We proceeded down the gangway to the dock and a waiting military car. In front of it stood a marine officer. Next to him was a man in civilian clothes. The sergeant saluted the officer, who turned to the civilian. The latter said something, apparently issuing orders.
I was pushed onto the rear seat of the car, sandwiched between two of the marines. The civilian got into the front seat. Looking around, I could see the remaining marines get into another car that joined us. The car doors were shut and the procession drove off through a part of the navy base I had not seen before.
After several turns, we entered a large quadrangle. Tropical style four-story barracks, with red tile roofs and balconies lined three sides of the quadrangle. The fourth side of the quadrangle was occupied by a large headquarters building, similar to the barracks, but without any balconies. As we stopped, I could see marine sentries guarding the door.
The marine to right opened his door and got out, pulling me with him. By the time I was out and standing, the other marine and the civilian had joined us. I was prodded up the stone stairs leading to the entrance and through the door.
We were met by a navy captain. He greeted the civilian and the two began a prolonged conversation. Most of their comments were inaudible, but I heard a room number mentioned.
The conversation concluded, we proceeded down the corridor to a large room. It was furnished like a conference room, with a long mahogany table in the center. There was a rug on the floor and draperies on the windows. The only discordant note was the metal bars guarding the windows.
I was pushed into one of the chairs lining the table. My handcuffs were removed. I gingerly massaged my wrists, seeking to restore circulation. The civilian sat down at the head of the table, while the navy captain occupied the only upholstered chair in the room.
Across from me sat a sailor with a pencil in his hand, apparently ready to take a stenographic record of the proceedings.
“All right,” said the civilian facing me. “State your name!”
“Maynard Snodgrass, sir.”
“And your serial number.”
I was uncertain how to respond. My lack of military experience had led me to overlook the need to equip myself with one.
“Lieutenant,” the civilian prompted me, “Your serial number.”
“Let’s proceed,” the captain interrupted. “We can ascertain his serial number later.”
“All right, Lieutenant,” the civilian continued. “You boarded the Nevada on the evening of December 6th?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At about 7:30 on the morning of December 7th, you encountered Commander Lester Travis on deck?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you then pushed him overboard?”
“No, sir. He was leaning to see what seemed to be damage to the hull and fell. I threw him a life preserver.”
“Did you give the alarm or attempt to rescue him?”
“No sir.”
“Why did you fail to take this natural step?”
“I spotted Japanese planes approaching Pearl Harbor. I concluded it was more important to save the Nevada from attack by taking her out to sea than to pull Commander Travis on board. With the life preserver, I assumed he was in no immediate danger.”
“Did you see the Japanese planes attack?”
I pondered how to answer? Possibly it would be better to tell them the true story. I had not actually seen the Japanese planes attack Pearl Harbor. But of course I knew from my history books that they had.
“No, sir,” I answered, “I did not see them attack. Let me tell you the truth.”
The civilian smiled. “At last we’re getting somewhere,” he said to the navy captain.
I recounted everything that had happened, beginning with the fact that I was a physics professor who had traveled from the future back to December 1941 to attack the Japanese carrier task force that had struck Pearl Harbor. The captain and the civilian listened in silence, appearing to follow every word. The stenographer filled one yellow pad with his notes and began writing on a second one.
When I finished, there was a moment of silence in the room.
The captain stood and walked to the window, peering out. Then he turned to me. “Lieutenant,” he said, “That’s the most interesting story I have ever heard. Unfortunately, it is also utter poppycock!”
“But, sir,” I insisted. “It’s all true, every word.”
“Even forgetting the nonsense about the time machine, do you honestly expect me to believe that a physics professor, with no naval experience whatsoever, on his own and without any assistance, impersonated a navy officer, seized control of a United States battleship and took it to sea? Then, to top it off, he managed to find the Japanese fleet hidden in thousands of square miles of open ocean, sank three Japanese aircraft carriers, fought off two enemy battleships and brought the Nevada safely back to Pearl Harbor?”
He turned to the civilian. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think, Captain. That story about a time machine makes me think he is a brilliant, dangerous lunatic. One with enough naval experience to successful carry out his crimes.”
“All, right,” he said, turning to me. “Let’s hear that story again.”
I repeated it, virtually word for word. My throat was getting dry and my headache worse. When I had finished, the captain looked at the civilian.
“We’re getting nowhere. I suggest we adjourn and start again tomorrow.”
With all my heart, I prayed that the civilian would accede to the suggestion. I needed the rest and time to collect my thoughts.
“I don’t think it would be wise, Captain, to give him time to make up a new story. All right,” he said to me, “What’s your serial number?”
“I don’t have one. I’m a physics professor, not a naval officer.”
“How did you manage to acquire the expertise to take the Nevada to sea? When were you in the navy?”
I shook my head. “I never was in the military.”
“All right, then, who on the Nevada helped you? Give me their names! It will go easier on you!”
My exhaustion almost got the better of me. For a moment, I thought of admitting that whatever success I had obtained had been due to the invaluable assistance of Ensigns Stevens and Hunter.
Fortunately, I came to my senses. Such an admission would put those two fine young men in far worse peril than they probably already were in. Straining with every fiber within me to strengthen my resolve I said, “No one helped me. I did it all on my own.”
The civilian involuntarily snapped the pencil he had been holding.
“Damn it, Lieutenant,” he snapped. “Tell me again what happened! From the beginning!”
I shook my head. My headache worse and my throat ached. “I’d like an aspirin and some water.”
“Later! Tell me what happened!”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll confess. Give me a pencil and some paper.”
“Just dictate it to the stenographer.”
“No,” I said. “I prefer to write it myself.”
“Why not take up his offer?” the captain said.
Reluctantly, the civilian ordered the stenographer to hand me a pad and pencil. The sailor did so quickly, eager to rest his hand from his previous uninterrupted note taking.
I took up the pencil and thought for a minute. Then I began writing. Since they refused to believe that I had traveled to Pearl Harbor from the future, I eliminated anything from my account that they would be likely to question, while giving them what they required.
“I Maynard Snodgrass,” I wrote, “Deliberately planned to seize command of the battleship Nevada. I did so under the conviction that Japanese naval aircraft would attack Pearl Harbor early on the morning of December 7th in order to destroy the United States battleships moored there.”
“Successfully passing myself off as a lieutenant assigned to the ‘Nevada,’” I continued, “I boarded the vessel during the
late night of December 6th. The next morning I learned that the lieutenant’s grade I had appropriated was junior to that of one officer on the ship, Lieutenant Commander Lester Travis. I deliberately pushed him off the ship and into the water so that I could take command of the Nevada as the senior officer on board.”
I wondered if I should include the fact that I had thrown Travis a lifesaver. It might, I realized, save myself from being found guilty of attempted murder. After some consideration, I decided against it, concluding that it would carry little weight with my interrogators.
“Under the belief that I was the senior officer on board,” I went on, “The officers and crew executed my orders to cut our moorings and take the Nevada to sea, and subsequently to engage the Japanese carrier task force. My decision to carry out the attack, and to accept the resultant casualties and damage to the ship, was based on my belief that the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7th had inflicted thousands of casualties on the American military personnel stationed there as well as the sinking of numerous United States Navy capital ships.”
When I finished writing, I carefully reread my statement. I could think of no more desirable way of wording it. As the others in the room watched me, I signed my name at the bottom of the statement, dated it, and handed the pad to the civilian.
The captain began to read it, then stood up and walked to where the civilian was seated. Standing behind him, he placed my confession on the table, in front of the civilian. He remained standing, so that he could continue reading over the civilian’s shoulder. They read it jointly. Then, without saying anything, the captain walked back to his chair and sat down.
“What do you think?” he asked softly.
“I think that Snodgrass should now tell us the name of his accomplices!” came the reply. “Who helped you?” he thundered.
“No one. What I wrote is God’s honest truth. Now, please give me some water and an aspirin.”
“Report your account from the beginning!”
It was obvious that any efforts to persuade them of the truth were futile. To occupy my mind, I shut my eyes and began to go over the most complicated physics formulas I could think of. I used my imagination to devise conceivable modifications, created test situations, then solved the problems in my head to see how the results differed from what might have been obtained using the original formulas.
All the while, the civilian pressed me with demands for further admissions, further information. At varying intervals, keeping my eyes closed and ignoring him, I would repeat in a loud voice, “I don’t think, therefore I’m not here.”
Finally, the captain grew weary. “I think we might as well end this nonsense,” he said. “I’m going off to bed. I suggest you put him in a cell and get some rest yourself.” I heard the sound of chairs being moved, of people walking, and of the door being opened. All the while, I resisted the temptation to open my eyes.
Without warning, my chair was moved back and I was jerked to my feet. I opened my eyes and found myself face to the face with the civilian. Two marines stood behind him.
“So you want to play games,” he roared. You’ll find we can play games, too! Put the handcuffs back on him!” he ordered the marines, “And take him to the basement!”
Once more in handcuffs, I was led down the corridor to a staircase and prodded down it. The basement looked dark and ominous. I feared I was about to be given a thorough beating.
Unexpectedly, I was thrust into a room and my tie, belt and shoelaces removed by one of the marines, while the other watched me carefully, ready to subdue me if I resisted.
They then left the room, slamming the door behind them. I looked around me. I was in a small cell, about six feet by eight feet in diameter. There were bars on the tiny window, whose top touched the ceiling. On the opposite wall was a door with a small peephole, which allowed jailers to scrutinize the person confined within.
I gratefully sat down on the cell’s narrow bed. The mattress felt even harder than the cot on the Nevada’s bridge. Across from the bed was a toilet and sink. The cell stank of disinfectant.
Stretching out on the bed, I covered myself with the rough khaki-colored blanket. There was no top sheet or pillow. I thought of asking for them, but decided the effort would probably be useless. My search for a switch to turn off the bright electric bulb embedded in a recess in the ceiling was unsuccessful. No matter. I was so exhausted I quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning I was awakened by the sound of my cell door being closed. I looked toward it and saw a metal tray on the floor. Getting up from the bed, I felt stiff and sore all over, but at least my headache was gone.
Light streamed into the cell from the tiny window. I started to look at my wristwatch to ascertain the time and found it was not on my wrist. A quick search of my cell failed to uncover it. Apparently, it had fallen off during one of the occasions when my handcuffs were put on or removed.
I gathered that the food on the tray was intended by my jailers to be breakfast. It represented no effort on their part to overfeed the prisoners, consisting of a metal mug of a coffee-colored liquid, two pieces of white bread, and a banana, much the worse for wear.
My hunger overcame my resentment and I forced myself to finish the food. The coffee, using the term loosely, was at least hot if watery. I then sat back down on the bed and wondered when I would be subjected to further interrogation.
I found the loss of my watch annoying. Every few minutes I attempted to look at it, before remembering that the watch was not there. After an indeterminate amount of time, I heard the noise of my cell door being opened. I wondered if it was the jailer to retrieve the breakfast tray or the marines, sent to bring me back for further questioning.
Through the door walked a naval officer wearing the insignia of a Lieutenant Commander. He was tall and slender, with narrow shoulders and a pronounced stoop. On his face was the saddest expression I had ever seen.
His physical appearance appeared nearly as dismal as my own. I wondered if perhaps his life was as unrewarding.
“Good morning, Lieutenant Snodgrass,” he greeted me, with a manner so grave that it would have been the envy of any undertaker. “I am Randolph Parsons, your defense counsel.”
“My defense counsel? Why do I need a defense counsel?”
I am sorry to inform you Lieutenant,” he answered, “That your court martial starts the day after tomorrow. You have been charged with mutiny, piracy, murder, attempted murder, and the misappropriation of government property. They showed me the confession you signed last night and in my opinion you have admitted you are guilty of all of those charges.”
“Of course,” he continued, with a hopeful look on his face, “You can choose some other officer to serve as defense counsel. In fact, you can select a civilian attorney. There are many good ones in Honolulu. I would be happy to recommend several to you.”
“I am certain, Commander,” I replied, “That you will do a fine job as my defense counsel.”
The hopeful expression vanished. It was replaced by one even more lachrymose than before. He seated himself on my bed and took out a pad from his briefcase.
“Perhaps we should begin with your explanation of what happened. You have no objection if I take notes?”
“None, sir,” I said, “Would you like me to tell you the truth?”
“By all means, Lieutenant.”
Taking Parsons at his word, I related to him all that had occurred since I made the decision to travel back to December 1941 Pearl Harbor in the time machine. He listened intently, occasionally making notes on his pad.
When I finished, he put down the pad and looked at me. “I assume, Lieutenant, that you have told me this story as the basis for a defense based on temporary insanity. I am afraid that business about a time machine would prejudice the members of the court martial against you.”
“I would suggest,” he continued, his expression becoming even sadder, “Without in any way advising you of what y
our testimony should be, that you stick to the text of the confession you signed. Your stated belief in the inevitability of a Japanese attack on Battleship Row on December 7th might serve as the basis for a defense based on irresistible urge. Not of course, that it would do any good.”
“Commander,” I said. “I realize my chances of being found innocent are slim. But don’t you think that as my defense counsel you should display some interest in defending me.”
Parsons face became so melancholy, I thought that he was about to break into tears. “You misunderstand, Lieutenant. I really intend to perform my function as your defense counsel to the best of my ability. But the decision has already been made that you will be convicted.”
“I haven’t been tried yet,” I almost shouted. “How can you say that?”
“The trial will be a formality, Lieutenant. The Chief of Intelligence is an old family friend. He told me off the record that the Japanese Government has interpreted the Nevadas’ attack as deliberate. Unless a formal American apology is delivered to Tokyo and the person or persons responsible are convicted and executed before the end of the week, Japan will declare war.”
“You mean…?”
“Precisely. Whatever you or I say at the court martial, you will be found guilty. The United States does not wish to go to war, particularly with the situation in Europe so unsettled. Your only chance is Admiral Stafford.”
“Admiral Stafford?”
“Admiral Richard Stafford will be the presiding officer on your court martial. He is not going to disobey orders to find you guilty, particularly with the evidence so strong against you. However, I have heard him say privately that he believes some day the United States will go to war with Japan for supremacy over the Pacific. If he is convinced that your actions were motivated by the delusion Japan would attack Pearl Harbor on December 7th, he might agree to a sentence of life imprisonment and persuade a majority of the other members to go along with him. He had one of his aides, an officer of the Navy Security Service, take part in your initial interrogation”
My Troubles With Time Page 13
