John was next to that window and after checking that no one was in the flight path answered, “All clear!”
Lindbergh gave John a wave and advanced the throttle. The aircraft shivered as it tried to free itself from the mud, the blast of the propeller throwing gobs of the mud and turf backward as blue exhaust blasted from the exhaust pipes. The aluminum airplane finally crept forward. She slowly picked up speed until the tail lifted and she raced bouncing down the grass runway on her two main wheels.
It was obvious to all that she was heavy as she bumped into the air only to return to Earth, and then jolt back up again. The Spirit was sluggish and her wings wobbled slightly as she tried to climb above the trees at the end of the runway. The spectators seemed to be holding a collective breath, and even though both John and Bill knew the outcome, they held theirs too, until slowly the little craft climbed to get just enough altitude to scrape over the treetops and disappear into the gray sky and history.
‘Lucky Lindy’ was on his way to France.
John turned to Bill and said, “I remember reading about this moment when I was seven years old and have always thought of how it must have been. Now I know. Bill, you have made a little boy’s dream come true. Now,” he said with determination in his voice, “what can I do for you?”
DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
John and Bill sat at the coffee table in Bill’s apartment. Both had just finished a steak dinner followed by dessert and coffee and now were smoking cigars and sipping brandy.
After a few puffs, Bill said to John, “Let me tell you the mission. I’ll give you the short version first, then the details. It was at the end of, what you called, the Great War, or The War to End All Wars, and a German flying a red triplane downed Captain Eddie Rickenbacker. We can’t let that happen. Rickenbacker was a man who helped shape the American aviation and automobile industries. We, of the future, need a skilled pilot, who flew biplanes, to intercept that German and force him to break off the attack. Three days later the war is over. It’s that one crucial fight that we need you to break up.”
“Is this the only kill I get to make?” asked an excited John.
Bill shook his head no. “I’m afraid you can’t even kill him. You see, we don’t know if the German died in the war, so we don’t want to save one man while killing another. We simply don’t know what he did for history so he has to continue on as he really did.” He leaned forward and flicked his ashes. “That’s why we have to have the best stick-and-rudder man we can get. You have to stop him without killing him and stay alive yourself.”
“What if I die?” John retorted. “Is Rickenbacker more important than I am?”
Bill looked at him and answered quietly, “You must come back. What you do in your lifetime is very important too.”
“Tell me.”
“What? Tell you what you do in your life? No way. Outside of you turning out great pilots as an instructor, that’s all I can say. You have to understand that, right?”
John smiled sheepishly and said, “Just a hint? Just . . . sort of like a hint.”
Bill exhaled and said with reluctance, “Your grandson is a super-great guy. He’s helped me out many times.”
John sat up straight, “You mean, in time travel?”
“Yes, in time travel.”
“What about his father, my son? Is he doing okay?”
“I know your grandson visits him regularly and from what he says, his father’s doing fine.” Bill sat forward and said quietly, “Listen, if you really want to know about your future, let me tell you this. You become a very sick man. You’re on oxygen for years, unable to walk or care for yourself.”
John sat back shocked and said softly, “Wow, you really unleashed, huh? But I guess I asked for it.”
Now Bill sat forward and looked deep into John’s eyes as he said emphatically, “Listen, John, yes, I unleashed on you. But it’s because you are doing it to yourself. It’s the cigarettes that do it. You end up with what they call, emphysema. Your lungs can’t operate because of all those years of smoking one cigarette after the other. You can change it by stopping smoking right now. If not for you, then for your children and grandchildren.”
John looked back at him, surprised at the other man’s intensity. “Smoking? Smoking is bad for me? But, I’ve never heard that before.”
“No, it comes out later.” Bill shook his head as he continued, “Listen, I took you back to see Charles Lindbergh take off so I could gain your trust. Now, don’t you believe me about the cigarettes?”
John shook his head slowly. “Yeah, yeah I do.” He removed the half-empty pack of cigarettes and crumpled them up as he continued, “I’m done, Bill. I’ve had my last smoke. They don’t own me, believe me, and tell my grandkid, too, next time you see him.”
“That’ll be tomorrow.” Bill hesitated and then said, “Tomorrow, my time.”
“Wow, I’m getting a headache with all this time travel stuff,” John replied.
“Now, let’s talk details.”
Two hours later the men sat making final notes. When they finished, John turned to Bill, “Okay. Let’s see if I understand the plan. When my leave comes through, I come to your garden at twelve noon and you’ll let me in. You give me a new uniform and paperwork stating that I’m Captain John Brand, flight instructor with travel orders to take me to France. The orders will put me in the Ninety-Fourth Fighter Squadron in time for the final few days of the war. I’m to get flight time with the group and be on hand on November 9, 1918, to intercept the German fighter that is upsetting the whole time applecart. Sound right?”
Bill nodded approvingly. “Yep! That’s it in a nutshell. Every day at noon, I’ll check to see if you’re in front of the garden gate, and when you get the leave, the mission will begin.”
They shook hands and as John prepared to leave, he said, “I have a request.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“When it’s over and I come back, and I do intend to come back, can I take a trip in your time?”
Bill smiled and said as he patted John’s back, “Absolutely. Absolutely.”
Six days later, Bill went to the garden of 1940 and in front of the gate stood John with a small valise. He smiled and waved as Bill opened the gate and took him up to the club of 2011.
DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
Once upstairs, they ate the lunch Matt had set out and went over the items Bill had arranged for John’s time-travel trip.
With a smile, John announced, “Bill, I haven’t had a cigarette since we spoke about it. It’s tough, but I want to thank you.”
“That’s great. Can’t wait to tell your grandson John about that.” He pointed to a brand new U.S. Army World War One uniform, complete with wings and captain’s bars.
“Here’s your uniform and papers that include orders to fly as an instructor with the Ninety-Fourth Squadron in combat. Your cover story—and it’s in your orders—will be for you to get a combat mission under your belt, to better teach your future students air-to-air combat. The mission you need to fly to save Rickenbacker is on November 9, 1918.”
He paused and showed John a copy of a newspaper showing timetables of ocean liners that traveled directly to France. “Here are directions to the French-American Line troopship that will take you right to Le Havre, France. It leaves October 22nd and arrives November 6th. Of course, that was a secret back then, but we know it from history. That gives you fifteen sailing days to get set for the mission.”
John nodded as he tried on the uniform jacket. “What if they ask Washington why they’re sending this instructor out to the field? Won’t they catch me?”
“Don’t worry,” answered Bill. “The communications back then were so slow that if they do try to check up on you, you’ll be long gone by then. Besides, you really are Army, just twenty-plus years later. I’m sure you can bluff them.”
John laughed and nodded yes at that. “Yeah, guess you’re r
ight. Some things don’t change.”
Bill handed him a hairbrush and said, “Talking about communications, this is a very sensitive piece of equipment. A lot depends on this. You cannot let anyone get his or her hands on it. Destroy it first.” He pressed down and turned on the top and it swiveled open to reveal the small monitor and keyboard. “Think of it as a typewriter, but one that communicates with me. If you are in trouble or need guidance, open it and type a message, then press this send-button and it’ll reach me. Problem is, if you need me in France, it’ll take me just as long to reach you, as it took you to get there.”
John studied the hairbrush for a moment and then said, “Wow! What else do you have for me?”
Bill replied with a wink, “Before you try the uniform on, come down to our basement. Matt and I have something to show you.”
The three of them went down the stairs and Bill led John to a corner of the large room and switched on an overhead light. There was a metal capsule with an opening in the top. In front of it was a large, wall-mounted wraparound screen.
John just stared. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s called a flight simulator. You climb in the cockpit and I’ll set it to do a flight simulation just as a Spad XIII would fly. It’ll give you all the flight characteristics of the Spad without ever really leaving the ground.”
John nodded, as he looked it over, “In 1940, we have something similar called a Link Trainer.” He climbed in and looked over the meager instruments.
Bill called out; “Contact!” and John placed the contact switch to the ‘on’ position. On the screen in front of him, a computer-animated ground crewman turned the propeller, and the engine roared to life. The simulator vibrated to the roar of the engine as John looked at Bill and Matt with amazement.
He yelled over the engine noise, “This is nothing like the Link trainer. This is amazing! Tell me it doesn’t take off.”
Bill smiled reassuringly, “No,” he yelled, “everything but.” Pointing to the throttle, he said, “Go ahead. Advance the throttle.”
John did, and the ground started going past him on the wraparound screen giving him the feeling of movement. The simulator also gave the uneven feel of a bumpy grass runway as he ‘moved’ down the runway. The engine got louder and wind blew past the open cockpit giving John the smell and taste of engine fumes and castor oil, which was used as lubrication for the engines of those days.
As John roared down the field he checked the speedometer. At the thirty-six mile-per-hour numbers, there was a green mark. Thirty-six miles-per-hour must be the takeoff speed, thought John as he watched the needle close in on it.
At twenty miles per hour he eased the tail up and the simulator seemed to move faster while there were less bumps as the main wheels started to lift off the ground. When he reached takeoff speed, he gently pulled back on the control stick and the simulator stopped the bumpy ride, giving the impression of taking off. The scene changed as he climbed to five hundred feet and rocked the wings left and right to feel the responsiveness of the Spad, then pulled back on the stick as she stuck her nose up to the blue sky.
Wow! Thought John, I’m, I’m even sweating. This is almost for real. Jeeze! What a thrill! He looked behind him as he would in combat and saw Matt and Bill standing there. He did a double take as he realized he wasn’t at five hundred feet at all.
Turning back to his instruments, he thought, Let’s try a barrel roll, and pulled the stick to the right. He watched as the Earth rotated from the right to the left side, then pushed left and it did the opposite. Damn! This is even more responsive than our training aircraft. We sure could use a simulator like this in 1940.
He glanced down to his left just as a string of glowing bullets flew by his right wing.
Whoa! He shouted to himself as he automatically shoved the nose down. A red Fokker triplane flew by on the screen and John automatically pulled his nose back up to chase it. The simulated, nimble German fighter flicked right and in an instant was racing directly at John, its twin machine guns twinkling at him. He felt his aircraft shudder as the German bullets found their mark and watched as the Fokker flew past, the pilot’s face clearly visible on the screen.
Suddenly, John’s aircraft’s engine started sputtering and his gauges started unwinding as he lost power. His left wing dropped and he looked around for a place to set his aircraft down. He spotted a patch of green and thought, got to keep my nose down and speed up. Don’t want to stall her out. He was just under the trees and, confident he was going to make his intended spot, pulled back on the stick, dumping his flying speed. The simulator gave a bump as his “aircraft” touched down and rolled to a stop. John killed the switch and sat there for a minute catching his breath.
I’m soaking wet! He thought and looked around as Bill and Matt came to the side of the simulator and the lights came back on.
“What did you think?” asked Bill as he helped him down.
“That was exhilarating!” He looked pleadingly at Bill and said, “I’ve have to do that again. I have to down that guy.”
Bill laughed and said, “You can, right after we get you dressed in the bulky flight clothes of the period. We have to make it as real as we can, so you’ll know exactly how it feels in your aircraft, when you fly against another fighter.”
Later, dressed in bulky, long leather pants that came up to his chest, a leather coat and gloves along with a fleece-lined leather flying helmet and goggles, John flew three more “missions” against the computer-generated triplane before he got the better of the enemy.
Back in the den with Bill he said, “I think the simulator time gave me the boost I needed. I’m ready for that mission now more than ever. I feel real good about it. With what I read on flying the Spad XIII and the simulator missions, I’ll handle her fine. It wasn’t much different from the Boeing Stearman that I fly now, just a bit harder moving the controls.”
“Good. Do you want to rest up or head out right away to get aboard the La Belle France?”
“Actually, Bill, I’d like to take a shower and get on with it.”
“Great. The ship’s berthed at the foot of Forty-Eighth Street. After you wash up, I’ll set the time to be the morning of October 1, 1918.”
Matt showed him a dressing room with a shower and twenty minutes later John stood in front of both men dressed as a World War One Army officer ready for action.
“I’m set guys,” he said.
“Then let’s go,” answered Bill, as he walked to the door. “I’ll take you down to the garden, then you can hop a cab uptown. Good enough?”
“Good for me. I’m set.”
They walked down the stairs and out the door into 1918.
DATELINE: OCTOBER 22, 1918 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY
Bill opened the door and they went into the garden. Next he opened the gate and they stood there on an early sunny morning in October 1918 looking for a taxi. One of the high, boxy cabs came down the street and they waved it down. They shook hands and both men smiled grimly, denoting the graveness of the mission and the fact that John might not make it back.
Bill slapped his shoulder and said, “Good luck, guy. Wish I could have helped more.”
“You did fine. You got me to quit smoking, oh and yeah; you’re offering me combat. How bad is that, I ask you?”
Bill grinned as John got into the taxi and was driven off.
The cab headed uptown and John watched the town unfold as he sat high in the boxy, black-and-yellow vehicle that seemed to find every pothole . . . but he loved it. He saw a building under construction and realized he had worked in it as a delivery boy for Western Union. Never thought about time travel, he thought, but it is fun to see history being born.
He suddenly felt a great determination take hold of him. Boy, I’ve got to make it through this. I’ve got to meet my boy and his boy, my grandson. The newest time traveler reached for a cigarette, which wasn’t there, and said, to no one, “I’m not sure which is
going to be tougher, the mission or my quitting smoking.”
Finally, they pulled up at Forty-Eighth Street and the waterfront. Tied up at the long dock was the liner La Belle France, painted in blue, green and black zigzag camouflage stripes. John paid the taxi driver, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked over to the ship. Man, he thought, looking up at her, She’s huge!
He saw a large blue-and-white booth on the dock that said in white letters, “French-American Travel Corporation” and went inside. Seated at a desk were two New York City policemen, a ticket clerk and two military policemen. They were playing cards and as they were in the middle of a hand, took a few minutes to respond to him.
John started to get nervous, then thought, Wait a minute. I’m an officer in the U.S. Army no matter what year this is. His confidence restored, he said heartily, “Good day, gentlemen. I’m scheduled to join my new outfit in France.”
He handed his travel orders to the clerk who passed them to a military policeman who asked, “Going to France, Captain? The war will be over by the time you get there.”
John laughed, “Ours not to wonder why, ours but to do or die, Sergeant. It’s the Army way, as I’m sure you know.” He turned to the clerk and asked, “What time does she leave?”
“As soon as the sun goes down, Captain. That’s around six-thirty.” He passed back the orders to John and handed him a paper that located his billet aboard ship. The men then turned their attention to a sailor who was next on line and John took the paper and stepped out the rear of the office to join the hundreds of brown-clad doughboys, who were entering the big ship’s hull through a gangplank.
It took him an hour to get aboard the ship and find his small cabin three decks below the main deck. He walked in to hear sounds coming from the washroom. One of the two beds was spoken for by having a barracks bag on top of it, so he put his on the other. The noise in the washroom never stopped and John realized someone was in there being sick before they even left port. Oh well, best to leave the poor guy alone. He put on his cap, left the cabin and went up on deck to catch a glimpse of a New York City skyline that existed before his time.
Book IV Page 5