My Troubles With Time (16 page)

As Stevens joined me on the bridge, I came to my conclusion. There was no point in sacrificing the lives of my brave crew in hopeless resistance. The only honorable course of action for me was to give the order to take to the lifeboats. Then, as captain, it was my duty to scuttle the
Nevada
and go down with my ship.

So much for carrying out my fantasy and becoming a national hero! My life was in ruins!

I dismissed the crew from battle stations and prepared to issue the order to abandon ship. How ironic I thought, for me to come so close to realizing my fantasy, only to see it end in disaster.

Turning to Stevens, I started to issue the order. I was amused at the bewildered expression on his face. He clearly had not expected me to dismiss the crew from battle stations.

“We can’t fight two Japanese battleships,” I explained. “It would just be a senseless slaughter.”

He nodded glumly in agreement. For the second time, I summoned up my resolve to issue the order for the crew to take to the lifeboats. Unexpectedly, Stevens interrupted me.

“Sir,” he said in an excited voice. “That ship off our starboard bow. I think it’s the
Arizona
!”

I turned and stared in the direction of the rapidly approaching battleship. Could it be, I wondered? “I suppose,” I said more to myself than to Stevens, “The
Arizona
might have followed our example and cut its moorings to escape the Japanese attack.”

The Ensign nodded, but said nothing. He was peering through his binoculars at the bearing on our port bow, where the lookouts had reported a second battleship.

Then he put down the binoculars and turned to me, a big grin on his face. “Sir,” He said, “That second battleship. It’s the
Tennessee
!”

“Thank God!” I answered, not meaning it. The fact that two other American battleships had survived the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor meant that I had altered the course of history far more than I had ever expected. The effects on the course of history could well be monumental.

As I spoke, the battleships continued to speed towards us, the interval between us rapidly narrowing.

“Sir,” came the report from the lookout who had first spotted the
Arizona
, “They are signaling us.” Slowly he read the signal flags. “They…are …ordering…us…to…heave…to, sir.”

I shook my head, hoping to clear my head sufficiently to deal with the new situation. It was to no avail. My fatigue was so great my mind refused to function. All I wanted to do was to sleep.

I turned to Stevens. “Please issue the necessary orders to comply with the ‘
Arizona’s
command.”

As he did so, I tried again to collect my thoughts. I walked to the side of the bridge where the strong wind helped revive me. Reviewing the
Arizona’s
message, it occurred to me that it might have been more politely phrased. Probably, I thought, economy off words is required in flag signals.

With my binoculars I studied the approach of the
Arizona
and the
Tennessee.
They were not alone. Numerous escort vessels, apparently destroyers and cruisers, accompanied them. Surprisingly, none seemed to bear any evidence of damage suffered in the Japanese attack.

As we crept along at minimum speed, I saw a launch appear from behind the
Arizona
and approach us. At the same time, the lookout reported another signal from the battleship.

“Prepare to receive boarders.” I ordered Stevens to have the gangway lowered and left the bridge to welcome the boarding party.

Reaching the deck, I saw the first boarder climb aboard. I was astonished by his appearance. I had expected a naval officer. Instead, I found myself facing a marine officer in fatigues, wearing combat boots and a metal helmet. He was waving a revolver in his right hand and encouraging those behind him with his left, looking like nothing so much as John Wayne in one of the World War II movies I had seen as a child.

The rest of his detachment quickly followed him on to the deck, about twenty marines, all garbed like the officer and carrying rifles. They formed a defensive perimeter, their backs to the railing guarding the gangway. Next to the marine officer stood a navy Captain, also wearing fatigues.

I approached to within a few yards of the Captain. The perimeter of marines prevented me from getting any closer, pointing their rifles at my chest. Saluting I said, “Welcome aboard the
Nevada
, sir. I am Lieutenant Maynard Snodgrass, senior officer and acting captain.”

The captain stared at me coldly. “You are under arrest, Lieutenant!”

I found it hard to believe my ears. This was not the warm welcome and congratulations I had expected.

“Arrested for what, sir?” I stuttered. “What are the charges?”

“As a starter, mutiny, piracy, murder and attempted murder!”

I
t took me a minute to comprehend what the captain had just told me. I struggled to formulate a reply, but had no time to before the Captain spoke again.

“All right, Snodgrass,” he barked, “Who are the other ringleaders?”

“What ringleaders, sir?”

“Have it your own way. Who are your accomplices?”

“Sir,” I said, standing as erect as I could. “I assumed command of the
Nevada
in my capacity as senior officer. I had no assistants or accomplices. I did so with the sole purpose of evading the Japanese attack by taking the
Nevada
to sea. Everything that followed was solely at my order and on my responsibility. The officers and men on board did no more than follow my orders.”

The navy Captain shrugged and turned to the marine officer next to him.

“Put this man under arrest! If he resists, shoot him!”

Two burley marines grabbed my arms and twisted them behind my back. I felt my wrists put into handcuffs, which were snapped shut.

“All right,” the navy Captain said to the marine officer. “Detail a detachment to take him into the launch. If he tries to speak to anyone, he is to be gagged.”

I was pushed roughly to the gangway. Descending it with my arms secured behind me was extremely difficult. Several times I nearly fell, just catching myself in the nick of time.

I was shoved into the waiting launch, followed by four marines. Their leader, a master sergeant, pushed me down onto the deck and sat down next to me, never letting his eyes off me. The launch raced rapidly from the
Nevada’s
side. The last glimpse I had of the battleship that had rendered such service to her country was the shredded battle flag, and the wreckage of number three turret, with its guns awry.

My expectation that the launch would take us to the
Arizona
was incorrect. Instead, we sped past the battleship to a waiting destroyer. As the lunch was secured to the gangway, I was raised to a standing position by two marines and pushed up the gangway to the destroyer’s deck.

I reached it and saw the crew members staring at me with great curiosity.

We paused momentarily as the sergeant received instructions from one of the destroyer’s officers about where I should be taken. A sailor then led us to a small cabin. I was pushed inside and onto a berth on one side of the cabin. The sergeant and two of the marines took chairs facing. The remaining marine remained outside the cabin, presumably to guard it, as the door was locked from the outside.

The roar of the ship’s engines increased and I felt the destroyer pitch and roll as we picked up speed. The motion was far more violent than anything I had experienced on the
Nevada
. My head ached and I felt myself getting seasick.

“Could I have some water and an aspirin?” I asked the sergeant.

“If you say anything more, Lieutenant,” was the answer, “I’ll be forced to gag you.”

The tone of his voice left little doubt that he would enjoy carrying out his threat. I shut my eyes. With great effort, I managed to avoid vomiting. The four of us sat there in silence as the destroyer raced on.

After what seemed like an eternity, the motion of the ship eased. Probably, I thought, we had reached Pearl Harbor. My judgment was confirmed by the noises from beyond the cabin indicating the destroyer was tying up.

The door of the cabin was unlocked and I was jerked to my feet. Surrounded by my four guards, I was pushed along the corridor to the exit and out on deck. Night had fallen. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see we had tied up along the dock of the navy base.

We proceeded down the gangway to the dock and a waiting military car. In front of it stood a marine officer. Next to him was a man in civilian clothes. The sergeant saluted the officer, who turned to the civilian. The latter said something, apparently issuing orders.

I was pushed onto the rear seat of the car, sandwiched between two of the marines. The civilian got into the front seat. Looking around, I could see the remaining marines get into another car that joined us. The car doors were shut and the procession drove off through a part of the navy base I had not seen before.

After several turns, we entered a large quadrangle. Tropical style four-story barracks, with red tile roofs and balconies lined three sides of the quadrangle. The fourth side of the quadrangle was occupied by a large headquarters building, similar to the barracks, but without any balconies. As we stopped, I could see marine sentries guarding the door.

The marine to right opened his door and got out, pulling me with him. By the time I was out and standing, the other marine and the civilian had joined us. I was prodded up the stone stairs leading to the entrance and through the door.

We were met by a navy captain. He greeted the civilian and the two began a prolonged conversation. Most of their comments were inaudible, but I heard a room number mentioned.

The conversation concluded, we proceeded down the corridor to a large room. It was furnished like a conference room, with a long mahogany table in the center. There was a rug on the floor and draperies on the windows. The only discordant note was the metal bars guarding the windows.

I was pushed into one of the chairs lining the table. My handcuffs were removed. I gingerly massaged my wrists, seeking to restore circulation. The civilian sat down at the head of the table, while the navy captain occupied the only upholstered chair in the room.

Across from me sat a sailor with a pencil in his hand, apparently ready to take a stenographic record of the proceedings.

“All right,” said the civilian facing me. “State your name!”

“Maynard Snodgrass, sir.”

“And your serial number.”

I was uncertain how to respond. My lack of military experience had led me to overlook the need to equip myself with one.

“Lieutenant,” the civilian prompted me, “Your serial number.”

“Let’s proceed,” the captain interrupted. “We can ascertain his serial number later.”

“All right, Lieutenant,” the civilian continued. “You boarded the
Nevada
on the evening of December 6
^th
?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At about 7:30 on the morning of December 7
^th
, you encountered Commander Lester Travis on deck?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you then pushed him overboard?”

“No, sir. He was leaning to see what seemed to be damage to the hull and fell. I threw him a life preserver.”

“Did you give the alarm or attempt to rescue him?”

“No sir.”

“Why did you fail to take this natural step?”

“I spotted Japanese planes approaching Pearl Harbor. I concluded it was more important to save the
Nevada
from attack by taking her out to sea than to pull Commander Travis on board. With the life preserver, I assumed he was in no immediate danger.”

“Did you see the Japanese planes attack?”

I pondered how to answer? Possibly it would be better to tell them the true story. I had not actually seen the Japanese planes attack Pearl Harbor. But of course I knew from my history books that they had.

“No, sir,” I answered, “I did not see them attack. Let me tell you the truth.”

The civilian smiled. “At last we’re getting somewhere,” he said to the navy captain.

I recounted everything that had happened, beginning with the fact that I was a physics professor who had traveled from the future back to December 1941 to attack the Japanese carrier task force that had struck Pearl Harbor. The captain and the civilian listened in silence, appearing to follow every word. The stenographer filled one yellow pad with his notes and began writing on a second one.

When I finished, there was a moment of silence in the room.

The captain stood and walked to the window, peering out. Then he turned to me. “Lieutenant,” he said, “That’s the most interesting story I have ever heard. Unfortunately, it is also utter poppycock!”

“But, sir,” I insisted. “It’s all true, every word.”

“Even forgetting the nonsense about the time machine, do you honestly expect me to believe that a physics professor, with no naval experience whatsoever, on his own and without any assistance, impersonated a navy officer, seized control of a United States battleship and took it to sea? Then, to top it off, he managed to find the Japanese fleet hidden in thousands of square miles of open ocean, sank three Japanese aircraft carriers, fought off two enemy battleships and brought the
Nevada
safely back to Pearl Harbor?”

He turned to the civilian. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, Captain. That story about a time machine makes me think he is a brilliant, dangerous lunatic. One with enough naval experience to successful carry out his crimes.”

“All, right,” he said, turning to me. “Let’s hear that story again.”

I repeated it, virtually word for word. My throat was getting dry and my headache worse. When I had finished, the captain looked at the civilian.

“We’re getting nowhere. I suggest we adjourn and start again tomorrow.”

With all my heart, I prayed that the civilian would accede to the suggestion. I needed the rest and time to collect my thoughts.

“I don’t think it would be wise, Captain, to give him time to make up a new story. All right,” he said to me, “What’s your serial number?”