One Thousand Years

Copyright © 2013 by Randolph Beck.
All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction.

First publication date June 2013.

http://randolphbeck.com

“Up to a fairly
recent date, the major events recorded in the history books probably
happened....
Even as late as the
last war it was possible for the Encyclopedia Britannica, for
instance, to compile its articles on the various campaigns partly
from German sources. Some of the facts — the casualty figures,
for instance — were regarded as neutral and in substance
accepted by everybody. No such thing would be possible now. A Nazi
and a non-Nazi version of the present war would have no resemblance
to one another, and which of them finally gets into the history books
will be decided not by evidential methods but on the battlefield.”
—
George Orwell, author and journalist, (February 4, 1944)

It could never be certain whether one was dealing with racism or the
simple bureaucratic inertia that every soldier must contend with.

“We
were going at full throttle,” First Lieutenant Sam McHenry
explained. He understood the report was incredible but — as a
black officer — white people had questioned his word too often.
He had to wonder if a white officer would have as much trouble being
believed.

“A P-40 can do well over three hundred miles per
hour,” he continued.
“We were going just about that fast, and this thing
just flew past us like a bullet.”

Colonel
Harriman scribbled some notes but didn't react. Captain Lawrence
just sat there with his arms folded and had said very little. The
British were often like that, McHenry thought. Stiff and proper,
even while shivering in this drafty office that had only recently
been an Italian farmhouse.

“Is
it typical for you to use full power?” Harriman asked, with his
precisely spoken British accent.

“No.
It's not good for the engine. We had a call for emergency air
support. A unit from the Eighth Army ran into some trouble and
needed an assist.”

“How
was it none of your other pilots saw this?”

“It
was too fast,” McHenry swore. That was the question he had
dreaded most. He relaxed a bit in the old wood chair and sighed. “I
guess I was the only one looking up and to the right when it went by.
Most of the other men did see it too, but only in the distance after
it was almost gone. It was just a spec by the time they looked.”

“You
said you were heading northwest?”

“Yes,
sir.”

“And
it was flying the same direction?” Harriman drilled.

“Almost
five degrees more to the west,” McHenry said. “I put the
heading in my report.”

“We
want to hear it again, in your own words, as you recall it now,”
Lawrence said calmly. “This is a review, not an interrogation.
Please tell us everything.”

“This
was right over Anzio?” Harriman continued.

“No,
we were still fifteen minutes out. I don't even think we saw the
shoreline yet.”

“How
accurate is this heading? Could it have been more like ten degrees?”

“No.”
McHenry looked over at the chart, and his eyes followed the
direction indicated. “You're wondering if it could have been
heading to Cassino, aren't you?” There was a battle going on
there, McHenry knew, but he had not yet been part of it.

“Yes,”
said Harriman, casting a glance at the other British officer.

“Then
the difference doesn't necessarily mean anything.” McHenry
looked back to the chart. “That's a long hop, and I would want
to go there directly but that's not saying it's practical. Flying
isn't like driving on a highway. A lot of these villages and fields
look alike. We need to head to an initial position, a marker like a
river or a distinctive building in the area to verify exactly where
we are, and then go from there. They would choose a spot that's
behind their own lines, or one that's not contested. Nobody wants to
get into combat while they're still trying to figure out where the
front lines are.”

“Interesting,”
Harriman said, contemplating the chart.

There
was a pause, and then McHenry spoke. “Sir, may I ask about the
fighting at Cassino?”

“Too
soon to tell,” Colonel Harriman replied briskly. It was
probably a comforting lie. His face betrayed worry. Another pause,
then: “It didn't take a shot at you?”

“Not
that I'm aware of, sir. It just whizzed by.”

Harriman
slid a blank sheet of paper across the table. “Can you draw a
picture of what you saw?”

“I've drawn half a dozen of these.”

“Not for us.”

“Lieutenant,”
Captain Lawrence began. “We are at the other end of the chain.
By the time something gets to us, it has been transcribed, condensed
and collated. No one I know has seen a picture from you.”

“Understood,”
McHenry replied. Educated as an engineer, he pulled a pencil from
the pocket of his flight jacket and started drawing. The aircraft
was somewhat round, but it had a wedge shape at the rear. He had
only caught a brief glimpse but it had been a clear day and the image
was one he would never forget.

Lawrence
unfolded his arms and leaned forward to see the lines McHenry was
drawing. “No
Luftwaffe
insignia?” he asked, referring to Germany's air force.

“No markings at all,” McHenry answered, still sketching.

“You say this was silver?”

“Shiny silver, almost like chrome.”

“Outstanding,”
Harriman said. “I can already tell this is more detail than
anyone else has seen yet.”

“You mean this thing has been seen before?”
That caught McHenry off guard.

“There haven't been very many,” Lawrence said.
“Just isolated reports.
They are calling it ‘night phenomena.’
Some of you Yanks have reported a few as well.
Yours is the first one seen in the daylight.”

“No
one really knows if they belong to the Boche,” Harriman added.
“The blighters have yet to fire a shot. This night phenomena
is still just a curiosity, really. I guess now someone will have to
contrive a new name.”

Night phenomena
.
McHenry repeated the sound in his mind before returning to his sketch, giving
more shape to the area beneath the round fuselage. He felt a little
more at ease knowing that the two Brits didn't think he was crazy,
but only a little. He mostly wondered if he would ever have to fight
these things.
The squadron was planning to transition to the P-39, and
there were quiet rumors of moving to the P-47, or even the P-51, but
he knew they would need more speed to take on this kind of aircraft.
A lot more.

“The
Boche are working on jets and rockets,” Harriman said, as
though sensing his apprehension. “But I have it on good
authority that we're not too far behind them.”

*

Captain
Joseph Parker — call sign
“Twain” — was waiting outside the farmhouse,
which was a hastily arranged base of operations. McHenry observed
how his own confident manner had eased the frown on his friend's
face.

“It
went well, Anthem?” Parker asked, referring to him by his call
sign.

“Nothing
to worry about,” McHenry replied, briefly saluting. “These
Brits have heard of these things before.”

“Really?
How can you call that ‘nothing to worry about?’
If it's real, there will be more.”

Parker
returned the salute and hopped into the jeep. They were two black
men fighting in a white man's war. It would probably be the only
salute Parker would receive until they neared the airfield of their
own base. McHenry jumped into the passenger side and they drove off.

“I
meant that they didn't think I was crazy,” McHenry said.

“Did
they tell you anything interesting?”

“Such
as?”

“Rumors
about the invasion. The fighting here in Italy will get easier when
the Krauts have to fight it out on the French coast, too. Those
Brits might have heard something.”

“I
didn't ask,” McHenry said. “They didn't even want to
talk when I asked about Cassino. I hardly think they would start
babbling if I ask about the biggest secret of the war.”

“Yeah,
I guess not,” Parker chuckled. He turned at the gate, and they
crossed into a road through the Italian countryside.

“All
they wanted to talk about was the mystery aircraft. It's not the
first one reported, but nobody knows what it is.”

“Ya know,” Parker began. “This could be a sign of the end times.”

“End
of the war?”

“End of the war. The end of all wars. Judgment day.”

McHenry turned his head to stare at the trees as they drove. “If you
think so,” he said. “But you know I don't. There's got
to be a rational answer.”

“You're the only pilot I know who doesn't believe in God,”
said Parker.
“In fact, you're the only colored man I know who doesn't
believe.”

“Aw, come now, Twain,” McHenry implored.
“I don't know how many
times I told you guys that I do believe in God. I just don't believe
in church.”

“Okay, okay. All I can say is you do need proper churching.”

The jeep left the area and was on the open road.
It was a long drive through Italian farm country.
Narrow winding roads, distant farmhouses, and the occasional village would
make the trip interesting as the sun started to descend.
McHenry found it difficult to fathom that these people were just recently
considered the enemy.

“There's one thing we have to consider,” said Parker,
briefly taking his eyes off the road to look up at the sky.
“If that thing was German, and there's more than one,
then that really is plenty to worry about.”

“Yeah,” McHenry sighed.
“That's been bothering me a lot.”

*

“After the war...
We'll just press a button for food or for drink,
For washing the dishes or cleaning the sink.
We'll ride in a rocket instead of a car.
And life will be streamlined...
After the war.”
—
Dorothy Roe, Associated Press, (March 20, 1944)

Their starship was in
sight.

SS-Sturmbannführer
Kathy Dale was staring down
into her SS side-panel when the pilot interrupted her.

“Docking
in two minutes,” he said. “You had better finish what you
are doing with that game.” He smiled at her, not for the first
time this trip.

She
looked up. The cigar-shaped starship was now clearly beside them,
its pitch black webbing now filled nearly half of their 360 degree
view.

“It's
not a game,” she coyly replied, the very slightest hint of a
Chicago accent in her German. She smiled back at the blond pilot
seated beside her. The forward, friendly demeanor was slightly out
of protocol.
Leutnant
Adolf Vinson was a Luftwaffe man, after
all, and she was an SS officer. It was her mission. He had been
told only what needed to be done, but she knew the secret truths
behind every deception — more of them anyway. The Luftwaffe
wouldn't even be involved if they didn't need such a large starship
to get here.