by M. L. Maki
TENNESSEE WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY, ATHENS, TENNESSEE
1100, 6 November, 1942
Members of the Stone Mountain football team and a few of their classmates, wearing shorts and jerseys, stand in a circle around Samantha Hunt. “Okay, this is how this works. We’ll warm up, then do push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. Do as many as you can in two minutes. I’ll be doing them with you and the coach will run the clock. We partner and count for each other. Once we complete all three sets, we do a mile and a half run. The requirement is nine minutes. That’s a six-minute mile, which is very doable. Last, we’ll do the 500-yard swim. I’ll be doing all these exercise with you. I’ve run the mile and a half tons of times. I’ll try to set an eight-minute time, so you can get an idea of your pace. Are we ready?”
In unison, they yell, “Yes, ma’am.”
The team running back, a guy named Wes Turner, says, “No disrespect, ma’am, but we’re going to wax you.”
She smiles and shrugs, “I’m not the one being tested. Let’s begin.”
Most of them can do at least one hundred push-ups. They crank them out as fast as they can, then struggle at the end. Sam smoothly does a hundred push-ups, then stands, and swings her arms to keep them loose. David, her partner, paces himself better and manages a hundred and ten. Jason McLain, the full back, pumps out one hundred and eighty.
Next is the sit-ups. Most are gasping at fifty. A few manage seventy-five. McLain does ninety-three, and just keeps going. David gets in eighty. Sam smoothly does a hundred. When she’s done, she rolls over and does the Cobra pose, stretching her abdominals. The others seeing what she’s doing, mimic her.
At the pull-up bar, the first guy puts his palms toward himself. Sam says, “Hold on. Palms away.” She illustrates. “You want twenty.” There are only two bars, so they cycle through. She calmly cranks out thirty. All do ten or more. David does twenty-two. McLain cranks out fifty like they’re nothing. Sam smiles, “Okay, shake it off as we walk to the track. Jason, you did well.” He blushes.
When they get to the track, Sam asks, “You have the timer, coach?”
“I do. And, start.”
The guys sprint ahead of her. She calmly sets her pace and maintains it, focusing on her breathing. In two laps, she’s passed all of those not on the team, and a few that are. On the last lap, she is ahead of David and behind Wes Turner and McLain. Jason gasps, “Go. Ahead. Wax her.” He’s struggling to keep his breath as she comes alongside him, “Watch.” She breathes to match her stride; two steps in, two steps out. On the last turn, she pours it on in a flat sprint. Wes tries to floor it, and nearly falls.
As Sam crosses the finish line, the coach calls out, “Seven-ten.”
Wes crosses in seven-twenty-five. McLain in seven-thirty, and David in seven-fifty. The entire team runs it within the nine minutes. The slowest runner comes in at over ten minutes.
Sam walks it out, “You don’t waste as much energy if you pace yourself from the beginning to near the end. Then you can blow your remaining energy as a sprint at the end. Now the swim.”
McLain walks beside her to the pool, “Ma’am, how often should I work out to get into shape?”
“Skip days. No more than three or four days a week.”
“How do they swim in the cold?”
“They have special neoprene suits to keep them warm. I like your attitude, Jason. Keep working on it. Remember, the only easy day was yesterday.”
Sam comes out of the locker room wearing a black one-piece suit and walks up to the guys in their swimwear. “Okay guys, five hundred yards in less than eight minutes. You’re allowed to push off. Remember, smooth is fast. Take broad easy strokes.”
Wes says to the others under his breath, “God, she’s a babe.”
McLain glowers at him, “Shut up, man.”
Sam grins, “Thank you, Wes, but I have a guy.” He turns stop sign red. “Okay guys, in the water.” They all slide into the pool. She’s feeling it, but will not admit she’s tired. “You can use any stroke and you can switch strokes. The side stroke is probably the easiest.” She illustrates, then, “Let’s do this. Coach?”
“Begin.”
A lot of these guys are terrible swimmers. She’s the third to finish behind Wes and Jason. David is only a few seconds behind her. She rests for a moment, puts her hands on the side of the pool and lifts herself out of the water and into a hand stand, then walks it out and drops back onto her feet. Jason and Wes stare at her in amazement. She smiles, “I’m getting out of shape.”
Everyone completes the swim, the slowest a lineman who comes in at twelve minutes. Once everyone is showered, they gather around her, “Okay. You guys are all in good shape. The test is hard and it’s the first time you’ve done it. Keep practicing during the rest of the school year. Those of you who want to be SEAL’s, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation. David, I’ll write your aviation letter.”
Wes, “Ma’am, other than David, we all want to be SEAL’s.”
Jason, “Yeah, David wants to go into the family business.”
CHAPTER 18
OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC
1300, 7 November, 1942
Roosevelt is just finishing his lunch when Leahy walks in, “Senator Russell to see you, sir.”
A steward takes his plate and leaves him a fresh glass of water. Roosevelt grimaces, he misses his coffee. He looks up and sighs, “Bring him in. And, Will, please stay.”
“Yes, sir.”
Russell walks in, “Good afternoon, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt stands and walks the few steps to the couch, using his crutches. “Join me, Senator.” Russell sits down on the couch opposite. Leahy remains standing. Roosevelt, “I’ve been canvasing votes, Senator. I’m told you’re the leader of the ‘I hate women’ caucus.”
“Mr. President, I do not hate women. I resent the implication.”
Roosevelt settles back, smiling, “Well then, please explain your position on Commander Hunt.”
“Sir, it’s obvious. It’s pure common sense that women should not be in the armed services. I do not know what deranged lunacy overcame the American people of nineteen ninety, but I will not swerve in my conviction that women belong at home, taking care of the husband and children. They do not belong in combat. Not know. Not ever.”
“You’re a democrat. You’re going to fight me on this?”
“Until my dying breath, sir. I’m right, Mr. President, and you are wrong.”
“So, what should we do with the women who are currently serving our country?”
“I’m told the Navy’s training programs are doing very well and we’ve enough men to fill all billets. I would recommend we thank the women for their service and send them home.”
“Give them medals and send them away?”
“Medals? Hell, no. They shouldn’t get medals. A verbal thank you should be enough. And that is probably too much. Women should never be praised in any way for doing anything outside of their actual place in society. They get ideas, as you can see. They must be kept in line or society disintegrates. You must see that. I’m glad we’re finally talking about this. You must see the sense of it. The idea of women in combat is lunacy.”
“So, what do we do with the millions of women currently in our war factories? Shall I send them home as well?”
“They work for private industry. It would be inappropriate for us to interfere with that at this time. But, once the war is won, they should be sent home. There must be jobs for our brave men who are fighting this war.”
“I see. So as long as we are profiting from their labor, they can work. So, this is really about money.”
Russell reddens, “It is not about money. We have a war to win and we do not have enough men to fight the war and make the materials we need. It’s simple economics. The problem is, these women need to understand their place. A woman’s only use is to be subordinate to men and take care of them. Anything else is outside the natural order.”
“Simple. Deny them a passport and rescind their right to travel. They need to all go back into their homes and do the right thing. Anyway, there isn’t that many of them.”
“There are currently fourteen thousand women serving in the Navy.”
“As I said, not so many. I will submit a bill to repeal the equality acts and save you the loss in the Supreme Court.”
Roosevelt looks down, fighting for control. He looks up, leans forward, and locks his gaze upon Russell’s. “You will do no such thing, Senator. Thank you for your candor on this matter. Do nothing until we discuss this matter further. Your position is in opposition to everything I must do to win this war. Please go.” He passes his hand across his brow.
Russell, “Sir, you can’t mean that. You must understand. We can win this war without the help of women. They’re not worth it. Don’t fight me on this. You will lose. The men of the country will not stand for equality for women. It isn’t right.”
Leahy comes to Russell’s side, “Sir, this way.” He escorts the shocked senator out. He comes back in, “Sir, well played.”
CCC RANCH, DECATUR, TEXAS
1410, 7 November, 1942
Thud and Abigail ride quarter horses on the tractor road cutting through a stand of trees on his family’s ranch. He reaches out for her hand, “I love you.”
“I love you, too. This is heaven.”
“You’re right, you know. It makes sense to apply for your commission after the wedding. I’ll talk to Swede and Sam and Gloria. They’ll write you letters of recommendation.”
“Do you think they’ll mind?”
“No, they won’t. They’ll be happy to help out. Sam’s signature alone will probably swing it, but just in case…” He laughs. “You made it. You’re here. I’m so happy. I love you, Abigail.”
Eyes glinting with mischief, she pulls her horse to a stop, “This beautiful glade will do. Grass and everything.” She giggles. “Off your horse, Frank. Now. This is perfect.” She slides off her mount and starts to strip.
CLYDE’S SMITHY, STONE MOUNTAIN, TENNESSEE
1515, 7 November, 1942
Sam parks Leighs Model A truck beside an International Harvester flatbed truck. She’s sees smoke coming from the smithy’s metal chimney. Hearing the clang of a hammer, she waits until it stops, then knocks. She hears, “Come in.”
“Mr. Turner, my grandfather told me to see you.”
“Aye, he said you’d be over, Commodore Hunt.” A tall big shouldered man in his forties, with a scruff of black beard and wild grey salted hair turns to her.
“Commander.” The shed has hundreds of arcane tools hanging on its three walls. At the open back is large brick forge with an electric blower. Above it is a hood collecting the smoke up the chimney. There are three metal rods sticking out of the fire.
“Well, come in.” He grins, “No sense letting the heat out.”
Sam smiles and closes the door behind her.
“There’s gloves on the bench. Grab the middle iron.” She pulls on the gloves and picks up the middle iron. It’s holding a splayed-out triangle of metal. “On the anvil.” She complies and he whacks it with a hammer, “Lift your end a bit.” She does. “Flip it.”
He hammers the metal until it begins to turn dark, “Shove it in the fire. Now, the one on the left.” She pulls the left one out. This rod has a flat square of metal on its end. She puts it on the anvil. He hammers it, then after a few strokes, “Lift your end slowly. Good.” He curls the end up and puts a tool in the hardy hole. “Put it on the tool.” He shapes and splits it. “Back in. One on the right.”
This one, too, is a triangle. Sam asks, “Is it a hinge?”
“Aye, it is.”
GLADE, CCC RANCH
1510, 7 November, 1942
Frank holds Abigail tightly to his chest. He looks down, smiling, and kisses her. Then, he lifts her onto her saddle and he mounts up. She grins at him, “You’re wonderful, my love.”
“I love you. When we see Sam, I’ll ask her about birth control. I think she and Gloria are using it. It’s from our time. I don’t know if they’re working on it now. Anyway, it’s an easier way. You’ll see.”
“You sure know a lot.”
“Well, in college I took a course called ‘Human Sexuality.’ It was illuminating.”
They round a bend in the road and glimpse two people hiding behind a tree. Frank grins, “Grandpa. Grandma. When you’re decent, come on out. It’s alright.”
In a few moments, Peter Clay and Wendy Victor step out from behind the tree. Wendy asks, “Commander Jackson, sir, what did you call me?”
Frank grins, “I called you grandma, because you’re my grandmother. I think you marry right after high school and right before grandpa joins the Army.”
Peter, “Do I survive?”
“In my history, yes. You’re part of the liberation of the Philippines and, I think, Okinawa. But now, there are no guarantees.”
Wendy, “What should he do? I can’t bear the thought of losing him.”
“Pete, take your training seriously. Preparation is everything. When the bullets fly, you’ll have your training to fall back on.”
CLYDE’S SMITHY
1715, 7 November, 1942
They work at the anvil for two hours. When he finishes a piece, he shifts to another. Always there are irons in the fire, but never more than he can easily hammer. “Grab that flat hammer on the bench and come over here. Okay, good. Now, when you hit, you let the weight do the work. You don’t need to muscle it down. That just makes you tired.” He pulls a round rod out of the fire and puts it on the horn of the anvil. Using a ball peen hammer, he taps the rod. “Hit it here. Then, here.” She gets into the rhythm and hammers the end of the bar into a thin, wide curved piece and thins out the rod below that. He sets it aside and pulls out another bar and she pounds it into another curved piece.
Sweat beads on her forehead and her muscles ache from the unfamiliar movement. After they make ten of the little curved pieces, he sticks them together with a twist of wire and packs the thin ends with mud covered in newspaper. Then, he carefully places it all in the fire. “This is the careful bit. You don’t want the thin part in the hot area of the fire, but you need the thicker bit in there. Set down the hammer while they heat. There’s water in the jug.”
She doesn’t see a cup, so she drinks straight from the jug. She looks at him and hands the jug over. Clyde smiles and drinks.
He grabs the irons and shakes on borax where the rods meet below the petals. He taps, and she hammers it again. Once they’re forge welded, he has her cut off all the thin rods, but one, for a handle. He wets the mud and puts the whole thing back in the fire. When it comes out, she shapes the last rod into a stem. He dunks the mud-covered piece into a bucket of water and rinses off the mud. The thin petals came together to form a rose.
He nods his head, “Yes, that’ll do.” He shuts off the blower and hands the finished piece to her, “It’s yours. Now, what have you learned?”
“Don’t have too many irons in the fire?”
He smiles, “Aye. Nor too few. Also, time. Everything has its own pace. The iron heats and it cools, like breathing. No sense rushing anything at all.”
Sam asks, “Were you a smith before the war?”
“No, I learned this after. I found the physical work helped me with my dreams. Also, this job focuses on creation, not destruction. I create something beautiful and functional that people value. You should focus on creation, too.”
“I see that.” She studies the rose. “It’s so beautiful. I find it hard to believe I helped create this.”
“That’s the thing with creation, it’s a spiritual thing. There was a time the smithy was considered a magical place. The smith was an arcane alchemist
because he could take rocks and make metal. Then he could forge that metal into something useful. Everything we create has God’s touch. He works through our hands and our hearts. As He passes through, some of the pain and hurt just erode away, like mud in a stream.”
“Do you still have dreams?”
“Aye, but now I sleep through. They can’t own me anymore.
A teenage boy walks in, “Dad, I’m home. Hi, Commodore.” He hugs his dad, “I’ll get dinner started.”
Clyde, “Aye, we’ll join you.” He spreads the coals in the fire apart and puts a few in a metal bucket. He pours the water from the jug on the rest. They go into the house, and Clyde puts the coals in the bucket in the cook stove and gets a fire going. “Venison stew. You’ll join us?”
Sam smiles, “Sure. You still hunt?”
“No, I can’t, but Wes does. He keeps us in meat and we have a bit of a garden. The place is paid for and I’ve no shortage of work.”
“I saw the shoes in the smithy. You’re a farrier, too.”
“Aye, I do all your grandpa’s horses.”
“I remember you when I was a little girl.”
Wes, “Do you remember me?”
“Sorry, no, Wes. Were you and David planning on joining the Army together?”
“Yeah, until he decided to be a pilot. I’d rather be a SEAL.”
“You’re strong and determined. I think you have what it takes. The thing is, in my history, David died in Europe. Because he’s changed his plans, this time he may survive.”
Clyde, “It works that way?”
“We’re in a new time line and our coming back has changed so much. Nothing is inevitable.”
Wes, “So, I died?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, everything is changing.” She turns to Clyde, “Where is your wife?”
“She died three years ago of a fever.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So are we, but we get by.”
BOBLINGEN BOMBER FACTORY, BOBLINGEN, GERMANY
1551, 9 November, 1942
Moses sits at a desk in an office above the assembly floor. He studies the design of the Heinkel 364. He can see them being built by trained German mechanics and French and Jewish prisoners. Ernst Heinkel has ordered him to find ways to reduce the weight. To himself, “Corners are inherently weak.” He notices a structural crossmember that stabilizes the wing spar as it passes through the fuselage. He pulls out a fresh sheet of paper and carefully draws a sketch. Then he gets up and goes to Heinkel’s office.