So that explained who the individual in civilian clothes was. I recalled his hostile attitude toward me. If his superior was my best hope, my chances were dismal, indeed.
“That’s the best hope you can offer me?”
“I’m afraid so,” Parsons replied, “And it’s a slim possibility at best. And that’s only if you stick to the account in your confession. If you beginning referring to travel in a time machine, he will regard you as a lunatic and favor the death penalty.”
“But it’s true, Commander!” I insisted, “I did come here from the future in a time machine! I can show you the machine! It’s here!”
Parsons looked around the small cell, then shook his head sorrowfully. “Not here in this cell!” I screamed. “I mean here on Oahu! It’s not two miles from this base! I concealed it in a clearing next to a creek. Just take me there and I’ll show you! It’s there behind a tavern on the main road from the base to Honolulu.”
The commander, who had assumed a slightly less sorrowful attitude when he mentioned Admiral Stafford, resumed his former demeanor. “I can appreciate Lieutenant just how much you want to get out of this cell. In fact, you might even have some hope of escaping. I can assure you that in the faint possibility I can persuade them to let you leave the cell, there will be such heavy security you won’t have the slightest chance of escaping.”
“Damn it, Commander!” I said, “There is a time machine. Just get me the chance to show you!”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll do what I can. Even if tomorrow is the only day we have to prepare our defense. If you want to spend it on a wild goose chase, it will be your funeral.”
Parsons sadly arose, stuffed the note bag in his briefcase, and shook my hand. He knocked at the cell door to signal the guards to let him out. In response, a marine guard opened it. Before closing the door after Parsons, the guard placed a metal food tray on the door, watching me warily as he did so.
I gathered that the food on the tray constituted my lunch. The fare looked very similar to what I had been given for breakfast. In addition to the previous metal mug of coffee, there were the usual two slices of white bread and a bruised apple replacing the breakfast banana.
The coffee was cold, suggesting that the food tray had remained outside undelivered pending Parsons’ departure from the cell. However, I was pleasantly surprised when picking up one of the slices of bread to find beneath it a small piece of American cheese.
Completing the lunch, I wondered how to occupy my time until I heard again from my defense counsel. I dragged my bed over to the wall by the window and stood on it. Through the window I could see a small part of the quadrangle, primarily the grass-covered parade ground. It was not much of a view, but it was better than staring at the cell walls.
After my legs grew tired from standing on the bed, I sat down and amused myself by doing mathematical calculations in my head. I also prayed as hard as I could for Parsons to be successful in gaining approval for me to prove I had a time machine. If only he could show that to the court martial, I had a reasonable chance of being acquitted.
Sometime later, I heard the sound of my cell door being opened. I leapt to my feet, thinking Parsons had returned. Instead it was a marine guard, who left a manila envelope on the floor.
Picking it up, I saw the envelope was addressed to Lieutenant Maynard Snodgrass. My defense counsel was the sender. Surprised that Parsons should be sending me something in this way, I opened the envelope and found it contained that afternoon’s copy of a Honolulu paper.
It was impossible to overlook the headline which covered the entire top of the front page. In bold letters it screamed “Rogue Officer Sinks Three Japanese Carriers.” My heart sank as I read further. “Japan and the United States,” the story beneath it began, “Are teetering on the brink of war today as a result of the sinking of three Japanese aircraft carriers by the American battleship Nevada in the early morning of December 8th.”
The story went on to term the sinkings in international waters an act of “piracy”’ and a “cowardly surprise attack by the government of the United States. The Japanese government,” it added, “Warned last night that Japan will implement the ‘strongest possible retaliation’ unless Washington issues a formal apology, provides suitable compensation, and immediately punishes those individuals responsible.”
Clipped to the newspaper was a brief handwritten note from Parsons. “I regret to report that this story accurately reflects the general attitude of the American public and of official circles in Washington and Honolulu.”
When I finished reading the newspaper, I felt a sense of utter despair. Was it possible, I wondered, that I had somehow blundered into an alternative time track in which Japan had not attacked Pearl Harbor? If so, I was a monster only slightly less horrible than Hitler; I was responsible for thousands of unnecessary deaths, not only among the Nevada’s crew but also for the more than four thousand Japanese sailors reported lost in the three carriers the Nevada had sunk.
I shook my head in confusion. This wasn’t logical! If Japan was not planning to attack Pearl Harbor, what was the carrier task force doing so close to Hawaii, virtually at the spot I expected to find it? I was reassured until my mind provided an answer. The Japanese had been ready to attack Pearl Harbor, but had desisted when the peace negotiations under way in Washington had been successful.
My thinking became increasingly feverish as I tried to find the correct answer to my conundrum. Sounds at the door announcing the arrival of my dinner tray provided a welcome distraction.
The evening meal was very similar to the two meals that had proceded it. In addition to the mug of coffee were two slices of white bread. The only concession to the fact that it was dinner was a plate containing a piece of meat. The meat resembled what was jocularly referred to by the students in my college cafeteria as “mystery meat.”
I decided to try the coffee first. If weak, it was at least hot. I turned to the meat. It was covered with gravy. On balance, it looked edible.
The problem was how to eat it. The only implement on the tray was a metal spoon. I assumed that a metal knife and fork were withheld from the inmates to lessen the likelihood of suicide or of an assault on the guards. I wondered why a relatively harmless plastic knife and fork had not been provided until I realized that plastics had not yet been invented in 1941.
Using the spoon and my fingers, I successfully if messily finished my dinner. To avoid further pointless agitation, I began pacing my small cell as rapidly as possible to keep from thinking about my situation. The confines were so small that I had to change direction constantly. My efforts could hardly be called exercise, but the need to constantly stop and turn provided a mental diversion.
Eventually, I grew weary and decided to try and sleep. The ever-shining light bulb and the hardness of the bed bothered me far more than on the previous night, but eventually I dozed off while solving complex calculus problems in my head.
The next morning found me awake early and pacing my cell until the breakfast tray arrived. The fare was a repeat of what I had been served on the previous day. I finished it trying hard not to dwell on the quality of the fare and resumed my pacing.
Without a wristwatch, I had no idea of the time. When I heard the cell door opened, I assumed that it was for my lunch tray, despite the fact that it seemed like only a short time since my breakfast tray had been removed. Instead, two marines entered the cell, followed by Commander Parsons.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said, “I was able to obtain permission to go with you to the spot you say you left your time machine. Are you sure you really want to waste the day this way? I’d much prefer to work with you to prepare our case?”
“Thank you, Commander,” I answered, “You’re a life saver. I know you don’t believe I have I time machine, but I’ll take you to it. I’ll even show you how it works, if you like.”
“You won’t try and escape, will you?” he asked lugubriously, “I had to give my wo
rd of honor as an officer that you wouldn’t.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be meek as a lamb while I’m out with you.”
I stood ready to leave the cell, but one of the marines restrained me. “You’ll have to put your hands behind you, Lieutenant,” he said, “We’re under orders not to let you out of the cell unless you’re wearing handcuffs.”
“Sorry about that, Lieutenant,” Parsons said. “It was one of the conditions I had to accept in order to get permission for you to leave your cell.”
Reluctantly, I put my hands behind my back and permitted the marines to put the handcuffs on me. When they had finished, I left the cell, sandwiched between the two marines. Parsons followed in the rear.
In comparison with the harsh handling I had received on my arrival, my treatment by the marines was relatively pleasant. I was not shoved or prodded and was permitted to walk at a slower pace to accommodate the fact I was handcuffed.
When we climbed the stairs to the first floor and reached the lobby of the building, we were met by a marine captain who greeted Parsons. “He understands,” the captain said pointing to me, “What will happen if he attempts to escape?”
The mournful expression returned to my defense counsel’s face.
“I didn’t mention it downstairs, Lieutenant, because I know you have no intention of trying to escape. But if you did try anything, the guards have orders to shoot you.”
“Thanks, Commander,” I said dryly.
We left the building, descended the stairs past the marine sentries, and I was helped into the back seat of a military car. Wedged in between the two marines, I had little room to move. Parsons and the marine captain took their places in the front seat next to the marine driver, and the car started off.
To my surprise, we drove only about fifty yards before the car pulled off and stopped at the curb in front of one of the large barracks. The marine captain got out of the car and entered the building.
I noticed a large truck parked in front of us. Turning around, I saw a similar vehicle pull up and park behind us.
“What are we waiting for?” I asked Parsons.
“For our security escort,” he said. His manner indicated he didn’t wish to continue the conversation. There was no point in irritating him. I took the opportunity to look around me.
The quadrangle was filled with numerous formations of marines. Some were practicing short order drill. Near us, a group of recruits was receiving instruction in saluting. Outside the barracks, marines in fatigues were sweeping the side walk. On the balconies I could see several washing the windows.
I ceased my observations when I saw out of the corner of my eye the marine captain leaving the barracks. He was accompanied by a marine lieutenant. Behind them followed two lines of marines, all carrying rifles.
As I watched, about fifteen of the marines climbed into the truck parked in front of us. A similar group walked past us and climbed into the truck behind. The marine captain got back into the front seat and our convoy started off, our vehicle between the two trucks.
We stopped at the gate of the base gate, where the marine sentries were carefully examining each vehicle entering or departing the naval base. When we received permission to leave, the convoy drove up to the intersection of the highway and stopped.
“We’re at the highway,” Parsons said. “Which way shall we go Lieutenant?”
Following my directions, the convoy turned toward Honolulu. As we drove on, I carefully scrutinized the left side of the road, searching for the tavern.
“There it is!” I shouted as the car passed it. At Parsons’ order, the driver signaled to the trucks with his horn and then pulled over to the side of the road. The truck in front pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. When traffic permitted, it made a U-turn and turned into the tavern’s parking lot.
No sooner had it stopped, than the marines jumped out of the truck and began a thorough search of the tavern’s immediate area, including the nearby shrubbery. At the same time, some of the group split off from the others and followed the marine lieutenant into the tavern, their rifles at the ready. After some minutes, the lieutenant came out of the tavern and signaled that it was safe for us to proceed.
At the order of the marine captain in the front seat, our driver made a U-turn and turned into the tavern parking lot, stopping along side of the marine truck. We were followed by the second truck, which parked on our other side.
As marines with their rifles formed a picket line encircling the parked vehicles, Parsons got out of the car and motioned the marine sitting next to me to open the rear window.
“Lieutenant,” he said, “You’d better give me directions as to where you want me to search.”
“Sir,” I said, “Why can’t I and lead you to it? It would save a lot of time.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant. You have to stay in the car. It was one of the conditions I agreed to.”
I was about to protest, then thought better of it. In great detail, I explained to Parsons where the clearing was in relation to the tavern and to the brook.
“If it’s there, we’ll find it,” he said. I promise you that.” I watched as he headed off to the rear of the tavern, followed by the lieutenant and half of the marines.
Time crept by as I sat in the rear seat between the two marines. The marine captain never took his eyes of me. Around us, the perimeter of marines maintained constant vigilance against a possible attack to free me.
After what seemed an eternity, Parsons reappeared and came up to the car. He looked sweaty and exhausted, his uniform covered with brambles. “Lieutenant,” he said, We have searched every inch of that area. I swear to you, it just isn’t there.”
“It’s got to be there!” I insisted. “Please, for the love of God, let me show you! I won’t escape. You know that.”
My desperation somehow convinced him. “What do you say, Captain?” he said, “Can’t we let Snodgrass show us where he wants us to look. The man’s life is at stake. He deserves a fighting chance.”
The captain shook his head. “You know my orders, Commander.”
“Captain,” I implored. “Have your men keep loaded rifles pointed at me. If I make the slightest questionable move, have them fire. If you were in my shoes, you’d like the chance to prove your innocence.”
“All right,” he said reluctantly to Parsons. “I’ll let him go down to the creek. I’ll go with you. But I warn you. If there’s any trickery, I’ll shoot him myself.
The marines helped me out of the car. Still handcuffed and surrounded by marines, I walked past the tavern to the hill and began the descent through the woods to the creek, followed by Parsons and the captain. It was awkward going with my hands cuffed behind me and several times I stumbled and fell.
As the marines helped me back to my feet, I was conscious of loaded rifles constantly aimed at me. God help me from being shot by mistake, I thought, if one of those marines trips.
I was grateful when we reached the relatively level creek bank and I could walk along it. The woods along the creek looked different in daylight from the way they had at night and I feared I might be heading in the wrong direction.
Then I spotted the clearing where I had concealed the time machine.
“This is the spot!” I cried, starting to run toward it until one of the marines grabbed me by the shoulder to restrain me. I turned to Parsons and the Captain. “Help me find it,” I shouted with exuberance.
Parsons joined me. “We searched this area,” he said, “And found nothing.”
“It’s covered with branches and pieces of shrubbery,” I explained, “Let me show you.”
I quickly surveyed the area. The pile of shrubbery covering the time machine was nowhere to be seen. More slowly now I retraced my steps, searching every possible hiding place. Again, I could not find the time machine. I turned to Parsons and the marine captain, who were at my heels.
“It has to be here,” I insisted.
“Then where is it?�
� asked Parsons in a sorrowful voice.
“Look!” I shouted, spotting something at the edge of the clearing. I ran to it. “There,” I said pointing, “That’s the shrubbery and branches I used to cover the time machine.”
“Then where’s the machine?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Possibly somebody found it and removed it.”
I realized it was a lame excuse as soon as I said it. Parsons shook his head. “How large did you say your machine was?”
“About six feet high. Possibly eight feet long and six feet wide.”
“I imagine it weighed quite a bit.”
“Something like three hundred pounds. I used aluminum where I could to reduce the weight.”
“There’s no sign,” said Parsons, “That anything heavy was dragged from this spot. You know, Lieutenant,” he added lugubriously, “You really had me believing for a minute that you had a machine hidden here.”
I didn’t know what to say. As I tried to think of something, the marine captain interrupted my thoughts. “We’ve wasted enough time,” he said. “Let’s get back to the car.”
Without protest, I permitted the marines to turn me around. Trailed by Parsons and the marine captain, I then docilely climbed the hill to the tavern, a marine at either side, and got into the rear seat of the car. All the while, I tried to think of some explanation for the disappearance of my time machine.
I had no doubt that the clearing I had searched was the one in which I had left the time machine. The pile of shrubbery and branches I had used to cover the machine was proof of that. At the same time, I had to admit that Parsons was correct: there was no indication that the machine had been dragged from the spot.
The only possible solution was that someone had found the apparatus, climbed inside, and somehow managed to start the motor and fly it, whether through time or geographically or both. The error was clearly mine; I had foolishly neglected to install any lock on the door or in the ignition switch.
I sat silently as our convoy left the tavern parking lot and drove back to the navy base. It was clear my life was finished. Even if by some miracle I was not found guilty and executed, without the time machine I was hopelessly trapped in 1941, without friends or resources.
My Troubles With Time Page 14
