Time-Travel Duo

by James Paddock

  He had just inserted the torch into number one boiler as ordered by the watch supervisor, Petty Officer Brundle. The boiler didn’t light.

  O’Brian pulled the torch, stuck it in the torch bucket, leaned on it, then waited for further orders.

  “Light the torch.” Brundle had to yell to be heard over the continuous whine and rumble of machines in the boiler room. O’Brian didn’t move, but just looked at him. “Light the damn torch!” Brundle was really yelling this time.

  Reluctantly, O’Brian pulled the torch out of the oil and set it on the torch rack. He struck the match and then held it to the torch. It began burning and he rotated it until it reached a roaring blaze. He looked up at Brundle.

  “Insert the torch.”

  Fireman Street rotated the steel cover and O’Brian shoved the torch in. Brundle opened the fuel valve and everyone waited the three-second count. The boiler didn’t light. Brundle closed the valve and O’Brian again pulled the torch. He remembered reading in one of the manuals Chief Rowstic had shoved at him a few weeks back, that when a boiler didn’t light, any remaining fuel had to be purged before trying to light it again. If there was too much fuel, there was a danger of an explosion. He set the torch in the bucket, knowing that Brundle would have to purge this time. Just then Chief Rowstic rushed down the ladder with the Chief Engineer right behind him.

  Brundle said something to the Chief that O’Brian couldn’t hear, and then saw the Chief Engineers Face contort and turn red. “Damn it!... this... on the line... report to me!”

  “Yes sir!” Chief Rowstic yelled to the Engineer’s legs as they disappeared up the ladder. He turned to Petty Officer Brundle. “There are fuck’n enemy submarines out there. Let’s get this fuck’n boiler on the line, NOW!” At six foot five, two hundred and seventy pounds, Chief Rowstic did not have to yell to be heard, but he was yelling and the boiler room watch crew was scrambling. O’Brian shook as he lit the torch. It wasn’t even fully ablaze when Brundle ordered the insert. He saw him open the valve as he shoved the torch in.

  One thousand one... O’Brian held his breath... One thousand two... light, damn it, light... One thousand three... O’Brian looked at Brundle... One thousand four... Brundle’s hand was on the valve but he wasn’t closing it. O’Brian’s hands were on the torch waiting for the order... One thousand fi—

  O’Brian never heard the explosion. The boiler front gave way and he was thrown back between a bank of steam pipes and the piggyback boiler, some twenty feet in all, landing in two and half feet of bilge water.

  He was wet and tangled and the light was tremendous until suddenly, the light was out and it was dark and quiet. He disengaged himself from his blanket and sat up. Everyone was still asleep. The light was so real, he thought. He lay back down and realized his sheet and pillow were wet. He knew he had the dream again. As always he woke in a cold sweat. It had been six months and most of his burns were healed, at least past the point of intense pain. He still limped on the leg, but it was getting better. He was lucky. Brundle and Fireman Street died instantly, they said. Chief Rowstic died before they got him back to the states. Seaman O’Brian lay on his bunk remembering those days of morphine and pain as the ship limped out of the North Atlantic, everyone praying not to be spotted by the German U-boats.

  Realizing he had to pee, he rolled off the bunk onto his feet. The floor creaked. He stepped carefully, almost tiptoeing. He could make out the edges of the bunks so he broke into a quick pace toward the door to the head. The head! Such a stupid name for a bathroom, he thought. Then, without warning he ran into something lying on the floor, falling directly onto it. At first the shooting pain from his leg caused him to think he had broken it again but then the pain eased and was overridden by the pain in his chest where the hot piece of metal had embedded itself on that cold February afternoon. He learned not to scream a long time ago. He rolled off the object, onto the floor, and waited for the pain to subside.

  He tried to see what he tripped over, but three-thirty in the morning and blacked out windows made it very dark. When the bladder pain started dominating the others, he limped into the head and relieved himself. By the time he returned to the object, he was back to his normal limp. He left the door to the head cracked open for light. The object looked like a suitcase or a carpetbag. A piece of paper was lying against it but he couldn’t quite read it. He carried it partway to the door of the head, turning the paper back and forth trying to make out the writing.

  “Whatcha got there, Greg?”

  O’Brian turned to find Tim Clayborn standing behind him. “I found this sitting on a suitcase or bag or something in the middle of the floor,” he whispered. “ I’m trying to read the handwriting.”

  “Let me see,” Tim demanded loudly as he snatched the paper out of O’Brian’s hand. “I can read this,” he said as he held it under the light. “It says, ‘For Anne Waring. I love you and I’m sorry. Steven.’”

  “Who in the hell is Anne Waring?”

  “I don’t know.” Clayborn sniffed the paper but found nothing unusual. O’Brian snapped it back saying, “You shouldn’t be sniffing a lady’s mail.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’d rather sniff her female.”

  O’Brian grinned. “Yeah.”

  “Hey! I think Anne is the name of that pregnant lady last night.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Ya think we ought to wake the chief?”

  “Nah, he’ll just get pissed. Remember when Georgy fell off the top bunk and broke his arm again. I was the watch and had to wake up the chief. I never want to have to do that again. The whole damn building can burn down first as far as I’m concerned.” Tim walked over and picked up the bag. “It’s not very heavy.”

  “Hey, shut da fuck up.” Someone yelled out of the dark.

  “Up yours,” Tim Clayborn returned. “We’re trying to have an intelligent conversation here.”

  “You wouldn’t know intelligence if it was stuck up your ass.”

  “What the hell’s going on in here?” A voice bellowed from the far end of the room. The lights came on and the roving patrol was standing in the doorway.

  “Shut da fuck up, Snyder.”

  “Don’t tell me to shut the fuck up, or I’ll write you up and you can tell it to the chief in the morning. What are you doing, Clayborn?”

  “Nothing. O’Brian found this thing and I was trying to help him figure out what to do with it.” He kicked at the bag with the side of his foot. “This paper was sitting with it.”

  Snyder walked toward him.

  “It’s got that pregnant lady’s name on it,” he said as he handed it over.

  “I’ll put it on the Quarterdeck. Everyone go back to bed, except Thurston.”

  A tall sailor dropped out of a top bunk. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve got the next watch.”

  “What the hell was all the racket in the middle of the night?” Chief Savage demanded. It was 0600 when he appeared on the Quarterdeck in khakis and a T-shirt.

  “Racket, Chief?” Seaman Thurston questioned.

  “A bunch of yelling. What the hell was going on?”

  “Oh, ah, O’Brian and Clayborn found this bag in the middle of the floor.”

  The chief looked down at the bag, a coffee cup in hand. “Whose is it?”

  “We don’t know. This was with it.” He handed over the paper.

  Chief Savage looked at it, turning it over several times.

  “It’s the lady from last night,” Thurston clarified.

  “I know who this is, Thurston. Who was on watch?”

  “Snyder and Smitty.”

  “Tell them to come see me. Announce reveille. Let’s get this day started.” He picked up the bag and disappeared into his office.

  Chief Savage sat at his desk looking at the paper with the name, Anne Waring, written on it. Smitty showed up in dungarees and a skivvy shirt and stood at parade-rest in front of the chief’s desk. “Where’s Snyder?” The chief asked.

  Smitty began to s
ay he didn’t know when Snyder came through the door. He came to parade-rest next to Smitty.

  The chief pointed to the bag. “About what time was this discovered?”

  “Oh-three-thirty, Chief,” Snyder replied. “I walked into berthing to find O’Brian and...

  The chief held up his hand. “What I want to know, gentlemen, is how, on your watch, did someone get in this barracks?” The tenor of his voice kept building. “This is at best a serious breach of security... again. Smitty, I want the Quarterdeck log.”

  Smitty didn’t move.

  “NOW!”

  Smitty bolted out the door. The chief leaned back in his chair. Neither he nor Snyder spoke until Smitty returned. He handed over the log, already open to the night-watch entries.

  “The last time you made rounds was oh-three-hundred?” He looked at Snyder.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Nothing, Chief. It was very dark. I could have walked past it I guess.”

  “Did you see anything, anywhere? Any unsecured doors, windows, anything?”

  “No, nothing Chief.”

  “It rained last night. I want you to walk this building and check every egress and ingress point.”

  “Egress, Chief?”

  “Every door, window or hole where someone could get in or out, SNYDER! If someone came in, mud prints would have been left. Smitty, did you leave the Quarterdeck for any reason?”

  Smitty thought for a few seconds. “ Just once to make a head call. Snyder stood my place.”

  “I don’t see it in the log.”

  “I didn’t know...”

  “I don’t care if you have to step in the closet to fart, you log it. If a damn cockroach makes it past you, you log it. Do you hear me, gentlemen?”

  “Yes sir,” they said simultaneously.

  “What time did you take the leak?”

  “About three-ten or three-fifteen.”

  “You had to have passed through the spot where this bag was found. What did you see?”

  “Nothing Chief.” Snyder shook his head.

  “Nothing. Nothing at three. Nothing at three-fifteen. So some time between three-fifteen and three-thirty this bag appeared out of nowhere with a sheet of paper having some pregnant woman’s name on it? Who actually found it?”

  “O’Brian and Clayborn, Chief.” Snyder said. “They were arguing over it when I walked in.”

  “Get them in here. You two take off and check for mud prints or anything else out of order. And return this to the Quarterdeck.” Chief Savage handed the log to Smitty. Several minutes later O’Brian and Clayborn were standing before the chief.

  “Give me the story on this thing, gentlemen,” the chief ordered, pointing at the bag.

  “Not much to talk about, Chief,” Clayborn spoke up. “O’Brian here discovered it and I was just trying to help him read the name on the paper in the dark.”

  The chief looked at O’Brian. “Well? We don’t keep any secrets here.”

  “Ah, I woke up and had to take a piss bad. I tripped on the bag. It was sitting dead middle of the floor.”

  “You didn’t see or hear anything else?”

  “No, Chief.”

  “No, Chief.”

  When Snyder and Smitty reported back that nothing had been found, Chief Savage directed Petty Officer Polk to march the men to the mess hall. He couldn’t get this lady, Anne, and her bag out of his mind. He walked the barracks himself and found no more than the men did. After morning quarters, he caught the Doc and briefed him on the night’s event.

  “What’s in the bag, chief?”

  “I don’t know, Doc. I’m not accustomed to snooping in a lady’s personal effects.”

  “All right. I’ll stop by in about an hour and we’ll go through it together.”

  At 0910 the chief heard, “Attention on Deck!” Several seconds later, Doctor Martin stepped into his office. Chief Savage stood and the Doc said, “Okay, where is this mystery bag?”

  The chief reached behind him and lifted the bag onto his desk. “As I told you this morning, Doc, I would have just sent this over to Mrs. Waring at Roper, but, as you can see, this bag is unusual.”

  The bag was black and green, about three feet long by a foot high and a foot wide. There were three zipper pockets; two had mesh see-through netting. There was also a smaller mesh pocket with an odd-looking tie string. The Doc opened each pocket, closely analyzing the zipper construction as he did so. One was actually a double pocket, which is a pocket on the outside of another pocket. This one said PERFORMANCE on the outside.

  The chief felt the bag. “Have you ever felt anything like this before, Doc?”

  Lieutenant Martin didn’t say anything, but shook his head as he fingered the handle. The handle was made up of two straps attached at the corners of the bag, and connected with a heavier material to create a handhold. He toyed with this, discovering that it came apart, sounding like ripping material, and that it could be pressed back together. The two men looked at each other with raised eyebrows. He separated the two straps which then fell away allowing access to a large zipper compartment. A much longer strap was attached at both ends of the bag with some type of metal like clips. It easily lay to the side. The compartment had two zippers, sitting back to back. One could grab both and pull in opposite directions around an oval, creating a large opening.

  “What do you want, O’Brian?” The chief noticed Seaman O’Brian standing in his doorway.

  “Ah, ah,” O’Brian had been watching for most of a minute and momentarily forgot what he came for. “Ah, Chief. Polk needs a chit to draw paint supplies.”

  The chief poked around on his desk, lifted the bag and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here.”

  O’Brian stepped in, pausing to glance at the open bag, then turned and headed out the door.

  “O’Brian.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Close the door.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The door started to close. “O’Brian.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I’m a chief petty officer, O’Brian. You call me, Chief. You call the Lieutenant here, Sir.”

  “Yes, Sir... ah, chief.” He closed the door.

  Chief Savage looked at Lieutenant Martin and shook his head.

  The lieutenant laughed and peered in the bag.

  Chapter 9

  Sunday ~ July 18, 1943

  As Anne awoke, still in a state of half asleep, half awake, memories of a strange dream or series of dreams passed through her internal vision. Dreams about strange men in uniforms and a rabbit and her husband’s old truck and old cars and a strange hospital that understood nothing she said and giving birth. She lay in warm, comfortable silence for a time until awareness of her surroundings, along with the realization that the dreams were not dreams at all, started to become clear.

  A RABBIT!

  She attempted to sit up, and fell back when her muscles screamed their pain. She maneuvered to the edge of the bed, and then cautiously rolled herself to a sitting position.

  What was there about a rabbit? I saw a rabbit and then what?

  Looking around she saw that there was no window, or rather the window was covered with a large, dark curtain. There was one other bed in the room containing a sleeping form. There was very little else. The only light was coming from the door, which was slightly ajar. She recalled more details about the labor, about giving birth to Elizabeth Anne, and began feeling an urgent need to find her. She stood slowly, apprehensive about how steady she was going to be, but found herself much stronger than she expected. She stretched out some of the pain, then shuffled toward the crack of light.

  She pulled the door closed behind her as her eyes adjusted to the light, and listened for the cry of a baby to guide her. She heard nothing. She chose a direction and walked until she came upon a nurses’ station. A young nurse was busy writing.

  “Where can I find my baby?”

  The startl
ed nurse looked up, quickly stood, and then came from behind her desk. With sincere concern she said, “You shouldn’t be out of bed, Ma’am. It’s the middle of the night and we can’t disturb the babies.”

  “I really need to see her,” Anne whined. “I need to know she’s okay. I need to hold her and feed her.”

  “It’s five A.M., Ma’am. In two hours we’ll bring your baby to you. Don’t worry. You need to get your sleep and trust that we’ll take good care of her for you. Please go back to bed.” The nurse gently took her arm and waist and turned her toward the direction of her room. After several steps, Anne stopped.

  “I will not go back to my room until I see my baby.” Anne stated. She planted herself firmly in the middle of the passageway and brushed off the nurse’s hand.

  “All right, Ma’am. Why don’t you have a seat over here and I’ll get the night supervisor?”

  Anne allowed herself to be guided to a chair. “Thank you,” was all she said to proclaim her willingness to wait for the supervisor. The young nurse disappeared, leaving Anne alone. From where she sat Anne could see one window, but as in her room, it was covered with a black cloth. Not a black curtain; just a plain black cloth. On the wall adjacent to where she was sitting was a poster depicting a collage of activities. On the left side there were people driving early model cars, plowing fields and working in factories; others sitting around a dining room table. The dress was colorless and worn, children in tattered clothes, women in faded long dresses, men in old work clothes or ill-fitting suits. On the right side of the poster were pictures of soldiers marching, planes flying in formation and sailors in shipboard activities. Emblazoned across the poster were the words “USE IT UP, WEAR IT OUT, MAKE IT DO OR DO WITHOUT.” On a table next to her were several magazines, the top one being “The Saturday Evening Post.” She picked it up, opening to the middle and an article entitled, “Salute the Flag Or Be Expelled, Invalid, Says the Supreme Court.” Anne quickly, half-heartedly scanned the article, nervously trying to pass the time. Expelling school children for not saluting the flag sounded ridiculous, she thought and dropped the magazine back down on the table. She stood and began pacing, keeping herself in the primary vicinity of the nurses’ station.