ONE THOUSAND YEARS
by Randolph Beck
Copyright © 2013 by Randolph Beck.
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction.
First publication date June 2013.
http://randolphbeck.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Afterword
Appendix 1
Reported Peace Settlement Offer of December 1943
Appendix 2
Table of SS, Luftwaffe and U.S. Army ranks in 1944
In loving memory of my mother Marianne and my father John.
Chapter 1
“Up to a fairly recent date, the major events recorded in the history books probably happened.... Even as late as the last war it was possible for the Encyclopedia Britannica, for instance, to compile its articles on the various campaigns partly from German sources. Some of the facts — the casualty figures, for instance — were regarded as neutral and in substance accepted by everybody. No such thing would be possible now. A Nazi and a non-Nazi version of the present war would have no resemblance to one another, and which of them finally gets into the history books will be decided not by evidential methods but on the battlefield.”
— George Orwell, author and journalist, (February 4, 1944)
Friday, February 4, 1944
It could never be certain whether one was dealing with racism or the simple bureaucratic inertia that every soldier must contend with.
“We were going at full throttle,” First Lieutenant Sam McHenry explained. He understood the report was incredible but — as a black officer — white people had questioned his word too often. He had to wonder if a white officer would have as much trouble being believed.
“A P-40 can do well over three hundred miles per hour,” he continued. “We were going just about that fast, and this thing just flew past us like a bullet.”
Colonel Harriman scribbled some notes but didn't react. Captain Lawrence just sat there with his arms folded and had said very little. The British were often like that, McHenry thought. Stiff and proper, even while shivering in this drafty office that had only recently been an Italian farmhouse.
“Is it typical for you to use full power?” Harriman asked, with his precisely spoken British accent.
“No. It's not good for the engine. We had a call for emergency air support. A unit from the Eighth Army ran into some trouble and needed an assist.”
“How was it none of your other pilots saw this?”
“It was too fast,” McHenry swore. That was the question he had dreaded most. He relaxed a bit in the old wood chair and sighed. “I guess I was the only one looking up and to the right when it went by. Most of the other men did see it too, but only in the distance after it was almost gone. It was just a spec by the time they looked.”
“You said you were heading northwest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it was flying the same direction?” Harriman drilled.
“Almost five degrees more to the west,” McHenry said. “I put the heading in my report.”
“We want to hear it again, in your own words, as you recall it now,” Lawrence said calmly. “This is a review, not an interrogation. Please tell us everything.”
“This was right over Anzio?” Harriman continued.
“No, we were still fifteen minutes out. I don't even think we saw the shoreline yet.”
“How accurate is this heading? Could it have been more like ten degrees?”
“No.” McHenry looked over at the chart, and his eyes followed the direction indicated. “You're wondering if it could have been heading to Cassino, aren't you?” There was a battle going on there, McHenry knew, but he had not yet been part of it.
“Yes,” said Harriman, casting a glance at the other British officer.
“Then the difference doesn't necessarily mean anything.” McHenry looked back to the chart. “That's a long hop, and I would want to go there directly but that's not saying it's practical. Flying isn't like driving on a highway. A lot of these villages and fields look alike. We need to head to an initial position, a marker like a river or a distinctive building in the area to verify exactly where we are, and then go from there. They would choose a spot that's behind their own lines, or one that's not contested. Nobody wants to get into combat while they're still trying to figure out where the front lines are.”
“Interesting,” Harriman said, contemplating the chart.
There was a pause, and then McHenry spoke. “Sir, may I ask about the fighting at Cassino?”
“Too soon to tell,” Colonel Harriman replied briskly. It was probably a comforting lie. His face betrayed worry. Another pause, then: “It didn't take a shot at you?”
“Not that I'm aware of, sir. It just whizzed by.”
Harriman slid a blank sheet of paper across the table. “Can you draw a picture of what you saw?”
“I've drawn half a dozen of these.”
“Not for us.”
“Lieutenant,” Captain Lawrence began. “We are at the other end of the chain. By the time something gets to us, it has been transcribed, condensed and collated. No one I know has seen a picture from you.”
“Understood,” McHenry replied. Educated as an engineer, he pulled a pencil from the pocket of his flight jacket and started drawing. The aircraft was somewhat round, but it had a wedge shape at the rear. He had only caught a brief glimpse but it had been a clear day and the image was one he would never forget.
Lawrence unfolded his arms and leaned forward to see the lines McHenry was drawing. “No Luftwaffe insignia?” he asked, referring to Germany's air force.
“No markings at all,” McHenry answered, still sketching.
“You say this was silver?”
“Shiny silver, almost like chrome.”
“Outstanding,” Harriman said. “I can already tell this is more detail than anyone else has seen yet.”
“You mean this thing has been seen before?” That caught McHenry off guard.
“There haven't been very many,” Lawrence said. “Just isolated reports. They are calling it ‘night phenomena.’ Some of you Yanks have reported a few as well. Yours is the first one seen in the daylight.”
“No one really knows if they belong to the Boche,” Harriman added. “The blighters have yet to fire a shot. This night phenomena is still just a curiosity, really. I guess now someone will have to contrive a new name.”
Night phenomena. McHenry repeated the sound in his mind before returning to his sketch, giving more shape to the area beneath the round fuselage. He felt a little more at ease knowing that the two Brits didn't think he was crazy, but only a little. He mostly wondered if he would ever have to fight these things. The squadron was planning to transition to the P-39, and there were quiet rumors of moving to the P-47, or even the P-51, but he knew they would need more speed to take on this kind of aircraft. A lot more.
“The Boche are working on jets and rockets,” Harriman said, as though sensing his apprehension. “But I have it on good authority that we're not too far behind them.”
*
Captain Joseph Parker — call sign “Twain” �
�� was waiting outside the farmhouse, which was a hastily arranged base of operations. McHenry observed how his own confident manner had eased the frown on his friend's face.
“It went well, Anthem?” Parker asked, referring to him by his call sign.
“Nothing to worry about,” McHenry replied, briefly saluting. “These Brits have heard of these things before.”
“Really? How can you call that ‘nothing to worry about?’ If it's real, there will be more.”
Parker returned the salute and hopped into the jeep. They were two black men fighting in a white man's war. It would probably be the only salute Parker would receive until they neared the airfield of their own base. McHenry jumped into the passenger side and they drove off.
“I meant that they didn't think I was crazy,” McHenry said.
“Did they tell you anything interesting?”
“Such as?”
“Rumors about the invasion. The fighting here in Italy will get easier when the Krauts have to fight it out on the French coast, too. Those Brits might have heard something.”
“I didn't ask,” McHenry said. “They didn't even want to talk when I asked about Cassino. I hardly think they would start babbling if I ask about the biggest secret of the war.”
“Yeah, I guess not,” Parker chuckled. He turned at the gate, and they crossed into a road through the Italian countryside.
“All they wanted to talk about was the mystery aircraft. It's not the first one reported, but nobody knows what it is.”
“Ya know,” Parker began. “This could be a sign of the end times.”
“End of the war?”
“End of the war. The end of all wars. Judgment day.”
McHenry turned his head to stare at the trees as they drove. “If you think so,” he said. “But you know I don't. There's got to be a rational answer.”
“You're the only pilot I know who doesn't believe in God,” said Parker. “In fact, you're the only colored man I know who doesn't believe.”
“Aw, come now, Twain,” McHenry implored. “I don't know how many times I told you guys that I do believe in God. I just don't believe in church.”
“Okay, okay. All I can say is you do need proper churching.”
The jeep left the area and was on the open road. It was a long drive through Italian farm country. Narrow winding roads, distant farmhouses, and the occasional village would make the trip interesting as the sun started to descend. McHenry found it difficult to fathom that these people were just recently considered the enemy.
“There's one thing we have to consider,” said Parker, briefly taking his eyes off the road to look up at the sky. “If that thing was German, and there's more than one, then that really is plenty to worry about.”
“Yeah,” McHenry sighed. “That's been bothering me a lot.”
*
Chapter 2
“After the war...
We'll just press a button for food or for drink,
For washing the dishes or cleaning the sink.
We'll ride in a rocket instead of a car.
And life will be streamlined...
After the war.”
— Dorothy Roe, Associated Press, (March 20, 1944)
Monday, March 20, 1944
Their starship was in sight.
SS-Sturmbannführer Kathy Dale was staring down into her SS side-panel when the pilot interrupted her.
“Docking in two minutes,” he said. “You had better finish what you are doing with that game.” He smiled at her, not for the first time this trip.
She looked up. The cigar-shaped starship was now clearly beside them, its pitch black webbing now filled nearly half of their 360 degree view.
“It's not a game,” she coyly replied, the very slightest hint of a Chicago accent in her German. She smiled back at the blond pilot seated beside her. The forward, friendly demeanor was slightly out of protocol. Leutnant Adolf Vinson was a Luftwaffe man, after all, and she was an SS officer. It was her mission. He had been told only what needed to be done, but she knew the secret truths behind every deception — more of them anyway. The Luftwaffe wouldn't even be involved if they didn't need such a large starship to get here.
But his confidence had been infectious. He had promised a quick mission, and they had replaced the satellites in record time. And all the while he provided charming company. It was more than that, she understood. His Nordic features and idealist naivety reminded her of someone from her college years. That one had also been a younger man, and likewise an idealist. He actually wanted to marry her, an anti-social act that would put a serious dent into their positions with the campus Party leadership. She had planned to become a professor, after all, and a historian at that. That, she reminded herself, was a relationship best forgotten.
A new one with anyone like Vinson was impossible, or at least until the mission ends. She might go back to teaching then. But she can always dream in the meantime.
Vinson positioned the Tiger on a heading toward the hangar doors and released the controls to the machine. Everything would be automatic now.
“I hope we did not forget anything,” he said.
“Like what?” she asked. It sounded like more small talk. She locked her side panel away and gazed at him. She would enjoy small talk for a while longer, knowing that she had a lot of work to do once back inside the ship.
They chatted a bit while the Tiger passed through the outer, and then the inner, hangar doors, and finally parking itself inside. It was a complex sequence handled automatically, but she could tell that Vinson was monitoring each phase, even as they laughed together. He was obviously born to fly. That was a trait he shared with those living in earlier times. She could well imagine Vinson as a pilot during the war they watched on the Earth below, shooting down Tommies, and defending the Reich. And she could be a simple schoolteacher in that much simpler time. Or they could be innocent students in a twentieth-century motorcar on their first date. She was an idealist, too, and she knew it.
Once parked, the engines shut down, the indicators turned blue and then disappeared. She regretted that Vinson had been so efficient, getting them back so quickly. Even in modern times, men had never lost their propensity for showing off.
Dale wondered how she could turn off her smile when they part ways. Finally, the view on the dome became a blank. The mission was really over. One indicator remained on, but only for a second longer. It was the mission log turning off. It would be retracted for analysis by the SS.
She knew that would happen, of course. What she hadn't considered was that no machines could be watching them now. They were suddenly truly alone. Anything they said would be erased before the next mission. This realization of privacy had startled her. Before this moment, she hadn't felt true privacy in years. For one brief second, she wanted to reach over and kiss Vinson good night. She resisted the impulse and laughed at the very idea.
Vinson laughed too, and she wondered if he understood the spirit of the moment.
“Thank you Adolf,” she said. “I enjoyed the little trip.” She squeezed his hand gently and it made her feel good.
*
Chapter 3
“The guy who goes around predicting Hitler will surrender tomorrow should have been up there today flying over that flak. The gunners are still in there pitching in the ninth inning.”
— Unknown airman, (April 8, 1944)
Saturday, April 8, 1944
Sam McHenry had observed early on that war was like a series of engineering problems. It's not a single event, but a methodical process. Your own positions are fortified. The enemy's are torn down. Your side advances. One step at a time.
He could now see the target area more clearly. This was the best weather for dive bombing. It was fairly clear below, with some clouds above and around them. There was still quite a bit of haze in the west coming from Mount Vesuvius after the eruption last month. McHenry had noticed earlier that the birds were coming back.
“Target in sigh
t,” reported Parker, leading the mission of sixteen black fighter pilots that day. They were still flying their P-40s, but that was due to change this month.
McHenry looked ahead to Brooks' aircraft, who would be up next, and then swept his eyes left to locate the small dot that was Parker, now making his dive. He didn't hold his eyes there long. They darted back and forth, scanning the horizon, even turning his head both ways for a full view, and then to his gauges and instruments. He switched fuel tanks in preparation for the dive, and scanned the horizon again.
“Taking some flak,” shouted Parker over the noise. “It's coming from one...” The reception broke for a moment of crackle, then came back. “...away.” Parker had dropped his load and pulled up, and to the side.
Brooks was now starting his dive, and the flak would soon be aimed at him.
McHenry checked his gauges again, and then the bomb-safety lever. The aircraft was running smoothly. Scanning outside, he looked down to see Parker's bomb explode at the bridge. It looked good, but he was too far away to make a real assessment.
“Good shooting, Twain,” said Brooks, taking his turn to shout over the flak. “Close, but the bridge is still up. I'm almost there.” Another pause, and he released. “Bomb away,” he said.
McHenry lowered his flaps and began his own dive, heading downward at sixty-five degrees. The flak was directed at him now. After dozens of missions like this, he felt that knew the Germans' playbook. The temptation to defend himself was great. He wanted so badly to reciprocate with his .50 cals, but he had to concentrate on that bridge. His ears cleared, and so did his mind.
“Bridge still up, but smoking,” he shouted, reporting on Brooks' hit. He stayed quiet from then on, wanting to be completely focused for the last moment before releasing his bomb.
That moment was approaching as though in slow motion. His cockpit shook hard as the enemy's flak exploded around him. He made an instantaneous decision to fall another three seconds — a long and dangerous three seconds — to get the aim right. Then he released the bomb and pulled up, pushing the throttle, feeling the intense gee-forces, and resisting the unrealistic fear that the wings could snap off, or the very real worry that those gee-forces could force him to black out.
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