The Gate of Time
Philip Jose Farmer
Philip Jose Farmer
The Gate of Time
A year after the war, my publisher sent me to Stavanger, Norway, to interview Roger Two Hawks. I had full authority to negotiate a contract with him. The terms were very favorable, especially when the lack of printing facilities and distribution of that postwar period is considered. I had asked for the assignment, since I had heard so much about Roger Two Hawks. Most of the stories were incredible, even contradictory yet my informants swore to the truth of their testimonies.
So high-pitched was my curiosity, I would have quit my job and gone on my own to Norway if my publisher had refused me. And this was at a time when jobs in my field were not easy to get. Rebuilding our destroyed civilization was the foremost goal; craftsmanship in steelworking or bricklaying was more desired than facility with the pen.
Nevertheless, people were buying books, and there was a worldwide interest in the mysterious stranger, Roger Two Hawks. Everyone had heard of him, but those who had known him well were either dead or missing.
I booked passage on an old steamer that took five days to get to Stavanger. I did not even wait to check in at the hotel, since it was late evening. Instead, I asked directions, in my abominable Norwegian, to the hotel at which I knew Two Hawks was staying. I had tried to get reservations there with no success.
The taxi fare was very high, since fuel was still being rationed. We drove through many dark streets with unlit gaslights. But the front of the hotel was brightly illuminated, and the lobby was crowded with noisy and laughing guests, still happy about having lived through the war.
I asked the desk clerk for Two Hawks’ room and was told that he was in the ballroom, attending a large party given by the mayor of Stavanger.
I had no trouble locating Roger Two Hawks, since I had seen many photographs of him. He stood at one corner of the room, surrounded by men and women. I pushed my way through them and soon stood near him. He was a tall well-built man with a handsome, although aquiline, face. His hair was a dark brown; his skin was dark although not much darker than that of some of the Norwegians present. But his eyes were unexpectedly grey, as cool and grey as a winter Icelandic sky. He was holding a drink of Norland in one hand and chatting away with frequent flashings of his white teeth. His Norwegian was no better than mine, that is, fluent but heavily accented and not always grammatically acceptable. Beside him stood a beautiful blonde whom I also recognized from photographs. She was his wife.
When a short pause came in the conversation, I took the opportunity to introduce myself. He had heard of me and my visit, of course, because both my publisher and myself had corresponded with him. His voice was a deep rich baritone, very pleasant and at the same time confidence-inspiring.
He asked me how my trip was, and I told him that it was endurable. He smiled and said, “I had begun to think that your publisher had changed his mind and you weren’t coming after all. Apparently, the wireless had also broken down on your ship.”
“Everything did,” I said. “The vessel was used for coastal shipping during the war and was bombed at least four times. Some of the repairs were pretty hasty and done with shoddy materials.”
“I’m leaving Norway in two days,” he said abruptly. “That means that I can give you about a day and a half. I’ll have to tell you the story and depend on you to get it right. How’s your memory?”
“Photographic,” I replied. “Very well. But that means that neither of us will get much sleep. I’m tired, but I’d like to start as soon as possible. So...?”
“Right now. I’ll tell my wife we’re going up to my room and I’ll be a moment explaining to my host.”
Five minutes later, we were in his room. He put on a big pot of coffee while I got the contract and my pen and notebook out. Then he said, “I really don’t know why I’m doing this. Perhaps I’d like... well, never mind. The point is, I need money and this book seems to be the easiest way to get it. Yet, I may not come back to collect any royalties. It all depends on what happens at the end of my voyage.”
I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. With one of the quick yet fluid motions characteristic of him, he left my side and strode across the room to a large table. On it was a globe of the world, a prewar model that did not show the change in boundaries that had taken place in the past year.
“Come here a moment,” he said. “I want to show you where my story begins.”
I rose and went to his side. He turned the globe slowly, then stopped it. With the point of a pencil, he indicated a spot on the land a little to the left of the central western shore of the Black Sea.
“Ploesti, Rumania,” he said. “That’s where I’ll begin. I could start much further back, but to do that would take time which we don’t have. If you have any questions about my story before then, you’ll have to insert them whenever you get the chance. However, I have a manuscript which outlines my life before I went on the mission against the oil-fields of Ploesti.”
“Ploesti, Rumania?” I said.
“Ploesti, the great oil-producing and refining heart of Deutschland’s new empire. The target of the 9th Air Force, based in Cyrenaica, North Africa. It took five years of war before the Americans could launch an attack against the lifeblood of Germany’s transportation and military effectiveness. Overloaded with bombs, ammunition, and gasoline, 175 four-motored bombers set out to destroy the oil tanks and refineries of Ploesti. We did not know that it was called Festung Ploesti, Fortress Ploesti, that the greatest concentration of anti-aircraft guns in Europe ringed that city. Nor would it have made much difference if we had known, except that we might not have been so shocked when we found out.
“I was first pilot on the Hiawatha; my co-pilot was Jim Andrews. He was from Birmingham, Alabama, but the fact that I was part Iroquois Indian didn’t seem to bother him any. We were the best of friends.”
He stopped, then smiled, and said, ‘By the way, you are looking at Ye Compleat Iroquoian. I have ancestors from every existing Iroquois tribe, including great-grandparents from the Iroquoian-speaking Cherokees. But my father was part Icelandic and my mother was part Scotch.”
I shrugged and said, to explain my blank look, “Can I expect to get some explanation of this from the manuscript you spoke of?”
“Yeah, sure. Anyway...”
1
The mission leader of the group had taken the wrong turn at Targoviste. Instead of heading for Ploesti, the Circus was going toward Bucharest. First Lieutenant Two Hawks realized the error and, like some of the other pilots, he disobeyed orders by breaking radio silence. There was no reply from the mission leader, who steadfastly kept on the wrong road. Then, far to their left, Two Hawks saw a smudge in the mist and knew that this had to be smoke from burning refineries. Other groups had gotten to the correct destination, and had released their bombs.
He looked at the lead bomber and wondered if the colonel had also seen the telltale smoke. Suddenly, the lead plane turned at right angles to the course and headed toward the smoke. Two Hawks, with the others, turned his plane in a maneuver so tightly executed that formation was maintained as strictly as before. The Hiawatha, engines straining to push at two hundred and forty- five mph, swept at only fifty feet above the ground. Sections of high green corn, alfalfa, and sheafs of wheat in gleaming stubble flashed below him. Ahead of the group, out of the smoke, the cables and elephantine bodies of barrage balloons hovered. Some were rising from the ground, and those at a high altitude were being pulled down to counter the low altitude attack.
Two Hawks felt dismay, although he did not say anything to Andrews. The planes were coming in from the wrong direction, so that all the weeks of intensive briefing on identific
ation of targets was wasted. Approaching from this angle would make everything unrecognizable.
The road to Ploesti was twenty-five miles long and took five minutes to cover. Long before the end of the goal was reached, the Germans sprung the trap. Sides of haystacks exploded to reveal 20 mm. and 37 mm. guns. The freight cars on the railway sidings fell apart, and the 37 mm. cannons previously hidden began to flash. The fields themselves suddenly exposed pits containing madly firing machine guns. Ahead, 88 mm. and 105 mm. monsters, firing pointblank with short-fused shells, made the air a white-and-black gauntlet. The red business for which the attackers and defenders had prepared so long was now begun.
The Hiawatha shuddered at the burst of the great shells and then trembled as her own gunners opened fire on the AA batteries with their twin .50s. The air was woven with a drunken pattern of tracers and poignettes, so thickly intertwined it seemed that no aircraft could get through without being struck many times. The uproar was ear-shattering with the bellow of 134 14-cylinder motors, explosions from 88s fired only a few yards away, the shock of shrapnel blasts, and the insane chatter of the two hundred and thirty machine guns in the B-24s themselves.
Roger Two Hawks kept formation and the fifty-foot height from the ground, but he also managed sidelong flicks of his gaze. To one side, on a crossroad, the muzzle of an 88 flashed, and he could see the dark blurred bulk of the projectile flying towards its rendezvous. He pushed the wheel forward and dived a little, dropping to within twenty feet of the hurtling ground. The shell went harmlessly by.
Refinery tanks exploded ahead, Himalayas of flame arose, and he eased the Hiawatha back to fifty feet. It shook as a shell struck the tail but kept steadily on course instead of diving as he had expected. The tail gunner called in to report that the left aileron and left rudder were gone. The ship to Two Hawks’ right looked as if a huge sword had slashed at it, but it was maintaining formation. The one on the left suddenly staggered, its nose enveloped in smoke, probably from a hit by an 88. It dropped like a hammer, slid burning into the ground, rose upwards in many pieces, and then was enveloped in a huge ball of fire.
Pieces of aluminium and plexiglass, bright in the sun, rode by him. The smoke ahead parted to reveal tanks and towers shrouded in flames; a bomber, on fire, headed towards an untouched tank; another plane began to turn over, its two port engines flaming; a third, also aflame, rose to gain altitude so that its crew could try to parachute. A fourth, to the right, released its bombs, and these plumeted down striking several tanks, all of which exploded into flame; one took the bomber with it. The huge ship, splitting in two, and also cartwheeling, soared out from the smoke and smashed into an untouched tank. This went up with a blast that seized the Hiawatha and hurled it upwards. Two Hawks and Andrews fought the grip of the wind and regained control.
There was a maze of tanks, pipes, and towers ahead. Two Hawks pulled hard on the wheel and sent the Hiawatha upwards to avoid striking the towers. He yelled at Andrews, “Dump the bombs!”
Andrews did not question his decision to make the release instead of waiting for the bombardier. He obeyed, and the plane rose up with increased power as the weight of the great bombs was gone. The end of a tower tore a hole down the center of the Hiawatha’s belly. But she flew on.
O’Brien, the topturret gunner, reported in his thick Irish brogue. “Gazzara’s gone, sir! He and his turret just went down into the smoke.”
“Tail-End Charlie’s gone,” said Two Hawks to Andrews.
“Hell, I didn’t even feel the hit!” Andrews said. “You feel the shell?”
Two Hawks did not reply. He had already sent the Hiawatha down to avoid the murderous barrage above the fifty-foot level. He drove the ship between two tanks which were so close together that only a foot or so of space existed between each wingtip and a tank. But he was forced to bring her up again so fast she seemed to stand on her tail to get over a radio tower, the tip of which was wagging like a dog’s tail from the flak bursts.
Andrews said, “God! I don’t think we can make it!”
Two Hawks did not reply. He was too busy. He banked the plane to lift his right wing and so avoided collision with the top of the tower.
The ship shuddered again; an explosion deafened him. Wind howled through the cockpit. A hole had appeared in the plexiglass in front of Andrews, and he was slumped forward, his face a blur of torn flesh, sheared bone, and spurting blood.
Two Hawks turned the Hiawatha east but, before the maneuver was completed, the ship was struck again in several places. Somebody in the aft was screaming so loudly that he could be heard even above the cacophony outside and the air shrilling through the holes in the skin of the craft. Two Hawks pulled the Hiawatha up at as steep an angle as he dared. Even though he had to go through the fiery lacework ahead, he had to get altitude. With his two port engines on fire and the propeller of the outermost starboard engine blown off, he could not stay airborne much longer. Get as high as possible and then jump.
He had an odd feeling, one of dissociation. It lasted for only two seconds, then it was gone, but during that time he knew that something alien, something unearthly, had occurred. What was peculiar was the sensation that the dissociation was not just subjective; he was convinced that the ship itself and all it contained had been wrenched out of the context of normality—or of reality.
Then he forgot the feeling. The spiderweb of tracers and stars of flak parted for a moment, and he was above it and through it. The roar and crump of the exploding shells were gone; only the wind whistling through the hole in the shield could be heard.
From nowhere, a fighter plane appeared. It came so swiftly, as if out of a trapdoor in the sky, that he had no time to identify it. It flashed by like black lightning, its cannon and machine guns spitting. The two craft were so close that they could not avoid each other; the German flipped one wing and dived to get away. The ship staggered again, this time struck its death blow. The left wing was sheared off; it floated away with the right wing of the German fighter.
A moment later, Two Hawks was free of the Hiawatha. The ground was so close that he did not wait the specified time to pull the ripcord but did so as soon as he thought he was free of the plane. He fell without turning over, and he saw that the city of Ploesti, as he knew it, was no longer there. Instead of the suburbs that had been below him, there were dirt roads, trees, and farms. Ploesti itself was so far away that it was nothing but a pillar of smoke.
Below him, the Hiawatha, now a globe of flame, was falling. The German craft was turning over and over; a hundred yards away from it and a hundred feet above it, the parachute of the flier was unfolding, billowing out. Then his own chute had opened, and the shock of its grip on the air had seized him.
To his left; another man was swinging below his semi-balloon of silk. Two Hawks recognized the features of Pat O’Brien, the topturret gunner. Only two had escaped from the Hiawatha.
2
The snap of the parachute, opening like a sail to catch the wind, made the straps cut into Two Hawks legs. Something popped in his neck, but there was no pain. If anything, he thought briefly, the jerk and the popping of vertebrae had probably been more like an osteopathic treatment and had released tension in his body and straightened out his skeleton.
Then he was examining the terrain swelling below him, the details getting larger but the field of view getting smaller. His chute had opened only two hundred feet above the ground, so he did not have much time for study and very little time to get set for the drop.
The wind was carrying him at an estimated six miles an hour over a solid growth of trees. By the time he came to earth, he would be past it and in a field of cut wheat. Beyond the wheat field was a narrow dirt road running at right angles to him. Trees grew along the road, beyond which was a thatch-roofed cottage, a barnyard, and several small barns. Past the house was a garden surrounded by a log fence. Back of the garden, the trees grew in a single dense file a quarter of a mile wide. An opening in the trees permitted him
to glimpse the darkness of a shadowy creek.
He came down closer to the trees than he had thought he would because there was an unexpected lull in the wind. His feet brushed the top of a tree on the edge of the woods, then he was on the ground and rolling. Immediately, he was up on his feet and going through the required procedure for disentangling himself. The trees stopped whatever wind there might be; the chute had collapsed on the ground.
He unsnapped the straps and began to roll his chute into a ball. O’Brien was doing the same thing. Having collected the silk, Two Hawks picked it up and jogged towards O’Brien, who was running towards him. O’Brien said excitedly, “Did you see those soldiers over to the left?”
Two Hawks shook his head. “No. Were they coming our way?”
“They were on a road at right angles to this one. Must be a main road, although it wasn’t paved. They were too far away for me to get many details. But they sure looked funny.”
“Funny?”
O’Brien removed his helmet. He ran a thick stubby hand, freckled and covered with pale red hairs, through his orange mop. “Yeah. They had a lot of wagons drawn by oxen. There were a couple of cars at the head, but they didn’t look like any cars I ever seen. One was an armored car; reminded me of the pictures of cars like in that old book my Dad had about World War I.”
O’Brien grinned toothily. “You know. The Great War. The Big War. The Real War.”
Two Hawks did not comment. He had heard O’Brien talk about his father’s attitude towards the present conflict.
“Let’s get into the woods and bury this stuff,” he said. “You get a chance to bring any survival stuff with you?”
Two Hawks led the way into the thick underbrush. O’Brien shook his head, “I was lucky to get out with my skin. Did any of the others make it?”
“I don’t think so,” Two Hawks said. “I didn’t see anybody.”
The Gate of Time Page 1
