele, Belgium – November 1917
The moments that make up life are often brief. Some moments draw on for years and seem insignificant in retrospect. Other moments are over before one realizes they are over. It was in one of those short moments that the future of the entire world was altered. The movement of a single finger saved the lives of countless people but at the same time created death for countless others who otherwise would not have been affected.
Vincent was given the order to fire and even though he had never been in combat before, he obeyed that order without hesitation. He had only shot a firearm a few times in his life but internally the training that had been given to his great-grandfather, the form he now assumed, took over and he knew what must be done. He began firing in short bursts spread out in predetermined areas across the battlefield.
As he was firing, he noticed a familiar face move to the front line of the German forces. His realized his great-grandfather had seen this man but had paid no particular attention to him, rather following orders: delivering concentrated bursts of gunfire to keep the enemy in their trench allowing the cannons to be brought up the lines.
But Vincent knew something about the man in front of him that his grandfather had not. Because of this, Vincent went against his training and focused his sight on the man across the line from him. He had a good look at the man’s face and there was no mistaking the man.
Vincent had never killed a man but none of that mattered now. This man would be his first and he would be doing the world a favor even though no one would ever realize the impact. Once this man was dead, everything the man would become would die with him.
Vincent pulled the trigger and watched as the man’s chest exploded. The man fell backwards and Vincent knew his shot had been true.
“What are you doing, Shakespeare?” his Sergeant shouted at him above the gunfire. “We’re here to take out their ability to fire, not pick off one bloke at a time! That’s why we have sharpshooters.”
Vincent allowed his training to kick back in and began firing in short bursts as he had before he shot the young German. Ten minutes later, after several rotations of men firing, the Howitzers were in position and Vincent, distracted, momentarily forgot what he had done.
Across No Man’s Land from the British forces, the young officer lay in the mud, spitting blood. The shot he had incurred did not kill him right away. It punctured and exited his right lung. His lung had collapsed and now his own ragged breathing was his world. A doctor had come to his side in the trench but after seeing that the young officer would not make it, he made the man comfortable and then moved on to others whom he could save.
Another soldier sat by his side, keeping him company until the end, which he knew now would not be long in coming. He barely knew the man beside him. He had seen him a few times but the man was enlisted and not an officer and so there had been very little interaction between the two of them. He had many friends in the unit and it was ironic that he had given his life to military service and the other officers had become almost a family to him; yet even so he was dying next to a stranger.
What Vincent didn’t know was that the officer that he had shot would have killed him within the next few minutes if he had not shot the officer. His great-grandfather had been killed on that front line by that officer but now Vincent had changed that.
The man that Vincent shot finally died. It took several agonizing minutes – agony that was well deserved but not near long enough to justify the pain he would cause others; but now that man was no more. The world would never know the significance of that death and the favor that Vincent had done for humanity that day by pulling the trigger.
The officer who was shot that day was Adolph Hitler. And now he was dead.
Vincent thought later that night on what he had done. The gunfire had wound down and now only the mortar shells pounded the earth – a sound to which Vincent had grown accustomed. In the relative quiet and peace (as peaceful a moment during warfare can be) under the Belgium night sky, Vincent closed his eyes. What he saw within was unexpected.
When Vincent first arrived, he had felt like an intruder, like he had possessed his grandfather’s body. He didn’t notice the change at first. But now with his eyes closed, he once again became aware of himself. Only now he no longer felt that he was trapped in someone else’s body. He felt the body was his own.
He opened his eyes.
Across No Man’s Land, another set of eyes was open as well. These eyes were peering across the waste trying to decide what to do. It was fortunate for Vincent that that man in the German trench decided not to come over to the British side (which he could have done very easily and without being caught). Vincent was free to live for a while longer as a result of that decision.
Vincent didn’t know that the man in the opposite trench had killed countless people compared to his one. And now Vincent was a person of interest to Jack.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Passchendaele, Belgium – November 1917
Jack had long been an admirer of warfare. One could say that he adored such occasions. The carnage that resulted from the antagonism was almost sexual to Jack. He felt an ecstasy in observing a wide field of dead bodies; an ecstasy that rivaled any orgasm he had ever experienced. The smell of death was more carnal than the scent of any woman and the blood created a lust deeper than any act of sex.
That lust for blood and corpses brought Jack on vacation from his other time. If the wars of history were a range of mountains, World War I was his Mount Everest, and the Battle of Passchendaele was his summit.
As such, Jack found himself in the German trench, looking down at the officer dead at his knees. History would suggest that he was the one who killed the officer but he did not – although normally he would have relished the idea. No, this officer was different and even he knew better than to kill a man such as him.
He motioned to the men carrying stretchers that the man had died. The bodies of fallen soldiers were sent back through the lines to be conveyed to Germany.
“What is his name, did you get it?” the first transport soldier asked.
Jack rubbed the mud off the front of the officer’s uniform for effect. He of course knew the man’s name but it would have looked strange if he hadn’t done so. The name was partially covered with spilled blood but he could make out the name of Hitler.
“I know him,” the transport observed. “His name is Adolf Hitler. Another son of Germany shot down.”
Later that evening, when the fighting had slowed, Jack entered the makeshift morgue and looked down at the dead future dictator’s body. He knew that everything had changed.
Just like it had changed before for him.
He left the morgue area and walked back to the front trench. There, he looked across No Man’s Land. It was dark and on the wind he could hear movement on the other side of the blood-stained field. Most men would be on edge this close to death in the unknown of dark but the tension in the air calmed him. It cleared his mind so he could think.
Hitler was targeted, of that he had no doubt.
He had not been standing next to Hitler when he was shot; he was about ten feet away. The British had opened fire in short, scattered bursts – just the type of gunfire that made it difficult to rise above the top o
f the trench and fire back effectively.
As he was listening to the bursts, he noticed a change in one of the firing patterns. The bullets that had been firing over his head in a specific pattern stopped. The gunfire around him was still occurring but the gunfire targeted to his area in the trench ceased.
He risked a look over the trench wall and saw a British soldier taking specific aim. With the discharge from the barrel of the soldier’s rifle came a grunt from beside him. He had heard that grunt so often that he barely noticed it. But then he saw from whom the grunt escaped.
And he knew that grunt changed everything.
He couldn’t go immediately over to the fallen soldier as the British soldier who made the shot fell back in to his short, scattered bursts. But as he looked to his left, down at the body of man who had been shot - Adolf Hitler - he knew everything that Germany might become was now gone.
When he finally made his way to Hitler’s side, just in time to watch him die, several thoughts went through his mind. Most of the other soldiers knew little of Hitler. He, however, knew much.
He recognized that the death of Adolf Hitler may or may not be noticed by others. In the end, as far as Germany was concerned, there were thousands dying in the war and the death of one soldier was of little importance.
He knew the war would soon be lost. The Allied forces were just too much. In little more than a year, it would all be over. The deaths of so many would all be in vain.
Hitler was dead. Now, he would find the man who killed him.
He cared nothing for Hitler. In fact, he thought Hitler a coward hiding behind orders, not brave enough to carry out his desired atrocities on his own. But the man who killed Hitler - now he would be interesting.
It was war but he recognized murder when he saw it. Hitler had been shot in the heat of battle but the premeditation that he knew existed in the British soldier amounted to murder. He would just need to learn the identity of the shooter.
If he had the opportunity during a cease fire, he would leave the trench into No Man’s Land and see if he could draw the man into a fight. This was a great source of amusement and both sides would watch as the two men fought, cheering their countrymen on. When it was finished, the men would return to their own side and the shooting would begin again.
He wouldn’t kill the man. Not yet. He just wanted to find out what he knew.
And how he got there.
If that opportunity did not arrive, when the war was over he would follow the man back to England and there he would question the man and find out what he knew. The Germans had men on the other side and he had the money to find out whatever information he needed.
He would learn more of the man who had changed the world’s history.
Before all of that, however, he needed to eat. He saw a group of men sitting in the mud and came up next to them, joining them in the mire. “Where’ve you been, Hans? You nearly missed this fine food,” a German said laughing. The food consisted of slightly moldy bread and cheese that had once been extremely hard but was now soggy due to the rain.
“I’ve been out seeing what sort of trouble I could find.”
The German laughed. “Well, there’s plenty of that.”
Jack smiled back. And not just because of the joke. In fact, the joke was on them. Soon they would all be dead. Whether by gunfire or his knife across their throat, they would be dead.
They knew him as Hans but his real name was Jack. History knew him as Jack the Ripper.
As Jack pulled out his knife, the man in the shadows watched and smiled.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Washington, D.C. – November 1917
Libby felt the change. Everything was different. She couldn’t explain the difference, she just knew the world had changed. She was sitting in the Oval Office when she felt it.
At first it was just an uneasy feeling – like she was coming out of a dream but not sure whether she was still dreaming or awake. Reality seemed to alter itself and she felt as though she couldn’t put her finger on what was actually real.
She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach and was concerned that she might be sick. She walked to the restroom, pausing momentarily at the sink. With her head down, she placed both hands on the counter on either side of the basin. She kept her eyes closed, hoping to gain some internal control of the emotions that were running inside of her. She ran cold water and splashed her face trying to remove the flush that she was sure was there. When she finished, she grabbed the hand towel and dried her face.
It had been several minutes since she first felt the sinking feeling and now, although the feeling had not faded, it had changed into something more internally substantial. She still couldn’t explain what was happening to her.
She opened her eyes, hoping there was something that she could see in the outer world to which she could latch, allowing a reprieve of the uncertainty that was running around inside of her. She felt not herself and yet herself all at once.
Her eyes revealed something she wasn’t expecting.
Gazing in the mirror, she anticipated seeing the face of Woodrow Wilson looking back at her. Instead, she saw her own face. She was stunned. She shouldn’t have been surprised at seeing the face that for her entire life had reflected back at her but now it seemed alien.
She heard a knock on the door to the Oval Office.
She didn’t answer and the first knock was followed by another. She knew she had to answer and so stepped out of the bathroom towards the door. She started to call out but she didn’t react fast enough. The door came open and five men entered swiftly with guns drawn. She would have been alarmed if she had not recognized the man leading the team – the agent from the hallway.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” the agent asked after they had swept the room.
Libby nodded. “Y-yes…” she stuttered. She regained her composure and started again. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I was distracted with something I was thinking over and didn’t hear you.” She turned and faced the agent. “What is it?”
“We’ve come to take you to the airport.”
Libby wasn’t sure what the agent was talking about. She didn’t know the hour but the moon shone through the window behind her. Woodrow Wilson may have done so but she generally did not have night engagements and she didn’t remember setting any. She started to speak and then it dawned on her that the agent had called her ma’am.
“Who do you think I am?” she asked the agent seriously.
He started to smile but then noticed the sober expression on her face. “Are you sure you’re alright, ma’am.”
“I’m fine,” she answered impatiently. “Now, please answer my question.”
“You are the President of the United States, of course.”
“And how many states are there?”
The agent almost smiled again. “Are you testing my history, ma’am?”
Libby realized she seemed hysterical. She gave a small smile to disarm the agent. “Perhaps I am.”
The agent saw her smile and he did relax somewhat but something inside told him that there was more to her questioning than she was letting on. The smile was forced. “There are forty eight states. Arizona and New Mexico were added five years ago and five years before that, Oklahoma and the Indian Territory.”
Libby nodded. “Okay, last question. Where is my husband?”
The agent looked at her strangely. “Is this another test?”
“No, no test. Why?”
“You’re not married, President Williams.”
“What do you mean I’m not married? I’ve been married for over twenty years. My husband is Charles and everyone calls him Chuck. We have two sons.”
The agent looked at her with sincere concern. “Are you sure you’re alright, ma’am?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?” Libby exploded.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s just that I’ve never met this Charles. And you don’t have any children.”
Libby started to open her mouth but found no words would come out. The agent looked at the other members of his team and nodded. The other agents understood the gesture and left the room, leaving the two of them alone in the Oval Office.
“Libby, look,” the agent said, addressing her by her first name now that they were not in public, “we’ve been together for a long time. Way back to your Governor days.”
Libby was confused and didn’t pick up on the fact that he called her by her first name. “I’ve never been a Governor. You mean since my days with my company.”
The agent waited a moment before answering. “I’ve seen you stressed many times but I’ve never seen you lose it like this, especially in front of the other agents.”
Libby looked intently at the agent. She noticed he didn’t respond to her comment about her company. She chose to ignore that and move on – she would get more answers later. “Listen, agent…”
“Libby, you can call me Joe. You don’t have to be so formal.”
The name rang a bell. Somewhere in her mind, she could hear Edith Wilson referring to an agent named Joe. “Joe, I’m not sure what’s happening to me. I don’t know if I’m dreaming or what but I’m not supposed to be President in 1917.”
“I know. What you’ve been able to accomplish is amazing. You were the first woman to be elected to any state or national public office. All this without women being allowed to vote for you.”
“What do you mean the first? Jeanette Rankin was the first to be elected as a Representative from her state.”
“Yes, you paved the way for her election last year.”
Libby thought on his words for a moment, then looked up at Joe. “Do you know who Woodrow Wilson is?”
He thought on her question for a moment. “He’s the President of Princeton, isn’t he?”
“You mean he’s still the President of the university?”
“I believe so. Didn’t you earn your diploma from there?”
Libby smiled. “I did.”
