One Thousand Years

by Randolph Beck

  Monday, April 17, 1944

  “We missed you at breakfast this morning,” said Vinson. He and Dr. Evers were waiting at the hangar in the same corner that McHenry would go to whenever there wasn't a Tiger available for him to board.

  “I needed to be alone,” McHenry answered curtly. He looked across at the one empty moor, one Tiger evidently overdue.

  “They're not back yet,” explained Vinson. “There could be many reasons for this. He can't leave the water until the horizon is clear.”

  “How late are they now?”

  “Two hours,” said Evers.

  McHenry was a little disappointed, having looked forward to meeting the Italian. Then a thought occurred to him. “Do any of you guys speak Italian?”

  “Of course,” said Vinson.

  “Everybody does,” the doctor added. “Every Hitler Youth can speak at least twenty languages.”

  “Oh.” McHenry regretted the question. “I guess that explains how everyone here can speak English.”

  “Do you speak no other languages?” asked Vinson.

  “I'm fluent in French. I'm afraid that's it.”

  Evers put his hand on McHenry's shoulder. “The time will come when you will speak twenty languages too. They will put you through treatments that will make it easier.”

  “Medical treatments?”

  “Yes. After three months in Berlin, you will be a new man.”

  McHenry wasn't sure what to make of having his brain tampered with. The three held onto the railing, watching two technicians exit the second Tiger.

  “Barr is in that one with an SS officer,” noted Vinson. “They are ready to launch if we need a quick action.”

  A lineman floated out from the Line Office and shouted across the hangar, “Jetzt!” Then he turned to the corner. “Now!” McHenry was by now familiar with the routine, knew what the word meant, and imagined the man just repeated the word in English to be cordial. The Tiger was about to enter the inner seal of the ship.

  A horn sounded a minute later. The inner doors opened just barely wide enough to allow the Tiger to float through, with the huge sensor-evading net retracting behind it. The doors closed quickly as the mooring arm carried it through the doors. McHenry remained very still. He was trying to sense for any breeze, or any change in pressure he thought should accompany the transition through the doors. Nothing was perceptible, and that heightened his appreciation for the technology at work here.

  Evers leaned forward. “The main cargo hatch should have opened by now.”

  “What's wrong?” asked McHenry.

  “Our new visitor will be in a life-support container. That is, if he made it.”

  The new visitor didn't make it. An SS man left the Tiger, beckoning Evers to follow for debrief. Vinson nodded to McHenry, and the two made their way into the Tiger.

  Bamberg was still sitting inside, completing his post-flight inspection. “It was awful,” he told them, speaking slowly. “There were one hundred and fifty-five men alive in the water. One hundred and fifty-five! But ours was dying. One of his comrades stayed with him, trying to save him. We kept thinking, ‘come on man! Let him drown so we can pick him up!’ But his friend stayed by him even as they drifted away from the others.”

  McHenry was touched, as apparently were both Vinson and Bamberg. The story reminded him of his friends who stayed with him when his engine cut out. He now regretted the loss of the Italian even more.

  Bamberg sighed. “Hamilton said we could have killed that man if he was going to die anyway, but we didn't know who he was until it was too late. Ours died first. His friend died after an hour.”

  “Couldn't you get the friend?” asked McHenry.

  “I know, I know,” agreed Bamberg, his eyes widening. “I was thinking this, too. The SS has this all planned out mathematically. I thought it could be different once we know for a fact that they die together. I mean we can see this right here. What do we have an SS man along for if not to make decisions on the spot? But this is apparently not so.”

  “This is a lot more complicated than I thought,” noted Vinson.

  Bamberg glanced behind them and then lowered his voice. “Hamilton is on eggshells because he is looking for a promotion. I do not believe it is any more complicated than that.”

  *

  McHenry went to his room that night thinking about the Italian officer he would never get to meet, and the man's friend who died alongside him. He didn't know whether the man could have spoken English. The man might even have been a racist. But he was certain they could have reached a common bond, especially here. It would have been nice to have another friend here in the same predicament as he. Then he saw the opportunity.

  “Rechner! Tell me, where and when does Joseph Parker get killed?”

  “Joseph Parker is lost and presumed killed in the Tyrrhenian Sea on 28, April, 1944.”

  McHenry stood, unable to contain his glee. It would have been depressing news at any other time, but now there was hope. He jumped to the door and ran toward the ladder.

  He found Vinson working alone inside one of the Tigers, testing the equipment and using a tablet-like device called a Klemmbrett — which literally means clipboard, although these do so much more. He set down the tablet when McHenry came aboard.

  “I need to tell you about some bad news I learned last night,” McHenry announced. “My best friend from my squadron is going to die.”

  “That is truly awful,” said Vinson.

  “But there's some good news too, or at least there might be. The rechner says he will be lost in the sea, just like I was.”

  Vinson's expression brightened. “I see what you mean, and that would be great if he can make it! How much time do we have?”

  “Until the end of April. Is that enough?”

  “There is only one way to find out,” said Vinson as he shut down the equipment. “We must see Oberst Volker immediately.”

  McHenry understood chain of command as well as anyone. The pair located Bamberg, Vinson's superior, and explained the story. He then called the Kommandant for an immediate meeting. The three proceeded to her office adjoining Kontrolle. Mtubo was standing beside Volker, and they listened to McHenry together. Mtubo remained impassive but the Kommandant eagerly followed the story.

  “Ma'am, I realize I'm asking for a lot, but you've got an empty bunk here, and this should be a piece of cake. Vinson tells me that not having an exact location is not a problem.”

  “No, that is not a problem,” said the Kommandant. “It is too early to be calling this cake but I do like the idea very much. It would give the crew something new to look forward to. You must understand there are no guarantees.”

  Mtubo looked more wary and less enthusiastic. “Indeed. Some of our people will enjoy the diversion. We will give it our best effort, even if we have to take another name off the list. No guarantees. Time travel is a risk to all the people of the Reich. We cannot put them in jeopardy.”

  “I understand that,” said McHenry.

  Volker turned to the window, looking out across the stars for a long moment before she turned back to him. “You're a soldier, Herr McHenry. Have you read Clausewitz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Among his many insights, he wrote that all war supposes human weakness, and against that it is directed.”

  McHenry nodded, unsure what her point was.

  “Human weakness,” she repeated. “You will come to find out that we consider that dictum constantly in our war against the Grauen, but in a way that General Clausewitz could never imagine. You see, the Grauen do not think the way that we do. We do not know that their weaknesses are anything like ours. We are constantly having to second guess ourselves. But in so doing, sometimes it is best to remind ourselves that our weaknesses are what make us human, and that is sometimes a thing to be cherished. Herr McHenry, I cannot promise you that we will be able to rescue your brother in arms. The SS will study the conditions. You will have to respect their findings,
whatever they may be. But I can promise you that if it can be done, we will put resources into it.”

  *

  Chapter 14

  GOERING PEACE MOVE

  The Press association today quoted reports from an unidentified source that Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering is “likely” to go to Madrid for a conference with General Francisco Franco, with the idea of trying to arrange a compromise peace between Germany and Great Britain.

  The Press association's diplomatic correspondent, Frank King, said the Spanish press has been advocating a compromise recently on the theory that Franco has an “obvious interest in Germany's future.”

  — British United Press, (April 18, 1944)

  Tuesday, April 18, 1944

  McHenry met the pilots early for breakfast the next morning. The cafeteria was busy, with a crowd standing around the first table.

  “Morning!” one of the Luftwaffe officers greeted McHenry.

  “McHenry!” shouted Bamberg. “Come here! We have been waiting for you.”

  The table had a map on it, projected by the omnipresent rechner. It seemed as though every table on the ship was able to perform this function, one that McHenry had found a convenient study tool. He wished he had had one on his P-40. “Where is this?” he asked.

  “Don't you recognize it?” asked Barr, laughing. “This is where you died.”

  “Yes,” he answered after referencing the shore on the southwest end. “Just off the coast of Italy.”

  Barr put his finger on the grid. “This is where you went down.” Then he moved his finger to another spot, one that McHenry guessed would be about fifty miles away. “And this is where your friend goes down.”

  “It's just a rough estimate,” added Bamberg. “Your position was logged by a ship in the area. Your friend's position had to be estimated more crudely.”

  “But you've got it close enough for a recovery?” asked McHenry hesitantly.

  “More than enough,” replied Bamberg. “An after action review tells that it was a controlled crash. He could survive if we get to him.”

  “It is even better than that,” said Barr. “We checked the satellite retrieval schedule. There is already a mission that morning. Your friend could not pick a better time for this to happen.”

  “I can't thank you guys enough,” said McHenry. He studied the approach markers on the map. The words on its legend were German, most of the terms already familiar to McHenry, but the text at the center was in English. They were clearly intended for his benefit: Rescue of Joseph Parker. McHenry worked to restrain his emotions.

  Bamberg stepped back. “Do not be too excited,” he said. “Let's hold any celebration until the SS gives their approval.”

  That word of caution stifled McHenry's joy. The loss of the Italian weighed heavily on his mind. But a different emotion crept in as he felt he was truly among friends. He slowly swept his gaze toward everyone in the room to acknowledge them. “I want you all to know how much I really appreciate this. Even if they say no, I'll still be grateful to you all.”

  *

  “This would be a morale booster,” said Dale, after Mtubo concluded his instructions to the staff of the analysis office. She had listened to his warnings and agreed with the cautions, but so much wanted the rescue to be possible.

  “Yes,” agreed Mtubo. “Having two men who know each other would add to the propaganda value of the mission, particularly two Americaners who suffered under democracy. Regardless, I should remind everyone that propaganda is not our function. We have a lot more work to do.”

  He waited a moment for any more comments.

  “Jawohl!” agreed Rodriguez, the shift leader standing at attention beside Mtubo. “You may count on us, Herr Oberführer.”

  “Heil Renard!” he said. The small group echoed the phrase. They relaxed only after he left the room.

  Dale rushed to her console and searched for Parker's last mission. A collection of symbols and charts appeared on the display, terminating with his presumptive death only a few weeks hence. She scanned the pages back to McHenry's death. Even as passionless numbers and symbols, the impact of his loss was perceptible.

  “Strange,” observed Rodriguez, who had slid her chair beside Dale's station. “Two friends dying so close together.”

  “The symmetry alone is intriguing,” said Dale. “Fate can paint such a pretty picture.”

  “We've been away too long,” said Rodriguez.

  The two watched the numbers as they paged back and forth. In just two minutes, they knew a lot about where the man had been, his impact on aggregate world history, and yet nothing about the man's soul. That would take meeting the man in the flesh.

  “Hold everything,” called a voice nearby. “You all better take a quick look at the color of that stream.”

  Dale switched back to the top. “Scheiss!” she gasped.

  *

  After spending his morning at the hangar, McHenry had to run to avoid being late for lunch with Dale. She was waiting for him in the small SS officers' mess. They were often alone for these sessions. McHenry was certain they were planned for his indoctrination. That made sense to him, and he always intended that it end as a failure for her in this regard.

  “You know you've got everybody excited,” she said.

  McHenry smiled. “Oh really? Does that mean I have SS approval?”

  “Sam, it's far too early to know. The analysts have a lot of work to do first. But of course you know that I approve. Even if it fails, or even if the analysts decide they must reject it, I hope you'll keep thinking this way. You've done everything you could. You should now understand that we are doing everything we can.”

  He tried not to let his disappointment show, determined to be firm but careful. He thought about what to say next while they ordered lunch.

  “How long does it take for them to figure this out?” he finally asked.

  Dale stirred her soup with the spoon as she talked. “That varies. Sometimes they know right away, and sometimes they need to wait until we have more information. I think we're going to have to wait until the next round of satellites comes in.”

  McHenry knotted his brow. “What makes it so different from my case?”

  “A lot of the Luftwaffe people seem to think we just need to ensure that nobody sees us. But there's so much more. We can't leave any footprints either —literally or figuratively — and we need to make sure that whatever footprints would be made will still be made. When you went down, your body was dragged down with your plane. The tides weren't going to take it to the shore, nor was it going to be discovered twenty years later.”

  “I understand,” he answered. He wanted to argue, and this time it was not for the sake of resisting. He wanted to argue a case for the sake of his friend. He also wanted to know what was going on.

  “I noticed that they've sent more missions this morning. Two of the Tigers are gone.”

  “There is a full flight schedule now.”

  “You're not on it?”

  “No,” she said awkwardly. “I was taken off flight-status to work on a project.” She looked down at his food. “Why do you eat steak every day?”

  He wondered if she was trying to change the subject. “Because I like it.”

  “But every day?”

  “Look,” he said. “The place I come from, and the time that I come from, we couldn't afford to have steak every day. And when we did have it, it was never as good as this. So I'm going to enjoy this until I get tired of it.”

  She smiled in her enigmatic way. That always bothered him.

  “Is there something wrong with that?” he asked.

  “No,” she laughed. “It's just interesting. You see, we don't have the same scarcity of resources that you grew up with. It probably takes as much energy to produce that steak as it would to make beans. I don't think anybody living today — I mean in my time — ever had to think about food the same way that you did.”

  He looked at his plate. “How much ene
rgy did it take to make this?”

  “I don't know. You could ask the rechner but I doubt it would mean anything to you.”

  He wanted to argue that point. He was educated as an engineer, after all, and he had spent the last few days studying the quantities of energy — both minute and extreme — produced and managed by the Tigers. He understood that just fine. But he also understood her deeper meaning. He grew up in the Depression years. Food didn't just grow on trees without an enormous amount of work. At least, it didn't in his day.

  “I guess I had been in the Army so long,” he said. “I just assumed these were military rations. Do civilians eat this well? Rich or poor?”

  “This is national socialism,” she said. “We don't have any poor. Even in the early Hitler times, the total elimination of poverty was what made Germany a model for the rest of the world. It was the first country in Europe to overcome the class struggle.”

  “I'm having trouble understanding your hatred of communists,” he said. “You sure speak like one.”

  “Not at all!” she shot back. “We are neither capitalists nor Bolscheviks. Adolf Hitler said the nation does not live for the sake of the economic system, and the economic system does not exist for the sake of capital. The state shut down the small corporations, and formed boards to guard against abuses by the large ones. But unlike the Bolscheviks, we have always allowed small businesses, like shopkeepers, as long as they do not to use their property against the interests of others.”

  McHenry sighed. It still sounded close enough. He didn't want to debate politics again, but he knew this was an inevitable part of her indoctrination attempts.

  “Okay,” he admitted. “I remember reading an article by W. E. B. Du Bois, who visited Berlin during the Olympics. Germany came out of the Depression early. Some people envied that.”

  “Yes, you understand!” she said. Her eyes brightened.

  He wasn't going to let her have that. “I also remember that Hitler didn't want to shake hands with Jesse Owens.”

  Dale frowned and shook her head. “That was American propaganda. Adolf Hitler didn't shake hands with any foreign athletes. It was your President Roosevelt who did not shake hands with Owens after he'd returned from Germany.”