One Thousand Years

by Randolph Beck

  But that worry was short-lived. He was okay, and his plane was okay. It felt good to be rid of the 1,000 pound bomb that was dragging him. He gained altitude quickly to rejoin the group in a circle around the target, while checking for damage from that flak. There must have been damage, he knew, but he couldn't see any of significance. His eyes scanned the sky again, hoping for a repeat of their recent air battle. He wondered, too, about that remarkable silver ship he'd seen those months before.

  The next man dropped his bomb, increasing the damage to where it could not be easily repaired. But then Douglas sighted enemy aircraft above. Coming from a dive, the German fighters would be quickly on them.

  Parker turned hard right, leading them into the attack. “Battle stations, people! Those still carrying, find a good place to jettison, but get in formation quick!”

  “‘190s,” Brooks shouted — meaning the Focke-Wulf 190, the Luftwaffe's versatile fighter. They had tangled with ‘190s before. The Germans were faster, and could climb higher, but the P-40 was more agile and had better armoring. Today, the Germans' main advantage was their numbers. There were simply more of them this day. Too many more.

  “I count at least twenty,” said Rebbit, one of the new replacements.

  “At least,” agreed Parker. The formation tightened up. Parker saw that the enemy aircraft were going to overcast — coming in too high. He made a sharp right, leading the men under the Germans.

  Now the real fighting would begin. They broke off into pairs, McHenry with Douglas, as the ‘190s did as well. But the numbers quickly made coordination impossible.

  McHenry was attempting to line up on a ‘190, only to find another attacking from behind him. He turned, trying to shake him loose, but the man stayed on him. He cut his power and turned into a tight barrel roll, letting his follower overtake him. That worked. Then he pushed the throttle to stay close behind. He almost had it in his sights but a second ‘190 came from the side, now firing at him. McHenry made a wild corkscrew turn, coming out of it nearly lined up on the second ‘190. They both turned and banked, but McHenry was turning tighter, reaching for the sweet spot where their swerves could cross the trajectory of his shells. Finally, he pushed the trigger.

  He expected to see his tracers spit forward but they didn't. His guns didn't fire. He pushed the trigger again, with no result. With another ‘190 behind him, he jinked left so hard it was difficult to get his fingers to check the gun switches. They were already on. He reset them quickly, to no avail. Leveling off only long enough to clear his mind and try it again, slowly, his guns still didn't fire. He toggled the gun switches off and on one more time. Nothing.

  “My guns are out!” he called. “Repeat, this is Anthem; my guns are out.”

  Douglas was quick to reply. “Jammed?”

  “Negative. Appears electrical.”

  “Reset your gun switches,” Douglas said, sounding out of breath. They were all busy.

  “Tried that,” McHenry said, making another tight turn while looking back and forth for the ‘190s he was tangling with, and then deciding to dive toward the trees. He couldn't blame Douglas for the obvious suggestion. Allowances are made for the stress of combat. He'd have suggested that, too.

  “Anthem, Twain,” Parker called. “Having trouble spotting you. Can you get home?”

  “West of the main,” McHenry replied, seeing the ‘190 on his tail again. Then he saw there were two of them again, and immediately took this as an opportunity to help the others win the day. “Leading two away on a chase. Don't worry about me; will shake these guys.” No sooner had he said that that he saw one more with them. Even better, he thought. This could help even the odds for the rest.

  He hugged the contour of the ground, hills and valleys, nearly clipping the trees. He had to keep looking behind, then forward, occasionally seeing the Germans' tracers fly by, and occasionally missing trees and high tension wires by inches. He went as fast as he could while jinking. At 275 miles per hour, he was as likely to be killed by a tree as by the Germans.

  He tried aiming toward the direction of his base but the three ‘190s had the advantage. His heading was determined more by their attacks than by his own intent. The best he could do was jink out of their sights while they seemed to control the general direction. He didn't mind at first, as long as it wasn't north. He was still alive. Then they reached the end of the landscape, and they were out skimming over the sea.

  “I'm out over the water,” he reported, although certain the men were out of range by now, especially at this low altitude. He kept jinking left and right, up and down, and picking up salt spray. The Germans rarely had a good shot at him. One of them was gone now, probably back to rejoin the fray, but possibly out of ammunition. Bullets are heavy. An aircraft can only carry so many. It gave him hope that they might run out, too. The other two kept at him, and they scored more hits. Seeing that he was leaking fuel, he changed tanks so that he could empty that one first. There was still enough hope that he was able to think ahead.

  The nose kept veering right. In a quick glance, he saw the edge of his starboard wing now torn up. But, thankfully, his controls still responded. He needed them. His life depended on his maneuverability. He kept up his jinking, but they still forced him out further over the sea. They scored more hits, one rattling the armoring at his back. Wind hissed through a new misalignment of the airframe, but the aircraft held together. Then the controls became sluggish. He didn't even need to look behind him to know that most of his rudder was shot out — a death sentence, he knew.

  Ditching would be the smart thing to do. One of these Germans still gets credit for a kill, and he wouldn't need to die. Would they let him live long enough for that? It didn't matter, McHenry resolved. He was never going to give in. Never. He pulled the yoke hard. The plane could still respond well up and down, so he kept at it, jinking vertically. He only needed to last long enough for them to run out of bullets or fuel.

  Then the two remaining ‘190s were gone. He'd have expected them to climb first, but they turned eastward, rising only slowly to a less crazy altitude, and clearly favoring maximum speed. Then he saw what made them run off.

  “Anthem!” a voice shouted. It was Parker, having made a beeline from the target area. Two planes were up at five hundred feet.

  “You're just in time,” McHenry said. “I was just about to put them all into the Tyrrhenian Sea.” He rose steadily, angling to join them, and then saw another formation of planes coming at them. It was the rest of the mission.

  “You know,” Douglas laughed, “we saw you kept dodging 'em even after they'd gone.”

  “Better one too many dodges than one too few,” he replied dryly. He counted fifteen planes above him. They didn't lose anyone. Only then did he check his gauges and decide to switch fuel tanks again.

  “We were afraid you...” Parker started.

  Twack! McHenry's plane shuddered hard when a bird struck his nose. The impact rattled the cockpit, loosening a battered wiring harness. His engine lost power. His prop was windmilling.

  “My engine's out,” he said, dropping away. He understood that his radio must also be out, but followed up as a matter of procedure. “Anyone read me?”

  No one replied. He could see Parker breaking off, and the other men reforming. He took a deep breath and saw this for another point where he would have to define himself. He'd either make it or die right here and — either way — he was going to do it like a man. He played with the yoke to test the controls, and scanned the horizon for land. At well under four hundred feet, there weren't many options other than to glide back toward land. He began turning in that direction as smoothly as his damaged rudder could handle.

  “I've got control,” he said, lowering his flaps. He turned off his useless gun switches, and tried restarting the engine. When that failed, as he knew it would, he recycled the battery and generator switches, and then the circuit breakers. He was indeed going down. Every retry of the engine was simply going through the
motions. He slid open the canopy and felt the sharp breeze on his face. This was real to him now.

  Parker pulled up, engine cut and flaps down, to pace him on his descent, sliding open his own canopy. He made a follow-me motion with his arm, and then turned right — away from land.

  McHenry followed without questioning, and saw. There was a Navy warship only a few miles away. He gave his friend a thumbs-up gesture. He knew that one of the men would be on the radio, telling them to prepare to retrieve him. Indeed, as they passed under 200 feet, the ship was already beginning its turn. They would be coming for him. The other men in the squadron circled above, marking the spot.

  He could taste the salt spray in the air, and knew that Parker should have leveled off long before now. The end was coming. He wanted so much to say what a pleasure it was flying with them all. But there was no time left. He saluted crisply.

  Parker returned the salute, clearly saying words that McHenry could read on his lips, “Godspeed, Anthem.”

  Already dangerously low, Parker powered up to begin leveling off, watching him continue his descent. The end was coming. McHenry pulled back and flared in the last seconds.

  The plane touched the water and skipped nimbly once, allowing McHenry one final moment of free flight, then slammed hard into a cresting wave. He was struck unconscious immediately, still strapped to his seat. Parker was calling to his dead radio, pleading for him to awake and get out of the sinking plane.

  He couldn't hear the calls; he couldn't even hear the planes flying overhead or the sound of the waves splashing against the broken canopy. The blood dripped from his ears as the cockpit filled with cold seawater, the engine's weight pulling it down. His fellow airmen would still be circling when the ship arrived. But the spot they marked was just an oil slick on the water now. His plane was on its final approach to the bottom of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  To a man, each whispered a tearful prayer for Sam “Anthem” McHenry, Lieutenant, United States Army Air Force.

  *

  Dale looked on as Vinson maneuvered them beside the sinking warplane. Submerged, they moved slowly under the water. Although passive sensors were limited here, the system gave the illusion of clarity up to the distant shore.

  “Watch out for that approaching ship,” she warned. “It will be overhead in five minutes.”

  “Not a problem,” he answered, grinning confidently. “We will get this one.” He slowed their pace again as their Tiger neared the destination.

  She smiled back. His confidence was infectious.

  And why shouldn't it be? Others from the starship had twice tried to recover twentieth-century men, but they failed each time. Operational parameters required caution in such abundant quantities that failure was almost guaranteed. Yet, they were so close now it seemed as though nothing could go wrong.

  “We are there!” said Vinson excitedly.

  Dale sent the grappler after the primitive airplane fuselage, stopping it from sinking further. Now she just needed to extract the American. A second arm tore away the canopy, and then cut the seat belts.

  “It goes well,” said Vinson.

  “Do not say that yet,” she said, pulling the near-lifeless body toward the medical container in the small cargo bay. The main grappler released the airplane and pulled back inside.

  “No!” she sighed. The arm was too large and unwieldy to manipulate the container. She stifled a derogatory comment about the lack of more suitable equipment. With years for careful planning, they should not have needed to rely on the Luftwaffe.

  “They are designed for heavy work under combat conditions,” Vinson explained.

  She tried to ignore him, focusing her attention on the task and making several more attempts to transfer the unconscious man into the container that could preserve his life. “He's dying out there!” she gasped.

  Vinson released the restraint on his seat and snapped up. “How much time is there?”

  “Maybe two minutes.”

  “We are deep enough to avoid that ship. You can still take us deeper if you feel the need to.”

  “You can't go out there” she said, incredulous.

  “I have my emergency pack,” he reminded her, holding one hand on the harness strapped across his chest. “I will not put the mission at risk but you may activate it if I do.”

  He stepped toward the door without waiting for a response, but then turned once more. “I really mean that. Do not feel any guilt if you need to do this.” And then he ran out of the cockpit, disappearing from view.

  Dale turned back toward the front end of the dome and cursed herself for not being more assertive. She held the authority, after all. Besides that, he was only a Leutnant in the Luftwaffe. She was a Sturmbannführer in the SS. Then she looked at the rapidly fading life signs for the American, and was a little bit glad that Vinson could be so reckless.

  Was he really going to swim out there? she wondered. Her familiarity with the Tiger was rudimentary at best. She had been trained to fly them in an emergency, but the workings of the small airlock underwater was a different matter. She didn't know how long it would take to cycle and they were definitely running out of time.

  Then there was the question of the emergency pack Vinson wore, an awkward term for a personal self-destruct device. They were very efficient, and she was certain it could do the job even underwater. Vinson would be killed, his body dissolved in milliseconds. There was no doubt in her mind that she would indeed activate it if necessary, and that she would feel no guilt, only regretful sadness. They were in the twentieth-century. History was something she understood only too well. She would do anything to protect it. That's why she was here.

  The seconds would tick by slowly before she saw the hatch open. Vinson's head popped out. She was surprised to see he wore no spacesuit. He climbed toward the American's body, crawling along the mechanical arm, careful to avoid the hazardous materials surrounding the ship. He worked like a man who knew what he was doing, but she reminded herself of the dangers. Those dangers were not just to Vinson alone. Were he to introduce some kind of change into the present, the change could be magnified through time. This would affect the Führer, the Reich and all mankind. She watched the indicators on her SS side-panel, reminding herself that she knew what she was doing, too. Everything was still safe. She worried anyway. That was her job at this moment.

  Vinson had moved the American's inert body into place, gingerly but firmly. The capsule closed immediately, and he rushed back toward the airlock. It was then that she realized she had been holding her breath all this time until the hatch had sealed.

  She guided the Tiger to a safe distance. Her side-panel showed the American's body being put into the resuscitating phase of its program. The man would recover. The capsule will keep him alive until a medical officer revives him.

  “He's going to make it,” she said as Vinson entered. His uniform had dried itself quickly, such was the material of the modern Third Reich, but his face and hair were still wet. And his nose was bleeding. She guessed the quick change of pressure to be painful, but he was still grinning.

  “I'd better get the medical kit,” she said, grinning back. “You came out too fast. Maybe I should have increased the cabin pressure.”

  “No,” he said. “I could have waited in the airlock. I wanted to see how he is doing.”

  “You got him in time.” She wanted to be mad at Vinson, but couldn't. He was willing to give his life for the Reich, the mission, and for someone he didn't even know. That was worth something.

  She thought about the moment that would arrive later, when the records were ejected, and the recording was off. She knew better than to imagine giving him that kiss. Perhaps another squeeze of the hand would suffice until that day when they finally return to their own time.

  *

  Chapter 4

  “On this morning of hope we may speak of our firm conviction. We may hope because we are strong, because we believe. Our hope is in the victory and freedom of t
he Fatherland, in the message of our sword.”

  — Nazi Party message on Easter morning, (April 9, 1944)

  Sunday, April 9, 1944

  McHenry's eyes fluttered open and looked up in the bright light. His mind was still in mid-dream, but he sensed that this light was different from the one in the other dream. It was a harsh light and he didn't like it.

  He heard a man's voice. It was in German.

  Another man stepped over to the equipment encasing McHenry's body and peered down into his patient's eyes. The man said something in German to the young officer standing beside him. He took a quick glance at the charts on the large screen behind the patient, as though to confirm his reasoning. McHenry was dazed but coming around. “Do not be alarmed,” the second said, in English with only a slight German accent. “You are still healing but you will be fine. Breathe deep.”

  McHenry was groggy and slow, yet alert enough to guess from the white tunic that the young-looking man hovering above him was a doctor. “Where?” he stammered. The word from his lips had somehow startled him — as though another part of his brain was surprised to hear himself talk.

  “You must breathe deep,” the doctor insisted. McHenry took the deep breath and some of the fog lifted. The doctor could see the results on a panel. “That is good. Take two more deep breaths.”

  McHenry couldn't remember where he was last, or how he got here, but he knew this wasn't a good place to be. He was thinking more clearly now. His worst suspicions were quickly confirmed when he saw the crooked cross of a swastika on the man's collar. He took another deep breath and turned his head to examine the other man.

  The doctor appeared youthful, tall and muscular, but the blond-headed first man looked even more like a picture straight out of Nazi propaganda imagery. He wore a light blue uniform. It wasn't exactly like the Luftwaffe uniforms McHenry had seen black-and-white photos of, but there were pilot wings on the man's lapel and, of course, the swastika emblem on a button below his collar.