by M. L. Maki
The mother cries, “Oh! Oh my God. Oh my God.”
Mike eases his way down. When he gets to the rubble, three men help him down to the street. “Thanks, guys. Thanks.”
“Thank you, mate.”
He walks to the child’s mother. An ambulance driver, and another man, are putting the woman on a stretcher. “No, my baby! No.” Mike puts the little girl next to her mother. The woman takes her child into her arms, stroking her, “Thank you. Thank you.”
Mike smiles, “She’s okay. She’s just fine.”
She smiles up at him, “Thank you, thank you.”
Mike steps back and puts an arm around his wife. He hears a commotion down street. Five or six men are kicking someone, “Love, get the car.” He runs down the street toward the ruckus. The victim of their rage is a German pilot.
Mike, “Stop.”
“Fuck no mate.”
“Fucking stop, right the fuck now!”
They look at him in surprise. “Why? He’s a fucking Kraut.”
“He’s a prisoner of war.”
“Not ‘til the Army has him, Gov’ner.”
“I’m an officer and he’s my prisoner. The difference between us and the enemy? We follow the law.”
The men look at Mike Brown for a long minute, “Yes, sir.” One of them hands Mike the Luger he took from the pilot. Mike checks and secures it. He turns to the man struggling to get to his feet, “Can you stand?”
Managing to get to his feet, he says in accented English, “I can.”
Mike, “You’re a pilot. Yes?”
“Yes.”
Laureen arrives with the car. Mike says, “Love, I’m riding in the rumble seat with the prisoner. Find someplace where we can turn him in.”
“Okay.”
Mike opens the seat and helps the German in. “I’m Mike Brown. What’s your name?
“Karl Lutz. Your wife?”
“My wife. You disrupted our honeymoon. Where did you learn English?”
“In 1990 all pilots were required to speak English.”
“True. That’s because you lost the fucking war.”
“Yes, last time.”
Mike, “You will lose this time, too.”
They pull up to the Savoy.
Laureen, “It was all I could think of.”
Mike says, “It works. Come on.” They escort Lutz into the Savoy. Mike asks the concierge, “Sir, could you tell the authorities that I have a German pilot prisoner?”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
Mike, “While we wait, lets grab lunch.” They direct their prisoner into the dining area and sit down.
Hemingway tells the photojournalist he is eating with, “Get some pictures. This is a story.”
Mike, “So, you know that you lose this fucking war and Hitler eats a gun. Why do you fight for him?”
“I don’t fight for Hitler. He is an ass. I fight to stay out of the concentration camps.”
“Well, a British POW camp will be no picnic, but we don’t kill prisoners.”
“You are from 1990?”
“I am. If you just wanted to avoid a concentration camp, you could have flown to Switzerland or surrendered here. You bet on a losing hand and now you’re making excuses.”
“That is fair. With all the technology Germany is bringing to the table, do you really think you can win?”
“Germany was great at creating wonder weapons, but they lacked the resources to bring most of them effectively into the war. We can build aircraft and other war materials faster than the Germans could ever destroy them. We have a larger population to draw on to operate what we build. That, and we’re not murdering a large percentage of our population in an effort to purify our race. Hitler is a monster and Jewish blood is on your hands.”
About halfway through the meal the military police arrive.
Mike, “Gentlemen, he’s almost done. Please let him finish. It’ll be the last good meal he gets until after the war.”
“Yes, sir.” They finish their lunch, and Mike shakes the German’s hand before they take him away.
Hemingway approaches, “May I join you, Lieutenant?”
Mike, “Who are you?”
“Ernest Hemmingway. New York Times.”
Mike, “You’re the author, right?”
“I’m that, too. Why did you feed him?”
Mike, “Because we’re not monsters. There’s a difference between the Allies and the Axis. We follow the law and embrace humanity. They do not.”
“Where did you capture him?”
“I didn’t. The locals did, but they were beating him to death. Ejection didn’t cause his injuries. Pissed off Londoners did.”
“Can I ask your name, sir?”
“Ensign Michael Brown, US Navy. I really can’t say more.”
“Who’s the lovely lady beside you?”
“My wife, Laureen.”
Hemingway, “Do you work for the Commodore?”
“I do.”
“So, you’re from 1990?”
“I am. Please do not press me for more. We’re on our honeymoon.”
“I won’t. May we get your picture?”
Laureen, “I look a mess.”
Hemingway, “You look amazing. Please?”
Mike nods and Hemingway’s photographer takes the pictures.
After Hemingway walks away, Mike smiles at Laureen. She says, “I’ll say this, you know how to show a lady a good time.”
“I do my best. Shall we clean up?”
“Yes. Please.”
A British civilian intercepts them, “May I have a moment?”
Mike, “Um. Okay?”
“I am Christopher Buckley with The Daily Telegraph. Can I get a quick interview?”
Mike, “We want to clean up. I’ll answer questions in the elevator.” He gives the interview, but says nothing about where he works, or what he does.
CONTROL CENTER, RAF ALCONBURY
Swede picks up the phone, “Control center, Task Force Yankee.”
“Yes, sir. This is Ensign Brown. I’m in London and need to report in. Who are you?”
“Commander Swedenborg. I’m the Operations watch. Where are you stationed?”
“The San Francisco. I got married a few days ago and have a pass to honeymoon in London. After the attack, I took a German prisoner away from the locals, and now people are making a big deal out of it. I am getting questions from journalists.”
“Do you remember their names?”
“Yes. Ernest Hemmingway and a Brit named Chris Buckley. I didn’t share anything classified.”
Swede, “Okay, Ensign. Walk me through it.” Brown does and Swede says, “It sounds like you did okay. Tell them they have to clear any other interviews through us, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Something else you should know. We lost Commodore Holtz in that attack.”
“What? No. No sir. He was just with us.”
“I understand. We’re all in mourning. It’s up to you, but you might consider coming up to Alconbury or heading back to your base.”
“You’re right, sir. He saved us. He saved the SEALs. Sir. You need to let the SEALs know. They need to know.”
“I’ll take care of it. Thank you.”
Mike sets the phone in its cradle and wraps his arms around Laureen, “He’s gone.”
“Who?”
“The Commodore. The man who approved my promotion was shot down and killed. The Nazi I was playing nice to may have killed my boss.”
“You didn’t know.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”
Laureen puts a hand on each side of his face and looks him in the eye, “Whoever killed the Commodore, his death is not your fault. You took care of the prisoner because you’re a good man, not because the German was. You are the good man I love. The great man I love. A man who does the right thing even when it is hard.”
“Thank you.” He puts his head on her shoulder and allows himself t
o cry.
CAPTAIN’S STATEROOM, BERTHING BARGE, HOLY LOCH, SCOTLAND
Cutting knocks on the door, “John?”
“Yes, come in.”
“Sir, a message.”
John Morrison reads:
TO: SAN FRANCISCO, LIVERMORE, BEAVER
FROM: YANKEE
REG: CMDE HOLTZ
During the major air attack of 29 July, 1942, Commodore Holtz was shot down and lost. We join you in your grief. When we determine the schedule for the Commodore’s memorial services, the details will be disseminated. From now until after the memorial, please lower all flags to half-mast.
Hunt
John looks at the message, shocked. Then he hands the message back, “Thank you.” He feels his breath fighting the pressure in his chest.
Craig Cutting, “Are you Okay?”
“No. No, I’m not. He was a good man.”
“Yeah.” Craig sits down, “God, this sucks.”
John stands, “It’s war. It’s the first for us, but it won’t be the last. I need to talk to the crew.”
STEWART FARM
1827, 29 July, 1942
When Mike and Laureen drive into the farmyard, Jean Luc runs out, “Daddy, Mummy, you’re home!”
Mike scoops up his son and gives him a hug, “Yes, son, we are.” He sees Sheamus at the door, “We were attacked.”
“We heard on the radio.”
Laureen, “It was difficult.”
Jean Luc, “Uh huh.”
Sheamus, “Did you hear about the Commodore?”
Laureen, “Yes, Da.”
Sheamus, “All the flags are half-mast.”
Mike, “I should get back to work.”
Sheamus, “Tomorrow is soon enough. It’s dinner time.”
CAPTAIN’S CONFERENCE ROOM, USS BEAVER
0800, 30 July, 1942
Morrison, Little, and Huber eat their breakfast, talking.
Little, “Any idea who they’ll assign to replace him?”
Huber, “It would have to be someone who knows how to use these new jets. That list is short.”
Morrison, “It’ll be Hunt. She’s the squadron commander, and his chief of staff. She knows what’s going on better than anyone else they could bring in.”
Little, “Not a woman. I don’t doubt she could do it, but I would just be shocked if the Navy gives it to her.”
Morrison, “Would either of you have any issue with serving under her?”
Huber, “No, she’s sharp and squared away. I’ll need to plan how I would handle getting underway with her on board. I don’t really have flag quarters or women’s facilities.”
Morrison, “I have to consider that, too. It’s a manageable issue. We handled two women aboard leaving Norway. Could you handle it, Marion?”
“Sure. That isn’t an issue. I have the space. Morrison, you’ve spent the most time around her. What will she expect?”
Morrison, “Yeah. I’ve met her a number of times. She’s tough. She takes no prisoners and doesn’t suffer fools. Give her the ungarnished truth and deliver it fresh. If you need to call her, don’t chit chat. As you probably recall, she isn’t a sweet, fragile, little girl. She’s a shrewd and capable leader and she has the confidence of Admiral Lee and Admiral Klindt. Lee is NAVAIR-Jets, her boss. Klindt is Navy Special Projects. He commands the war time production board, and he’s in charge of the nuclear power program. Oh, and never, ever, ask her about her kills. It pisses her off.”
Huber, “So, she’ll know how to use us?”
“I would expect so. She’s SWO qualified. That’s surface warfare officer. It doesn’t exist now but should. It’s a good tool to teach surface officers how to handle their ship. If you want it, I can get it.”
Huber, “Sure. It would be better if Washington gave the SWO program their blessing.”
“I agree. I’ll see what can be done.”
Little, “Really? What can you do?”
Morrison smiles, “When I was a JG, I served with, then, Lieutenant Klindt. We’re friendly. We maintain a regular communication.”
Huber chuckles, “You’re going to go far. You understand how the politics of the Navy works.”
Little, “How do we hitch ourselves to your sails?”
Morrison smiles, “You ask. I must warn you there is no shortage of meetings, but you don’t have to stand and announce you are an alcoholic.”
Little and Huber laugh. Huber, “That’s good to know.”
“One of the core agendas of this little group is integrating the Navy. It’ll probably happen soon. Once done, we’ll never go back.”
Little asks, “I recognize the Navy of 1990 will be integrated. Why the push now?”
Morrison, “Do you agree that any random group of people would contain a minority of people who have the proper attitude and aptitude to excel as military leaders?”
Little, “Of course.”
“Now, do you believe there is a particular social cast or economic origin that is required to become a leader?”
Huber, “What do you mean?”
John, “Examples: Is it necessary for leaders to be ivy league educated, academy grads, or from wealthy families?”
Both say, “No.”
John, “Then why would it be true that only white people make good leaders?”
Little, “I agree, but a minimal education should be necessary at the starting point, and many black people don’t get that education.”
John, “That gets us to Jim Crow laws and racial segregation. It’s later in the curriculum. Why would it be true that all women cannot be good leaders.”
Huber, “Commander Hunt puts that to the lie.”
John, “Agreed. We need to attend the funeral of Commodore Holtz, and while we’re there let her know we support her.”
Huber, “You’re that certain that she’ll replace Holtz?”
Morrison, “I am.”
STEWART FARM
0812, 30 July, 1942
Sheamus walks from the barn with the morning milking when Mike pulls in and parks. “What is it, lad?”
Mike, “I reported, and Commander Morrison kicked me out. He said we have two more days of honeymoon and he doesn’t want to see me until after.”
“Well, son, he’s right. He’s a good man.” He picks up his covered milk bucket and continues into the house.
Mike follows him in to get changed.
CDR LIZ PETREA’S HOME, MANETTE, WASHINGTON NEAR BREMERTON
1830, 30 July, 1942
Liz picks up her mail and the Bremerton Sun. She walks into her home, a three-bedroom craftsman built in 1922. She sets the mail on the table and turns on the kettle for coffee. After she’s changed, she makes the coffee, then sits down and picks up the paper.
The headline screams at her, “COMMODORE JAMES HOLTZ LOST IN MAJOR GERMAN AERIAL ATTACK ON LONDON”.
She sets her cup down and reads. On the fourth sentence she remembers to breath. “He’s gone.” Finishing the article, “So, Samantha and Gloria are probably okay. Damn, this is hard.”
Picking up her coffee, she takes a sip. Then picks up her mail and opens a letter from John.
Dear Liz,
As I write this, we’re in our secret volcano lair. I have news. Cumber-bun is in Navy custody, and I am the new CO. With that, I also got a full stripe. We’ve been very busy doing what we were designed to do. That is probably all I can say there.
On to the personal. I am okay with you calling me Johnny. Thank you for caring for me enough not to send a “Dear John.” My grandpa Henry is also working with us at the lair. We’ve become close. Grandma sent us care packages and keeps me in uniforms. She’s great.
I would like to share a conversation I had with grandpa. I was talking to him about Lisa and how I waited fifteen years for her. I know you’ve heard it all from me. Anyway, he chewed my ass and asked me why he didn’t teach me better fourteen years ago. He then lectured me about his definition of love. He said all the heart throb butt
erfly stuff is infatuation and true love is built from respect and compatibility. He even shared a bit more than I wanted to know about how he and grandma’s relationship works. He described it in practical non-romantic terms. He did try to talk to me after Lisa and I split, but I couldn’t hear him. He kept saying there is someone else out there who would be just as good of a partner as Lisa. I figured he was too old to know what he was talking about. I can be a bone head.
His admonishment has cast my heart adrift in a weird way. It’s like he cut part of my identity away. It’s something I cannot talk to anyone else about. Especially now, that I’m CO. Right now, I don’t know what I should think. I still mourn her loss. That hasn’t changed. But the piece that’s gone no longer fits into my whole.
I hope I didn’t just overshare. If you’re still willing to, I could use a sounding board. I may still be too much of a bone head to offer you the same sounding board, but the offer still stands.
I think you’re an inspired choice to run your show. It’s vital. But I am concerned that living so close to where you did with Tim could be really hard. I very much hope this letter finds you well.
Your friend,
Johnny
She sets the letter on the table and smooths out the folds, “He has to be raw. Grandpa performed surgery with rusty garden shears and a sledgehammer. How do I heal that?”
She stands and walks onto her porch, coffee in hand. It has a couple chairs and a view of Sinclair Inlet. It can rain in Washington any day of the year. Right now, the Olympic mountains are a dark contrast to the gold painters light of the westering sun. “This house is maybe four miles from where I lived with Tim. That’s a farmer’s field now. Am I suffering from the same problem? What do I need? What do I want? How do I really feel? Am I on some kind of automatic grief thing? A better question, what do I know?”
Liz goes back inside, pours herself another cup of coffee, and sits down to write a reply.
CHAPTER 11
OUTSIDE SAINT MARY’S CATHEDRAL, CAMBRIDGE, UK
1450, 7 August, 1942
CDR Morrison leads one of his watch teams to their place in Commodore Holtz’s funeral procession. CDR Little and CDR Huber take their places with their men. The cars with the King, the Prime Minister, and other dignitaries, lead the funeral cortege.
