Chapter I

The Eddie Rickenbacker Mission

DATELINE: NOVEMBER 9, 1918 PLACE: TOUL, FRANCE

The dappled brown and tan, two-seat biplane was a slow aircraft at best. She was an especially tempting target when flown in a straight line, as she had to do when taking photos of the German trenches three thousand feet below. Five thousand feet above her, were three, single-seat, brown, French-built Spad XIII fighters, flown by American pilots. Their job was to watch over the recon aircraft below as it took the photos.

German anti-aircraft flak opened up and deadly bursts of red, orange and black appeared noiselessly about the two-seater as she kept to the straight line of flight. Suddenly, two red-colored fighters darted up behind her. The big black crosses on their wings got the attention of the three Spad fighters flying top cover and they went into a dive to protect their comrade five thousand feet beneath them.

The first indication the two-seater pilot had that there was trouble was when he heard the chatter of his photographer-cum-gunner’s machine gun in the rear as he fired away at the German fighters on his tail. The pilot quickly forgot about flying in a straight line and made evasive movements as he looked up for his fighter escort and thought, “Where are they?”

The pilot of the two-seater heard it said, that, at this late date in the war, the escorting fighters would use the photo-recon two-seaters as bait, to lure enemy fighters up into a scrap. He also remembered one of the fighter pilots stating flat-out, Rubbish! We would never do such a thing to tempt the Huns up for a go-around. Why, using another aircraft as bait, it just isn’t done at all. But back in the moment, the two-seater pilot swiveled his head as he tried to find his escorts and evade the bullets that flew past his aircraft.

Above him, the three escorting fighters were almost in a good firing positions on the German fighters. Each pilot had his eyes fixed on the two enemy fighters that they now made out as Fokker Dr.1s: very maneuverable German triplanes with twin, fast-firing machine guns.

Rumor had it that the war was winding down, and the fighter pilots all wanted to go home with medals. Of course, they didn’t want to be killed as the end was in sight, but this was an easy setup to notch another victory for the first two guys who got there.

As the three flattened their dive to get behind the German craft, a string of flaming, yellow balls of tracers seemed to float past them. It took less than a second to realize this was a trap. Instead of them being the attackers, the Germans had used the first two Fokkers as bait, just as the Spads had used their two-seater as bait. Now the tables were turned and the hunters were the hunted as the German fighters were on their tails.

The American fighters broke in different directions and the red-colored German fighters from Jasta-11 zoomed after them. One Spad burst into flames and went straight down. The two-seater started trailing smoke and part of another Spad’s wing was holed as the pilot made for low-lying smoke coming from an artillery emplacement.

A red Fokker with a white tail followed him down, shooting at every opportunity. The Spad did a quick climb but was cut off by the nimble triplane, forcing it back down closer to the Earth. As the Spad hugged the terrain, jinking side-to-side, a new menace appeared before it.

Enemy soldiers in field-gray uniforms were firing up at him from the trenches he was forced to fly over. Holes were appearing in his canvas-covered fighter as he tried to outmaneuver the red triplane on his tail. Suddenly a line of holes stitched across the “Hat in the Ring” squadron emblem painted on the side of the aircraft, and two of the bullets entered the pilot’s thigh. His reaction caused the fighter’s wingtip to touch the ground and turned the airplane into a cart wheeling ball of fire.

It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon as the white-tailed triplane flew overhead, the pilot’s blond hair peeking out beneath his leather helmet as he looked down at his kill.

Before the Spad hit the Earth, a small, two-inch silver colored globe detached itself from the fuselage, activated its mechanical wings and flitted away.

 

DATELINE: 2066 PLACE: HISTORY TRACKING CENTER, NEW YORK CITY

John Hyder shut off the hologram and looked around the table at the others of the Time Tracking group. He ran his long fingers through his blond hair as he raised his eyebrows and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, that Spad you just saw crash in France was piloted by Eddie Rickenbacker, America’s top ace of World War One.”

“Captain Eddie,” said Joseph Sergi, as the group turned toward him. He stood and started the slow pacing he usually did when in thought. With his hands deep in his pockets, Sergi looked at the ceiling and said quietly, “The world of the twenties and thirties knew him as ‘Captain Eddie.’ He downed twenty-six enemy aircraft in the First World War and became an American hero.” He returned to his seat.

Maryellen Muldey picked up the conversation. “Well, he was more than a hero of the people. He went on to become president of Eastern Airlines and was the figurehead of the aviation industry when the world was learning to fly from point to point, rather than taking a train or steamship. He was also an adviser to the president and military leaders during World War Two.” She shook her head. “This could be a huge setback for world aviation.”

Alexis Shuntly squinted through her thick glasses and asked, “So he didn’t really get shot down at all?”

Hyder answered her, “Right. He was never shot down.”

“Looks like he fell for an old trick, used over and over again by both sides, in the war,” said Sergi as he started pacing again. “It looks as though he and his two wingmen were using the two-seater as bait to lure the Germans into combat. The war was just about over in October 1918, and the pilots wanted to do two things: stay alive and get kills.” He pointed to the hologram and continued, “But it seems as though the Germans were working the same bait trick but had their fighters at an even higher altitude than Rickenbacker’s group. When Captain Eddie attacked the Germans, the higher-flying Germans attacked them from above and behind, and, I might add, they had better success at it.”

Hyder exhaled a long breath and sank deeper into the big leather chair at the head of the table. He looked up.

“I suggest we send someone back to stop Rickenbacker from flying that mission.” He looked at the group and asked, “All in favor?” Everyone nodded and said “Aye” while, at the same time, Joseph Sergi stood and shook his head.

“Nay.”

Hyder’s eyebrow shot up. “Nay?” he asked, “Why nay, Joseph? Don’t you think we have to fix this new turn of events?”

“Absolutely!” said Sergi, standing now with his hands flat on the tabletop. “But I’ve read enough about Rickenbacker to know that he’d never listen to anyone telling him not to fly a combat mission.” He raised his arms and shrugged his shoulders as he continued, “In fact, at that late point in the war, Rickenbacker flew two, and sometimes three times a day to better his score.” Sergi shook his head again. “No, I think we have to come up with a better solution than telling him not to fly a combat mission.”

The group looked at each other and finally Hyder said, “Well, I’m open to suggestions. What do we do to stop him from getting killed?”

The room was quiet. Hyder pushed back his chair and said, “Look, let’s do this. Come back tomorrow morning and hopefully we all will have at least one suggestion each, to stop him from flying, outside of hitting him over the head with a wrench. Agree?”

They agreed and Hyder declared the meeting over until nine the next morning.

 

The next day at the appointed time, the group was huddled around a small table in the corner. It was piled high with pastries and had a coffee urn and hot water for tea. Hyder looked at them and thought with a smile, “If their ideas match their appetites, we are well on our way with this mission.”

They gravitated to their seats and watched as Hyder ran the hologram again. He looked up after shutting it off.

“Ideas?” He looked at Jerry Sullivan who sat next to him, “Sully? Got anything?”

Sullivan shook his head no.

Muldey shrugged her shoulders and held up her hands in resignation. The same reaction came from all the others until Joseph Sergi’s turn.

He stood and said, “I have something that has a good chance of working, John.” He stood and crossed his arms as he looked up at the ceiling. “If we can’t stop Rickenbacker from flying, then we stop the German from downing him.”

“Stop the German from taking off?” Hyder asked. “How would we do that?”

“Not sure,” said Sergi as he shrugged his shoulders, “we have to think outside the box on this one.”

“I have an idea,” said Muldey. “I imagine we’re going to use Bill Scott’s 1800 Club. Well, why not see what ideas he may have? He’s come up with some great solutions for our problems since taking over as the club’s president.”

Hyder nodded in response. “Good idea. Let’s see how he’d handle it. All in favor?”

They all raised their hands and Hyder opened the door and motioned to Ted, the young man who was always on call when the council was in session. “Ted, will you come in, please.” Ted followed him in and closed the door behind him.

Hyder began, “We have need of Bill Scott’s services. As you know he runs The 1800 Club in 2011. I believe our contact with him is through his future grandson, Edmund Scott with our tracking group.”

Ted didn’t even open his notebook when he replied, “Yes. History Tracker Edmund Scott is his descendant. I’ll get him right away, Mr. Hyder.”

Hyder smiled as the young man left the room. “Well, let’s not let that good coffee and pastries go to waste.” They all went back for seconds.

 

An hour later Edmund Scott left the History Tracking Council’s room. In his hand, he held the group’s hologram.

 

DATELINE: DECEMBER 20, 1939 PLACE: THE RKO PROSPECT MOVIE THEATER, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

The time was nine-fifty in the evening and Bill Scott was taking in the eight o’clock showing of the movie, ‘Gone With the Wind.’ He smiled as he thought, No surround-sound or other modern technology, and to hear the audience as they first saw this Academy-award winning movie, was priceless. He looked at his box of Good and Plenty candy and chuckled again, Plus a box of candy for five cents. A guy can’t go wrong.

A slight vibration on the text communicator in his inside breast pocket got his attention. He left his seat and walked out to the lobby and stepped into a telephone booth to check the message. It was from Edmund Scott up in 2066.

“HELLO BILL. I NEED TO MEET WITH YOU. CAN YOU GIVE ME A TIME THAT’S GOOD FOR YOU? YOUR GRANDSON, EDMUND SCOTT.”

Bill quickly typed back, “I’LL BE AT THE CLUB IN ONE HOUR. WANT TO MEET ME THERE?”

The text answer was; “I’LL BE THERE. EDMUND.”

Bill put the text communicator away just as Rhett Butler said on the movie screen, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!” The gasp from the audience told him he was back in a simpler time. Missed it! Darn, he thought as he fixed his scarf and fedora, pulled on his leather gloves and pushed open the glass door to exit. He smiled as he walked past a group of people waiting in line to see this groundbreaking Hollywood extravaganza. They all dressed up to go see a movie back here, he thought as he stepped out into the cold evening, I think that’s great!

Once out in the street he ignored two taxis until a yellow, Sky-View taxi turned the corner and he flagged it down. He gave the driver the club’s address and slid back the clear glass roof to take in the fresh, cold evening air. He listened as the driver shifted gears and thought with a grin, No automatic transmissions yet, at least in the taxis.

As they sped to New York City, the time traveler looked up through the taxi’s open roof at the stars of the December evening of 1939. Going over the Brooklyn Bridge, he watched as couples strolled the bridge, hugging in the cold air. He saw the holiday lights of Brooklyn fade behind him, as the bright lights of the city got closer. They drove up Third Avenue and pulled up to the rear of The 1800 Club. He paid the driver and opened the garden gate, then the door to the staircase that took him to the large mahogany door of the club’s den, and August 2011.

 

DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY

Bill entered the den and tossed his fedora across the room, trying to land it on a peg of the mid-eighteen hundreds clothes tree in the corner. He missed. Oh well, can’t win ’em all. But, he thought with a smile, a first-run movie in 1939 and a Sky-View taxi cab ride home . . . now that’s not so bad. He loosened his tie as Matt knocked and opened the den’s door.

“Hot chocolate, sir?”

Bill walked over as Matt passed the steaming mug to him. “Thanks, Matt. Any calls?”

“No sir. Will you be wanting anything else?”

“No, thanks. In fact, in a minute or two my future grandson Edmund will be dropping by. As you know, he’ll be able to spend only a short time here, so I’ll be concentrating on him. Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?”

Matt nodded. “I’ll be in my room should you or Mr. Edmund need me, sir.” He smiled as he closed the door behind him.

Bill sank down into his favorite large, soft, leather easy chair. He was about to take a sip of the hot chocolate when there was a tap at the door and he hurriedly got up. He flung the door open and there was Edmund smiling back at him. They embraced and Bill ushered him in and sat him in the easy chair.

“Hey, young fella,” Bill asked eagerly, “how are you doing?” Then he stopped himself and instructed, “Take it slowly and breathe easy, Edmund. Talk when it’s comfortable for you.”

The young time traveler looked at his ancestor and his blue eyes showed the respect he felt for him.

“Hello, Bill,” he said quietly, “I’m fine, and you? You look great.” He pointed to Bill’s three-piece double-breasted suit and asked, “Were you out on a mission? I’d say that’s a late-thirties or early-forties-style suit.”

“Right you are, Edmund. I picked it up in 1939.” He pointed to the hat still on the floor by the clothes tree and said, “The fedora completes the outfit. But no, I wasn’t on a mission. I went to a movie theater over in Brooklyn and saw Gone With the Wind with Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh.”

“Do you know that if you ever want to see a movie, any movie” Edmund said with a wheeze, “we have every one ever made, and can send them to you immediately?”

Bill smiled and said, “It’s not so much the movie, but the audience seeing the movie for the first time. Now, that’s exciting! To watch people in an earlier time raise their eyebrows at what they consider profanity. Well, it reminds me why I love to go back.”

Edmund nodded as he fumbled with removing an electronic hologram unit from his pocket. He passed it to Bill who set it on the coffee table and activated it. Instantly, John Hyder appeared, standing as a six-inch-tall hologram.

Bill watched as Hyder’s image spoke, “Greetings from the Time Tracking Group of 2066, Bill Scott. We of the group hope you are feeling well, and of course if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to text us. We are at your call night and day.”

He hesitated a second, then continued. “Bill, this case is becoming a difficult one for us and we find ourselves placing it entirely in your hands. We are at a loss as how to approach it, except to turn it over in its entirety to you. Let me bring you up to the present, er . . . I mean, our present, your future, so to speak. It’s like this.” The small figure started to pace around his coffee table.

“World War One produced many flying aces on all sides of the hostilities. On the U.S. side, we saw Captain Eddie Rickenbacker become our top ace with twenty-six victories. He was never shot down and survived the war to become president of Eastern Airlines. He was a champion of automobile racing and an adviser to the president of the United States and the military during World War Two.” The man in the hologram paused and continued with outstretched arms.

“If he hadn’t survived the First World War, his presence would have been greatly missed. He helped forge automobile safety and, while at the helm of Eastern Airlines, fueled a rivalry with other airlines, forcing the industry to push the aviation envelope for safety and innovations. Now,” he said pointing to a slightly smaller screen, “watch what our probe returned with. I’ll narrate.”

The smaller screen came to life as Hyder continued, “What you are seeing is an Allied two-seat aircraft on a reconnaissance mission taking photographs of German trenches.”

The clip then showed two German fighters approaching. “Here we see two German Fokker triplanes getting on the recon aircraft’s tail.”

Suddenly screaming down from above came three French-built Spad XIII fighters with American markings. Hyder continued, “Three American Spads were evidently using the recon aircraft as bait and here they come swooping down on the, supposedly unaware, German fighters.”

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, came three more fighters diving from an even higher altitude and going after the three Spads. Hyder pointed to them and said, “As you can see, three red-colored German Fokker Dr.1 triplane fighters are coming down. They were using their two lower-flying fighters as bait.”

The scene became chaotic as fighters ran after, and away from other fighters. Hyder didn’t have to speak as the hologram played out the rest of the events that resulted in a German victory that day.

The smaller screen went blank and the hologram of Hyder showed him with his hands clasped in front of him. He said, “And that, Bill, is the end of Captain Eddie Rickenbacker. Killed two days before the war ended. And our computers show that should this happen, the safety programs of the automobile industry and the state of the aviation industry, will never catch up to where it is today. Countless lives will be lost both in auto and aircraft accidents. Many of these people who were killed would have become doctors, lawyers, statesmen, artists and just regular family members. This is not to mention the military advice that will not be given by Rickenbacker during World War Two. We just can’t tell how that will affect the outcome of the war.” He paused again, put his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders.

“The problem is how do we prevent this? Go back and stop him from taking that mission?” He shook his head no. “Everyone who knows about him says Rickenbacker would never miss a mission. He flew right to the end. Do we tell that German pilot who won the dogfight not to fly that day?” Hyder shrugged his shoulders. “We don’t even know who he is. We couldn’t get the tail number of his aircraft and even if we could, most didn’t have their own personal aircraft. Also, the Germans also flew right to the end of the war, especially the elite Jasta-11 fighter squadron. So, Bill, as you can see, we are in a quandary as to what to do. We hope you can help us on this one, and as usual, anything you need we will provide you. Good luck.” The hologram shut off.

Bill turned to Edmund. “Wow! Rickenbacker. That’s heavy. Got to do something about this.” He suddenly noticed Edmund’s pallor and got up. “Come on. Edmund, we’re sending you back to where you can take a good deep breath. I don’t want to be the cause of the Scott line stopping in 2066.” Bill helped his future grandson up and walked him to the door.

“Think you can work this one out?” Edmund asked as Bill gave him a hug.

“Go back and tell them it’s in the bag, sonny.” Bill smiled as he opened the door for Edmund. “I’ll text you when I have a handle on this. Tell them to relax. 2011 is on the case.”

Closing the door behind Edmund, Bill thought, Boy, this is gonna be a tough one. Got to do some research.

Going to his library, he removed a book titled ‘WWI: The War to End All Wars.’ I feel it’s going to be a long night tonight, he thought as he went back to his easy chair.

 

The grandfather clock chimed two and Bill got up and stretched. Well, he thought, I’ve learned enough about flying World War One aircraft to convince me that this isn’t a mission I should go on. Before he went to bed, he looked up the club’s dinner guest list for the next night. He slid his finger down until he came to John Brand. Yep! Johnny’s coming in tomorrow night, rather tonight, he thought, looking at the time. He turned out the light and went into his bedroom. He fell asleep recounting the first mission he had sent John Brand back on. History went off track when the Wright brothers failed to fly and the ramifications of that was World War One ended with the Germans winning . . . or that is what the computers predicted would happen if John Brand hadn’t gone back and guided the brothers to fly.

 

The next day Bill found background information on the Ninety-Fourth Fighter Squadron stationed in France during World War One and read, “Captain Edward Rickenbacker was the commander of the elite group by the end of the war. He led from the front, flying two and three missions a day. By November 1918, his score was twenty-six victories. His group flew the French-built Spad XIII, a fast, nimble single-seat fighter sporting a pair of Vicker’s machine guns. The Germans who were contesting the same skies were flying the Fokker Dr.1, an equally fast and nimble triplane with twin Spandau machine guns. The German fighters belonged to Jasta 11, Richthofen’s Flying Circus. Although the Red Baron was dead by this time, the group still was the most feared Jasta of the enemy air forces.”

A knock at his door brought him back to the job at hand. Matt opened the door a crack, put his head in and said, “The guests are ready for dinner, sir. Shall I ask them to be seated?”

Bill looked up and said, “Yes, thanks, Matt. I’ll be down in a minute.” He logged off his laptop and went to his full-length mirror. He wore a black suit with a single-button jacket pinched at the waist, with silk lapels and pocket flaps. A white shirt showed off his black string tie and black onyx cuff links. His black, high-top shoes were, as usual, shined to a mirror finish. Finally, Bill tucked a red carnation into his lapel and thought to himself, Ready Mister Scott? Ready for a walk into the past? He smiled back at himself as he answered, “Yes, Mr. Scott, I am.” He opened the door and walked down the carpeted stairs to the grand dining room.

A glance at the seating arrangements showed that on either side of him this evening, were the Border brothers. Ethan on his left and Francis to his right. Both were dressed in tuxedos of the period but as usual Ethan had a short white silk scarf around his neck while Francis wore a short black scarf.

The dinner guests rose as Bill entered the room and he motioned for them to be seated.

“Good evening, everyone. Good to see you all again and sorry I missed the cocktail hour.” He smiled as Matt pulled out his chair for him and continued, “I’m assured by the chef that the staff went overboard on tonight’s menu to commemorate the ironclad Monitor’s win over the Merrimac.” A cheer went up from the group at the long table.

Bill noted that John Brand was seated next to Thomas Cradel, the New York stockbroker. Although they were in an animated discussion, Bill caught John’s eye and nodded. John knew by the nod, that Bill wanted to chat after dinner, and nodded back.

Colonel Charles Fedders rose slightly out of his seat and addressed Bill.

“President Scott, I wonder if you might be premature by calling it a victory for the Monitor? The news reports stated that both ships retired from the area, and I feel that leaves neither able to declare itself a winner.”

Bill nodded in agreement and answered, “Correct, Colonel Fedders, quite correct. However, if I may make a judgment, I do believe the Monitor won simply by deterring the Merrimac from its assigned mission, that of destroying the Union, wooden-hulled ships, and thus breaking the blockade. So, in that, the Monitor completed its mission. I would say then, it remains to be seen, to whom history hands the victory wreath.”

Colonel Fedders raised his eyebrows and nodded yes in agreement.

“And, sir, on a different matter,” said Ethan Border to Bill, “do you not agree, Mr. President, that the correct color scarf to wear for an evening out, would be a white scarf?”

Bill smiled, as he knew how both brothers felt about the color scarf they wore.

Before he could answer, Francis said, “Ethan, please don’t put President Scott in a position that you will regret.” He turned to Bill and continued, “Sir, you need not answer this question, for I already know the answer and as a man of your intellect and bearing, there can be but one answer. But,” he pleaded, “please don’t answer this and hurt my dear brother, for he dresses as he thinks is correct, and he should not be chastised in front of such an august group as this.”

Bill looked amused but took Francis’s advice and made no reply.

 

After dinner, the guests retired to the den and most gathered around the large, unlit fireplace. Matt was circulating, pouring brandy and lighting cigars for all who wished them. Bill was about to corner John when Henry Osgood started walking toward him.

Oh no, Bill thought, here comes Osgood to preach to me of the merits of making cement wagons for the Union Army. Bill remembered that Osgood was a descendant of Henry Osgood, who owned cement factories throughout the North, and pestered anyone who would listen about his idea of making wagons made of cement.

“Impervious to fire,” he would boast, “Never would we lose cargo or men to enemy fire.”

Of course, Bill thought, he never understood the number of horses it would take to pull such monstrosities through the poor roads of the day.

As though reading Bill’s thoughts, Matt stepped in between and offered Osgood a cigar and a brandy as he winked to his boss.

Bill took the opportunity to make his way over to John and lead him to a quiet corner of the room.

He offered John his hand and both men shook hands eagerly. They had become good friends and Bill listened to John’s advice.

“John, how’s it been?”

“Good, and you?”

“Fine, just fine. Can I tap your mind later?”

“Absolutely. I have tomorrow off and miss our fireside chats.”

“Good,” said Bill as he patted John’s back. “I’ll catch you after the club empties. See you later, buddy.”

 

It was eleven-thirty when Matt closed the door behind the final guest. He went up the main staircase and tapped on Bill’s apartment door and opened it. Bill and John had just settled themselves in the deep, leather easy chairs.

“Sir,” Matt asked, “may I get you and Mr. Brand anything?”

Bill nodded and asked John, “Nice cigar and a brandy?”

John nodded in agreement. “Sounds great.”

Bill smiled and turned to Matt who was already gone. He looked at John and said as he spread out his arms in amazement, “He’s simply the best.”

John nodded in agreement.

“Listen, John,” Bill went on, “I want to show you a hologram from our friends in the future.” He got up and removed the hologram from his desk drawer and sat back down. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Eddie Rickenbacker.”

“The top American ace of World War One?” answered John. “As an aviation writer, I had better know of him.” His eyebrows furrowed as he asked, “Why? Is there a problem with Captain Eddie?”

Bill answered noncommittally, “Watch this hologram.”

 

The hologram finished and John sat quietly, thinking. A tap on the door and Matt brought the refreshments in and silently left.

John lit a cigar and said, “Bill, will you play it again, please?”

 

After watching it three times, John said, “Okay, Okay, I see what happened. The American Ninety-Fourth was using the two-seater as bait so they could make some easy kills before the war ended. Only problem is, the Germans were doing the same thing, but they took the time to climb to a higher altitude.” He pulled long on his cigar then continued.

“In air-to-air combat, altitude and speed rule. And you can convert altitude into speed by pouncing on your enemy from the greater altitude.” John shrugged his shoulders and said, “The saying was, ‘Watch the sun for the Hun.’ And it looks as though Rickenbacker didn’t check above, before diving on the bait the Germans set up, and it cost him and his men.”

“How can we prevent it from becoming a reality?” Bill asked.

John thought a moment and said, “I’m not sure. I mean, what do you do, send someone back and tell Rickenbacker to sit this mission out?” Then, answering his own question, he said, “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Bill asked.

“Why not? Because if you’ve read anything about Captain Eddie, you would know he set the rules and he played hard. He flew any mission he could. He was a great leader and wanted his group to be the best at doing what they were there for . . . downing the enemy.” With certainty, he declared, “No way you could stop him from flying that mission. Especially as the war was coming to an end.” He shook his head to emphasize his statements. “No way at all.”

“What about stopping the Germans from flying that mission? Any chance of that?” Bill asked, exhaling a good-sized smoke ring up to the ceiling.

Again John shook his head no. “They all knew each other. And, if a new guy showed up at the front, and they were even slightly suspicious of him, they’d have him checked out thoroughly.” He sat forward and tapped his cigar ash into a large round ashtray on the coffee table. “And if they thought he was a spy, it would be the firing squad for him. No, there has to be another way.”

The clock struck twelve-fifteen and John stretched as he stood. “Tell you what. I’m going to sleep on this one and get back to you tomorrow. Okay, Bill?”

Bill stood and they walked toward the door, “Fine by me. You know my library is available to you night and day should you need it.”

They shook hands and John said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bill. I’ll call first.”

“I’ll be here, John, waiting to hear from you.” Bill closed the door, and then went to get some sleep.

 

It was nine in the morning when Matt tapped on Bill’s door and entered carrying a tray of fried eggs, bacon, home-fried potatoes and rye toast. A pot of coffee gave an aroma that helped wake Bill up.

“Nine o’clock, sir. Mr. Brand called and will be here at eleven-thirty.”

“Thanks, Matt,” Bill answered as he rubbed his eyes awake. “I’ll shower after breakfast and meet him in the den.”

 

At eleven-thirty, Bill entered the den just as Matt escorted John Brand in. John was smiling from ear to ear as he patted Bill’s back.

“Got it, Bill. Pretty sure I have the answer.” He raised his hands and shrugged his shoulders as he continued, “You might think this is crazy, but I do believe it’s the only way to save Captain Eddie.”

Bill smiled back and said, “I’m all ears, John. Grab a seat and tell me about it.”

They sat in the same chairs they had the night before and John leaned forward.

“Okay, see if this sounds good to you.” He cleared his throat and started. “You have to send someone back to stop a man from flying, knowing that he won’t listen and fly anyway.”

Bill nodded in agreement and John continued, “You can’t send someone back to the German camp because he’ll most probably be exposed and jailed, or worse, shot as a spy.”

Again Bill nodded and John sat back and opened his arms wide and exclaimed triumphantly, “That means one thing. A dogfight!”

Bill looked puzzled and John sat forward again and clasped his hands.

“You have to send someone back to intercept the German aircraft before he shoots Rickenbacker down. That’s the only way to stop this from happening.” He sat back and watched Bill digest his plan.

Matt rolled in a cart with sandwiches and coffee and then left unobtrusively as the two men sat contemplating John’s scheme.

Finally, Bill stirred and asked, “You think that will work? Send a fighter pilot back to do battle with the German?”

“Yes, I do. I mean, he doesn’t have to fight the German, all he has to do is chase him off Captain Eddie’s tail before he shoots him down.”

“And no doubt you think it should be you going back to battle him?”

John shook his head no and said with some reluctance, “No, not me. I wish it could be, and believe me I tried to figure myself in, every which way. But, I always came to the same conclusion: the person who should do battle with a World War One pilot, should be someone who’s familiar with early propeller-driven aircraft. I’m too used to flying high-speed aircraft in a pressurized cockpit with power-boosted controls. No, our man has to be a cross between a World War One and a World War Two pilot.”

“So,” answered Bill, as he took an egg salad sandwich and motioned to John to help himself, “where do we find such a person? I don’t think the club has anyone who fits that description.”

“It doesn’t,” answered John, as he took a tuna on rye and a mug of coffee.

“Then, where do we get this pilot?”

John took a bite, looked Bill in the eye and said, “This is the tricky part. I know the person you can send back.”

“Who’s that?” countered Bill sitting forward again.

“Okay, we need a good, no, let’s make that an outstanding stick-and-rudder man. We need a pilot who feels comfortable in a fighter that has manual controls, not power-assisted controls. A pilot who trained to dogfight at one to two hundred miles an hour, not one who trained to fight at six hundred to one thousand miles an hour. A pilot who feels at home in an open, windy, cold, cockpit.”

“So, where do we find such a pilot?”

“My grandfather,” answered John as he sat back to watch Bill’s reaction.

Bill just looked at John and said, “So, talk to me.”

John put his coffee cup down and said emphatically, “Bill, my grandfather was a flight instructor during World War Two. Lieutenant John Brand, senior. He taught hundreds of pilots to fly in a Boeing PT-17 Stearman trainer, which was an open cockpit biplane. He has thousands of hours and was one of the best stick-and-rudder men around. No one ever bested him in simulated combat.”

Bill’s face showed concern as he asked, “Is your grandfather still alive?”

“Yep! He’s eighty-four.”

Bill nodded thoughtfully. “This is going to be tricky. You’re suggesting I go back in time, and enlist your grandfather to go back, even further in time, to have a dogfight that he might lose.” He looked at John and continued, “You know, John, if he doesn’t make it, you won’t exist at all.”

John nodded, “I know. I thought it through, but I know he’ll win. I have faith in his abilities. He was the best.”

“Did he make ace?”

John sat back as he shook his head, “No. He never saw combat. He was so good as an instructor that they wouldn’t let him leave Air Training Command. He tried every day to get into a combat unit, but they always turned him down. They constantly told him he was too important to the war effort. He was very bitter and left the Army Air Corps after the war.”

Wordlessly, Bill stood and got two cigars, handed one to John and lit both. He sat back down and said, “John, you’re asking me to send back a man who was never in combat. He never fired his guns in anger. How do we know he won’t get buck fever and be unable to pull the trigger? Besides, we don’t want him to kill anyone, just disrupt the one-on-one dogfight with Rickenbacker and the German pilot. You’re really lowering the odds of your being here if you send him back.”

John took a deep pull on his cigar and answered, “I know, and I still feel justified in having him go back. If there’s anyone who can perform this mission, it’s he.” John sat forward and said pleadingly, “And he’s not going to be around much longer. I’d sure love to give him a shot at combat. It’s all he ever wanted.”

“Is his health failing then?”

“Yes,” answered John with a grimace, “he’s had emphysema most of his adult life. He was a smoker. He’s on oxygen all the time now.” He put his cigar down and continued, “He had a tough life. Lost his wife one year after they were married giving birth to my father. Anyway, believe me he’s the one to pull this mission off.”

Bill smiled and said, “You sold me, partner. Your grandfather goes. Now, can we fix a timeline when he’s in New York, or do I have to travel in the forties?”

“Dad was stationed at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn from 1940 to 1944. After that he was stationed in Florida so we can catch him in Brooklyn.”

Bill shook his head and said, “Not we, John. I can’t let you go on this. It doesn’t feel right, him being your grandfather and all.”

John nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’d gum it up somehow. I’d be hugging him and offering all kinds of advice. You’re right, but what can I do to help?”

“Okay, now that we have a plan of action, I’ll need some information that only you know, so I can pique his interest and make him a believer in time travel.”

John grinned. “Easy! He told me a few things, as I got older, that I know he told no one else. I’ll write them down for you.”

“I’ll also need his full name, rank and any other pertinent information you can think of.”

“You got it,” John said with enthusiasm. “I’m going home to check it all out and I’ll bring it back tonight.”

“Make it tomorrow. I want to get some period clothes together and my cover story. Can you be here at ten tomorrow morning?”

“That’ll be me ringing the bell at ten sharp.”

As soon as John left, Bill summoned Matt, who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“You called, sir?”

“Yes, Matt. Will you help me put together some clothes and paperwork? I’ll be going back to 1940.”

 

At ten the next morning, Matt brought John Brand up to Bill’s apartment. He tapped on the door and Bill answered, “Come on in, guys.”

The door opened and John saw Bill dressed as an U.S. Army Captain. The insignia on his lapel denoted him as an officer in intelligence. He turned a full circle and asked, “Well, what do you think? Will I pass?”

John stood there looking at an Army officer of the 1940s. “Whew! I’m ready to salute. But tell me, why just a captain? Why not a major or colonel?”

Bill buffed the captain’s twin bars as he answered, “A captain can move around a base without making as big a fuss as a major or higher. And, a captain is higher than a Lieutenant, such as Lieutenant John Brand, Senior. Correct?”

“Correct. You’ll be just under the radar. Do you have credentials?”

Bill pulled out his passport and a set of orders. “Thanks to Matt, I’m a captain doing TDY at Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn, New York.”

“TDY? Oh, that’s right, I remember now, ‘Temporary Duty’,” said John.

“Yep! Temporary Duty. I’ll be stopping there while waiting for a flight to Europe to see how the Brits are handling the German air force. Good cover?”

John nodded and said, “And the date?”

“You said he was at Floyd Bennett in 1940. Well, that’s the date I’ll be going back to. The U.S. isn’t in the war yet and security won’t be too tight at the field yet.”

John nodded and said as he handed him a notebook page filled with notes, “Here’s the information you may need. When do you go?”

Bill pointed to his Army barracks bag. “Packed and ready to depart.” He turned to Matt and asked, “Matt, did you bring the jacket for John?”

Matt took out a tweed jacket with brown leather patches on the elbows and passed it to John.

“How about putting on this 1939 jacket and joining me for lunch at Paddy Diamonds Bar & Grill of 1939?” suggested Bill.

John fairly grabbed the jacket and as he slipped into it said, “Let’s go!”

Bill shook hands with Matt, set the time modulator to August 2, 1940, and opened the door that led to The 1800 Club’s garden.

 

DATELINE: AUGUST 2, 1940 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY

As usual the garden in this season was alive with birds and butterflies, fluttering about in a riot of color and song. It had been recently trimmed and Bill and John could smell the cut grass. Bill opened the gate and closed it behind them as they stepped out into the streets of 1940.

It was 11:37 in the morning and the streets were busy. Two boys roller-skated by and John couldn’t help but wonder how they would look at inline skates. A young girl walked by going in the other direction and both boys looked back over their shoulders and gave her a wolf whistle as she passed them.

“Some things never change,” John said to Bill, and they both laughed.

They got to Diamonds Bar & Grill and walked across the long, chipped tile floor. Bill thought as he grinned inwardly, Diamonds Bar and Grill . . . boy, no matter what the date, it never seems to change. A group of sailors were seated at the end of the bar and Bill and John opted for the middle by the beer taps.

Paddy Diamond greeted them. “Good afternoon, gents. What’ll it be?”

Bill thought as he looked at the big man, my gosh! He looks just like his father and grandfather. Finally, he said, “Burger, Paddy, well done, and a beer for me.”

He turned to John, “What about you?”

“Same, medium rare.”

The big bartender looked at Bill and asked with a furrowed brow, “Did we ever meet, Captain? I never forget a face.”

Bill smiled and answered, “No, I heard someone say your name.” He put out his hand and said, “Bill Scott and this is John Brand.”

They shook hands and Paddy pulled two tall cold beers and put them down in front of the time travelers.

“Think they’ll be a war, Cap’n?” he asked as he wiped the bar.

Bill nodded, “Hate to say it, but yes, I do think so.”

A sailor called to Paddy and he moved off to serve him.

John lifted his beer to Bill and said, “Good luck, pal. Have a successful mission.”

“Thanks, John. All I have to do is get your grandfather to complete it.”

John went silent as they both kept their thoughts to themselves. Finally, Bill said, as he tilted his head toward Paddy working the bar, “Funny, all the different years I’ve come here, it always seems the same. Big Paddy Diamond, be it the grandfather, grandson or now the great-grandson. It just feels right. Like coming home after a long journey. Its the place to go for a cold beer; good company and you can relax. It always seems the same in here, no matter what year it is.”

John smiled, “I know what you mean. It’s like ‘Diamonds is forever.’”

Bill turned to John and grew serious. “Listen, Johnny, I hope this goes as we planned. I’d hate to lose a good buddy. You know there are not too many people I can talk to about what I do for a living.”

John smiled and answered, “I know what you mean. I’d love to be able to talk to my dad about my time travel mission. (Author’s note: The Wright brother’s Mission: Book Two.) And boy, would that subject impress the ladies.”

Small talk followed and ten minutes later Paddy brought the hamburgers and deep-fried potatoes. The two had another beer, paid and left.

 

They stood outside as Bill looked for a taxi.

“Good luck, Bill, and say hi to my grandpa for me,” said John.

“I’ll see if there’s a way I can do that, John. Hope to see you in a few days.” He stopped as a cab turned the corner and he flagged it down. They shook hands and he got in.

“Floyd Bennett Field, Flatbush Avenue, Brooklyn,” he said as he sat back and watched the neighborhoods of New York City go by on a hot day in1940. Well, it’s not a Sky-View taxi, he thought, but heck, can’t be lucky all the time.

The taxi went over the Brooklyn Bridge and up Flatbush Avenue all the way to the end where the small airport was located. Bill had read all about the airport that was built in the thirties. It was hoped that it would become a major hub in the growing air transport system, but it proved to be too far away from major transportation to catch on. It saw the likes of Wiley Post, Amelia Earhart and Howard Hughes as they broke aviation records and used it as a refueling spot on the world map.

Turning in through the main gate, they stopped before a guard post. Bill got out and paid the driver who drove off. The sentry snapped to attention and Bill gave him a sharp salute as he walked over to the administration building.

So far, so good, he thought as he went up the stone steps and opened one of the double doors. He entered and at once heard the buzz of a busy military air station. The granite floors were highly polished and the hanging lights showed off the long mahogany desk behind which a group of Army Air Corp personnel were setting up flight plans, and checking weather reports.

He approached a young corporal and asked for directions to the base commander’s office. Told he had to see First Sergeant Woo, who handled all of the commander’s business, he was directed to a curved staircase that took him to the second floor. At the top was a door marked, ‘BASE COMMANDER.’ He opened it and stopped before the commander’s first sergeant and passed him his papers.

Sergeant Woo looked at his orders and with a smile said, “Colonel Hunter is in a meeting, Captain Scott.” He stamped his orders and continued, “Most likely he’ll be leaving for his home right after the meeting breaks up, and won’t be back for two days, so you’ll probably miss seeing him.” He passed back Bill’s papers and said, “We can set you up in our Bachelors Officers Quarters for a night or two. Just let me know when you have your transportation to England set up. Breakfast is from oh-five hundred to oh-seven hundred, lunch is from eleven-thirty to thirteen hundred and dinner is sixteen hundred to seventeen fifty. Cash or signature is good, and,” he waved a hand to the left, “the quarters are two huts down, right off Flatbush Avenue.” He then added, in a low confidential voice, “I suggest you take a bunk closer to the runway as there are no landings expected tonight but automobiles will be going up and down Flatbush Avenue all night.”

Bill smiled as he put away his orders. “Thank you, Sergeant, you’ve been very helpful. I’m just going to walk around the base before dinner. I’ll check back with you before I leave.”

The time traveler went to the wooden barracks that were the Officers Quarters, and dropped his bag on a bed right off the runway. Man, he thought, looking out the window at the long concrete strip, I have to get over there and check out the old aircraft. He quickly washed up and left to walk the runway.

Bill did a slow stroll as he looked at aircraft he had seen only as lawn ornaments at military bases. He was torn between watching the parked aircraft and the automobiles from the thirties drive along Flatbush Avenue, right outside the base. He felt as though his eyes were bulging and he thought, Got to pretend this is an everyday happening for me. Two mechanics walked past and he nodded, knowing that on a flight line, one didn’t salute.

He noted a group of blue and yellow biplanes with their engines running, at the side of the main runway. A group of pilots listened intently as an officer pointed out the various parts of the aircraft. Although he couldn’t hear what the man was saying, he could tell by his mannerisms that he was an instructor. Bill slowly headed toward them but stopped a short distance away and watched as the fledging pilots climbed into their aircraft, taxied to the parking stand and shut down the engines. The instructor watched every move they made and scribbled notes on a pad.

The time traveler approached a hangar with its doors opened and went in as though it were an everyday thing for him to be doing. More aircraft were parked inside. Once again he tried to be casual, but felt his heart racing as he saw history before him. He shook his head as he thought, Man, this is fantastic! You can smell the dope and shellac from the fabric covering. He stooped beneath a Boeing B-10 bomber and lovingly ran his hand along its cool belly.

“Pretty, huh, Captain?”

He looked over and saw a mechanic working on the hydraulic system of a landing gear. Bill nodded and said, “Yes, it still amazes me that something so big can fly.” The man went back to his job as Bill did a slow walk over to a yellow and blue Boeing PT-17 biplane trainer.

A mechanic was pulling on one of the many wires that held her together. Once again Bill ran his hand along the fabric-covered fuselage.

The mechanic grinned and said as he pushed back his cap, “Lieutenant Brand’s bird. He wrote her up as having a slight looseness in the left wing area, and I’m trying darn hard to find it.” He pulled slightly on a support wire, and his eyes opened wide, “Well, I’ll be a . . . this wire’s on the loose side. Got to check the adjusting crank.”

“Find it, Campbell?”

Bill and the mechanic turned to see a man walking briskly toward them from the engine shop. “I heard it rather than felt it,” he said. “It hummed differently in the wind than the other wires. Glad you located it.”

Bill saw his nametag, LT. J. BRAND.

The instructor stopped by the wing and watched Campbell adjust the wire. “Will you strum that wire, sir,” asked Brand, pointing to a wire near Bill. Bill pulled the wire taut and released it. The twang it made matched the twang that Brand’s wire made as he released his. Brand smiled.

“That’s it, then. She’s set for tomorrow’s flight. Thank you, Captain . . . ?”

Bill put out his hand. “Scott, Bill Scott and you are . . .” he said pointing to his nametag, “Lieutenant Brand?”

“Yes sir, Captain Scott. John Brand. I’m a flight instructor here. Are you new here?”

“Temporary Duty. I’ll be out of here in a day or two. On my way over to England.”

“Ahh,” said John, “on to where the war is. Lucky you.”

Bill shrugged and said in a resigned voice, “Someone has to do it.”

“Wish it was me, Captain, wish it was me.”

Bill looked up with a smile, “Listen, Lieutenant, I’m here for a night or two. I’d love to hear some real flying stories. Join me in a drink, would you?” He pointed to his insignia indicating he was from Intelligence and continued, “Where I work there isn’t too much excitement.”

John laughed. “You’re on. I’m at the Officers Quarters and I’ll be ready in thirty minutes. How’s that?”

“Perfect. I’m quartered there for tonight,”

They walked over to the sleeping quarters together.

 

Thirty minutes later they were in John Brand’s car, a dark green 1932 Ford coupe, and speeding down Flatbush Avenue. He pulled over at a small bar and grill, The Prop Wash, hopped out and led the way into the dimly lit bar.

A loud jukebox played Glenn Miller’s band, “Pennsylvania Six-Five Thousand” as shadows danced in the smoky room. John grabbed a spot at the corner of the bar and waved at some of the people on the dance floor.

The bartender came over and with a smile said, “Hi, Johnny. Ballantine?”

John nodded as he lit a cigarette and turned to Bill, “What’s your pleasure, sir?”

“I’ll have a beer, too, and forget the ‘sir’ stuff. Bill’s okay.”

The bartender put two mugs of cold beer in front of them and John reached into his pocket only to be stopped by Bill.

“On me, John. It’s my treat.” He picked up his mug and John did the same as Bill said, “Here’s to defeating gravity, whenever we can.”

John grinned, “Hear, hear,” and took a drink. He put his mug down and asked, “Do you get to fly much, Bill?”

“Naw, I took a different route. “

“Intelligence,” said John, hefting his mug of beer.

“Actually, I was Navy.”

“Navy?” asked John with a grin. “What happened? See the light?”

Now Bill laughed, “Sort of, but in my job, I can be in any branch of the service I need to be in, to complete my missions.”

John looked surprised and said, “You mean you can just go Navy, Army, Marine Corps, or Coast Guard as you wish?”

Bill shrugged his shoulders casually and replied, “Yeah, sort of like that.”

John nodded and winked. “Intelligence. Boy, you guys have it made.”

“Don’t you like it here at Floyd Bennett Field?” Bill asked as he raised his hand for the bartender who came back right away with two more beers.

“To answer that question, I love it here, but, . . . I’d give anything to go with you to England and see some action.” He took a sip of his fresh beer, put out his cigarette and lit another one as he continued, “I know a couple of guys who ‘volunteered’ for the Royal Flying Corps. They’re in combat every day with the Luftwaffe. That’s what I want, but Air Training Command says, no. They want me here to teach other people to fly.”

“Well,” answered Bill, “it is needed and from what I heard, you are the best.”

John looked up and said with a grin, “They said that, huh? They think I’m the best?” He leaned over his beer. “Well, I’ve got a mind to quit and join up with the Brits to get some action anyway.”

Bill said, “Look, let’s face it. Even if the war started tomorrow, they’re going to want to keep you right here in Training.” He took a sip and continued, “What if I gave you a chance to go into combat. What would you say to that?”

John put his beer down, threw down his cigarette and crushed it beneath his foot.

“What would I say? I’d say, damn right I want to see combat. Just tell me what I have to do?”

Bill spoke as confidentially as the din in the bar allowed, “Take six weeks leave and come with me to Europe.”

John looked like a little boy with wide eyes as he asked, “You’re not kidding? You can do that? Just take me overseas?”

“Well, kind of. I mean we have to talk some more. In a more private place.”

“There’s a coffee shop next door,” said an excited John. He lit another cigarette and finished his beer. Bill finished his too and followed him to the coffee shop.

 

They sat in a corner and ordered the shop’s specialty, grilled cheese on rye toast and coffee. They waited until their second cups of coffee before they got serious.

From his research in 2011, Bill knew that Lt. John Brand had taken two months leave of absence to think over whether or not he would join the Royal Air Force. In the end, he didn’t, but as Bill sat in the 1940 coffee shop he quickly calculated that he could use that time for the mission. As John lit another cigarette, Bill said, “Can you get two months off?”

“Yep!” he said with a big grin. “In fact, I put some paperwork through a couple of weeks ago. I wanted to spend some time just fishing and thinking. So the answer is; yes, I can get time off. But, wouldn’t this be a military transfer? And why would I need to take time off if it was?”

Bill sat forward and said in a low voice, “If I told you that I work with a certain branch of the government that can do things no one else can, would you trust me?”

“Would it get me into combat?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then yes, I trust you. What do I have to do?”

“First of all, get that two months’ leave, and we go to England.”

John looked at him with arched eyebrows. “Just like that?”

“No,” said Bill with a sly look on his face, “there’s more I have to tell you.” He sat back and John squashed his cigarette out in an ashtray only to light another. “As I said,” Bill continued, “we can do things that other branches of the military can’t do, but I have to swear you to secrecy.”

John raised his right hand and said, “I swear . . .”

Bill raised his hand and stopped him. “Good enough. You’re in.”

John raised his eyebrows and said, “That’s it? I’m in, just like that?”

Bill shrugged his shoulders and answered, “Sure, why not? You swore, right?”

John nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“All right. There’s something I want to tell you. There’s a war coming. It’ll be with Germany, Italy and Japan. You’ll become one of the best instructor pilots in the U.S. Army Air Corp. You’ll be so good, that Training Command will keep you with them throughout the war, without you ever seeing combat. But, in the hundreds of pilots you will train, sixty-two will down one enemy aircraft, thirty-six will down three, twenty-seven will down four, seventeen will become aces, fifty-six will become colonels and three will become generals.” He paused. “So, you see as an instructor you will have done much, much more than you’ll ever be able to do in combat.”

John looked stunned, then said, “What do you mean . . . you know this? How can you be so sure? Do you guys have a crystal ball or something?”

“Yes, something like that.”

The lieutenant shook his head slowly. “Sorry, Captain, I don’t buy it at all.”

Bill took out a piece of paper and glanced at it, then back at John. “I’ll tell you something no one knows but you. Okay?”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re color blind.”

John sat straight up, his eyes wide, “Wha . . .? What do you mean? I’m . . . I’m not color blind. You . . . you’re crazy.” He stubbed out his cigarette.

“There’s something else.”

John lit another smoke.

“You were married once, for three days.”

“Where are you getting this stuff?” whispered John, shaking his head.

Bill opened his hands. “I have more.”

John shook his head, “No, no more. What do you want?”

“Nothing. Don’t be silly; I’m not going to tell anyone. But I’d sure like to know how you got past the Army doctors with the color blind thing.”

“Easy,” he said smiling, “the doctor was color blind and I was dating his sister. She told me he was colorblind and I mentioned it to him. He was okay about it, as long as I didn’t tell anyone. We both turned the other eye so to speak.” He shook his head, “But how could you know that? I’m sure he never told and I never told his sister I was colorblind. And I never, ever told anyone about my three-day marriage.”

“Look,” said Bill, “I think I have your attention and I want to make sure. So, here are a few things that I know you never told anyone. You took fifty cents out of the collection plate during a church service when you were a kid. You flew under a power line upside down when you soloed away from the field. And you have two hundred and fifty dollars saved up in a glass jar buried in your mother’s backyard for your son’s college education.”

John’s jaw was hanging open as the cigarette burned down to a stub and burned his fingers. “Ouch!” he shouted, as he dropped the cigarette. “How can you know any of that? I never told anyone any of those things! What is this?”

“Listen, John, I didn’t want to bring those things up, and believe me, I’d never tell a soul, but I needed to make you understand what I have to tell you. Will you listen to me?”

John sat back and lit another cigarette, inhaled and blew out a huge cloud. “Well, seems like you have all the cards,” he said as he took a deep drag on his smoke. “You Intelligence guys are good. I have to say that.”

“My turn to let you in on a little secret I have. I’m not with Intelligence.”


“John looked at him questioningly. “What then? FBI or something?”

“John,” Bill said as he took a sip of coffee, “my department has invented the time machine. That’s how I know these things.”

John squinted and said, “Get out of here,” but his whispered tone let Bill know that John would be only too happy to believe this was how his innermost secrets had been revealed.

Bill nodded and said, “It’s for real. That’s how I know of your war record.”

“And other things,” John added.

“Yes, and other things too. But I looked for those things simply to make you a believer. I mean, let’s face it. If I told you things everyone knew about you, you’d laugh at me.”

John sat forward and asked, “So, if this is true, what does the government do with this time travel gizmo?”

“Let’s say we fix history to stay on course.”

“That’s it?” asked John with his arms wide open. “That’s how you use it? I mean, why not shoot this Hitler guy?”

Bill shook his head, “The time I come from has history already written, and I can’t change it. All I can do is fix it if it starts going off course.”

“So, what part of history are you here to fix then?”

“Actually, it’s history that was played out twenty-two years ago. I’m sure you know of Eddie Rickenbacker?”

John nodded. “Sure do. Captain Eddie is the tops. He downed twenty-six enemy aircraft.” John continued, with obvious admiration, “Now, that’s flying.” He suddenly looked squarely at Bill and said, “And now you say I don’t get into combat in the next one? Boy, I sure do hope you’re wrong.”

Bill shook his head no, “I’m not wrong. You stay in Training Command for the duration.”

“So, how are you going to get me some combat time, if you say I don’t get any?”

“You don’t get any combat time,” answered Bill as he finished his coffee, “in this coming war. But you can get combat time in the last war. Interested?”

John stared at him for only a second, then said, “You mean fly combat in the Great War? Am I interested? Darn tootin’ I’m interested. I was weaned on air stories of The Red Baron, Lufberry, McCuddon and all of the great aces. So, yes, I’m interested.” He squashed out his half-smoked cigarette and continued, “That is, if this time gizmo of yours is for real.”

“Want to take a short trip back?” asked Bill.

“To where?” asked a still-unconvinced John.

“What would you like to do if you could travel back?” came the answer as John found the man’s excitement building.

“I’d love to watch Lindbergh take off on his transatlantic flight. When can we go?”

“Is now good for you?”

John blinked and stood as he squashed out his cigarette, “I’m ready.”

Bill smiled as he put down the money plus a tip and stood beside him. “Then let’s go.”

Once back in John’s car they drove back the same way Bill had come to the field and in an hour they had parked outside The 1800 Club’s garden. John followed Bill through the gate and watched as he opened the heavy door leading to the stairs up to the club. Bill took the stairs two at a time with John close behind.

DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY

Bill opened a second door and John saw a well-decorated room with eighteenth-century furniture.

“Nice,” he said. “Your place, Captain?”

“Yes, but stay with Bill, John. I was never a captain. In fact, I was never in the Army.”

John appeared to be a bit on guard and asked, “So, why are we here?”

Bill took his jacket off and answered as he pointed to John’s uniform. “Can’t go back to 1927 in 1940 clothing, right?”

“Mmm,” answered John, “guess you’re right. So, what do we do?”

Bill went to an intercom and pressed a button. Matt instantly answered, “You rang, sir?”

“Hi, Matt,” answered Bill. “I need a change of clothes for 1927. I’d like to keep it civilian and casual. Also, one hundred dollars and some coins. Plus, we have a male guest who has to be outfitted pretty much the same. Oh, and Matt, the clothing should be for springtime. Okay?”

“Yes sir, I’ll be up in a few minutes with an outfit for you and I’ll take some measurements for your guest.”

Bill pointed to an easy chair and John sat down, bewildered. “Cigar?” Bill asked, and at John’s nod passed him one, lit it and lit one for himself.

John inhaled and asked in a low tone as he looked around, “Where are we?”

“My club. But it’s not where, but when, that’s important. I brought you up to the year 2011.”

“Are you for real?” John asked as he squinted through a puff of white smoke.

“Yep! But now’s not the time to show you around. We have to get set for 1927.”

John shook his head and said, “This is the most unbelievable thing that ever happened to me. If you pull off the Lindbergh thing, I’ll believe anything.”

Two minutes later, Matt came into the den and handed Bill an outfit of gray tweed pants, a white collarless shirt, suspenders and brown high-top shoes along with a low, peaked cap. A tan jacket finished the outfit. He then turned to John and took his measurements.

Bill sat and opened his laptop as John watched with eyes wide.

“What are you doing? What is that thing you’re typing on?”

“I’ll fill you in later. Right now it’s telling me that Charles Lindbergh took off from Roosevelt Field on Long Island, New York, at exactly seven fifty-two in the morning. I just want to make sure we get there on time.”

Twenty minutes later John was dressed along the same lines as Bill. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. “Just like a guy in the twenties. Boy, you folks seem to be set for anything.”

“Shall we go to see Lindbergh off?

“Ready when you are,” answered an assured John.

Bill set the Time Exchanger to May 20, 1927, at five o’clock in the morning. He opened the door and they both went downstairs.

 

DATELINE: MAY 20, 1927 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY

When Bill opened the door, everything looked pretty much the same until John said, “Hey, where’s my car? It’s been stolen!”

Bill laughed and said, “Shh, don’t wake the neighborhood. It’s five in the morning, and your car won’t be here for another thirteen years. Remember? You parked it here in 1940.”

John shook his head. “Oh, wow! So we did it then? This is really 1927?”

“Yep! And now we have to catch a cab to take us to the field.”

Bill opened the gate and they walked a few blocks with John gawking at everything along the way. Finally, they saw a taxicab. Bill flagged it down and they got in.

Traffic was light as they drove through an early morning fog. John’s head seemed to be on a swivel as he took in all the sights along the way. Finally, they reached a foggy Roosevelt Field at five forty-five. Bill asked the driver to wait for them until eight o’clock, knowing that Lindbergh’s aircraft, “The Spirit of St. Louis,” would be gone by then, and gave him a large tip.

They put up their collars against the morning mist and walked toward to the hangar that housed Lindbergh’s aircraft.

John shook his head as he asked, “Jeeze! This is for real isn’t it, Bill? We’re really back in ’27 and gonna see Lindy take off.”

Bill’s grin gave him the answer he wanted.

A small group of reporters were bunched together smoking and drinking from flasks, as they looked skyward.

“Two bucks says he scratches the flight,” said Ted Robinsen of the Daily News.

Kerry Allisen of the Mirror said, “You’re on, Robinsen. I saw the look in his eyes. He’s going.”

Just then a third reporter whispered, “Shhh, here he comes.”

They all looked as a tall, lanky man dressed in brown riding pants, white shirt and a brown jacket, walked out of the hangar and looked up at the scudding gray clouds.

Bill tapped John on his shoulder and said in a low voice, “What a moment, huh, John?”

John just stood transfixed as Lindbergh went back inside.

Suddenly the hangar doors began a low groan as the pilot and his mechanics slowly pushed them open. They then started to push out the fuel-heavy airplane. John looked at Bill, and they both ran over to help push the aircraft as it waddled on its fat tires onto the muddy grass field. It took ten minutes to place her at the takeoff point. Lindbergh nodded his thanks as John took out a cigarette.

“Cigarette, Mr. Lindbergh?”

The tall man smiled and shook his head, “Thanks, no. They stunt your growth.”

The small crowd laughed at his remark, and John smiled as he put the cigarette away. His trained eye spotted a small break in the grayness and he pointed to it. Lindbergh gave him the universal ‘thumbs up’ sign, climbed into the small cockpit and at seven-forty started his engine. It coughed at first in the damp air, then purred smoothly as he gently ran it up and then back down as he checked the gauges. Then, without any fanfare, he stuck his head out the right window and shouted, “Clear?”

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 right. 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.

The night was getting chilly and he knew winter was on the way. Funny, he thought, I just left August and here it is October. He smiled as he thought again, Even funnier, I left in 1940, then 2011 and I’m here in 1918. A sudden blast from the steam whistle snapped him out of his dreaming as it announced the ship’s departure.

Before long, John watched as they glided past the Statue of Liberty, then Coney Island, followed by a spot of land that would become Floyd Bennett Field. He threw an imaginary salute at his future base and went below deck.

The other bed had a limp body in it. John said quietly, “Hello. John Brand, Captain, U.S. Army. How are you feeling?”

A pale face appeared from beneath the brown army blanket. Wild dark hair was matted across a damp forehead.

“Major Frank Duffy, Signal Corps and sick as a dog, John. I’m probably gonna die right here on this dang boat before I get to the trenches.”

“Want me to get you some dry crackers or something, Major?”

“Uuughh, no,” Duffy moaned as he turned over, “thanks anyway. I’m just gonna die here tonight.”

John laughed to himself, as he got ready for bed. The ship’s rolling motion kept Frank awake but put John to sleep right away.

 

Most of the trip saw John reading all he could about the flying tactics of the day, and thinking of how best to incorporate the World War One and his era into a winning combination. He went over one point constantly. How can I slow the Spad down when the Fokker is on my tail? I’ve got to let him overshoot and slide in front of me so I can get on his tail. But how?

He tried working out that problem during his trip to France, which turned out to be sixteen days long because of submarine scares. He exercised daily with the other troops and ate in the ship’s chow hall. The food’s terrible, but there’s plenty of it, the saying went. He also joined the troops at the stern of the ship as they shot at bottles they threw overboard, sharpening his marksmanship at bobbing targets.

Because Major Duffy hardly ever left the cabin and John wanted fresh air, they hardly ever talked.

Finally, at two on the afternoon of November 6th, they docked at Le Havre, France. John shook hands with a visibly weak Frank Duffy and they parted ways as John joined the other troops leaving the ship.

Near the dock, he went to the Military Assignment Center. He again showed his travel orders to a sergeant who pointed him to a French-built truck that was going to Le Petit Quevilly Aerodrome.

“From there, Cap’n, ya’ll can git a flying machine to the Ninety-Fourth group stationed at Toul,” he offered as he spit a long black slug of tobacco juice into an empty shell case. “Private Dillon,” he called to the driver, “ya’ll got a passenger ta take up ta Le Petit Quevilly.” He turned back to John and said, “Jus’ throw yer bag in the back o’ the truck, Cap’n.”

The driver waved him over to his truck and John threw his bag in the back.

“Say, Captain, will ya give me a hand startin’ her up?”

John found himself with a hand crank in front of the truck.

The private waved and shouted, “Now, Captain, crank her now.”

John cranked the hand crank around three times and the engine started in a puff of blue smoke and wild vibrations. He hopped in beside the private who didn’t seem to use the clutch as he shifted, and with a lurch, the truck trundled off at a fast pace for its day.

One hour later it started to rain. The truck’s cab had a canvas roof, which they unrolled from the back and attached to the top of the windshield. But the plastic side windows were missing so John and the driver sat as close to each other as possible to stay out of the rain that pelted them from both sides. The deepening mud started to slow the truck down just as they reached Le Petit Quevilly Aerodrome.

John thanked the driver, grabbed his bag and ran into the operation’s tent. He noticed it was leaking inside, almost as much as it was raining outside. A group of men sat around a potbelly stove that was trying to heat the damp tent.

A sergeant sitting on his cot, which was pulled close to a large and very, nicked and scratched wooden desk looked up, “Evening, Captain. Passing through?”

John shook the rain off his hat and answered as he moved close to the stove, “I was told I could hop a flight up to Toul.”

“The Ninety-Fourth?”

“Yes,” John nodded, “the Ninety-Fourth.”

“Going up to interview Rickenbacker?”

John looked perplexed. “Interview him? No, actually I’m going to fly with the group.”

“Excuse me, Captain,” said the sergeant, “but why? The war’s almost over but the krauts can still kill ya.” He looked up at the tent’s ceiling then checked a slip of paper attached to a clipboard and continued, “Mostly just Army Public Relations officers going up there these days to talk to him.” He ran a finger down the list on the paper and said, “If it lets up, Lieutenant Reese will take a Bristol two-seater up there to pick up some recon film they have for headquarters. You can grab the back seat. Have you ever used a Lewis?”

“Yes, but not on an aircraft,”

“No problem. If a Hun does show up just spray it at him to keep him off balance until Reese can find a cloud to duck into.” He pointed to a coffeepot atop the stove. “While you’re waiting, grab a mug and have some coffee.”

John smiled as he realized that no matter the date was it was still the same U.S. Army, and it lived on coffee.

He poured himself a cup, and walked around taking it all in. At first he felt conspicuous in his new uniform while all the “old hands” were in worn and sometimes tattered uniforms. But, he thought as he looked around, I’m here! I’m really back here! This is great. To be with the guys who defined air power, the legends that pushed aviation forward. This is fantastic! He sat on an empty ammo box and watched as pilots and mechanics came and left the tent, grabbing coffee or doing paperwork. Except for the cut of their uniforms, this could be any airbase in 1940, he thought as he sipped his drink.

Two mugs of coffee later, a short, thin man with a huge red handlebar mustache who was napping on a cot, stood, stretched and casually strolled over to the tent flap. He poked his head out then turned back inside and said to the group, “Think I’m gonna give it a try, guys. Don’t want to wait ‘till it gets dark.” He looked at John and with a shrug said, “Captain, I’m Reese. Still want to take a hop?”

John jumped up and grabbed his bag, “Sure do. Got room for this?”

The pilot nodded, “Sure, in the camera bay. It’s empty.” He threw John a well-worn leather flying helmet, goggles and gloves. He pointed to a fleece-lined flying coat hanging on a peg on a tent pole. “You can borrow that, Cap’n. Sorry, we’re outta flying boots, I think someone sold it to the Frenchies for some wine.” He rolled his eyes as more than one pilot laughed.

Reese walked outside and John followed him into the light rain as he tried to get the bulky clothes on and step around the mud puddles at the same time. The pilot waved to a mechanic sitting inside a hangar. The mechanic frowned as he pulled his jacket over his head and ran with them to the aircraft. Reese opened the side camera bay and John stuffed his bag in, then climbed into the back of the two seat aircraft and strapped himself in.

He noted the Lewis machine gun was facing the rear and was locked down and covered by a tarp. Under the cockpit opening were three drums of ammunition strapped to a wooden brace.

The pilot got in the front cockpit and the mechanic went to the front of the aircraft, grabbed the propeller and shouted, “Contact!”

Reese threw a switch on his console and shouted back, “Contact!”

The mechanic pulled the prop through a turn and the engine sputtered and died. He pulled the prop through again and was rewarded with a pop, and a belch of smoke. The engine didn’t catch and Reese cursed anything he could blame for having to fly in this weather. The mechanic tried again and the engine suddenly caught. The spinning prop sent rain, fumes and castor oil back into their faces getting more curses from the pilot.

Reese nursed the Bristol’s engine while it rumbled and shook as it warmed up. He inched the throttle forward and the aircraft started to move ever so slowly. It was the muddy field that made the going sluggish, and John saw mud flinging past as the prop blew it back. Finally, after rumbling down the mud and waterlogged grass field, the tail came up, followed by less bumping, then they were off and climbing for altitude.

John wiped his wet goggles and looked down at the trenches as they flew over them. He couldn’t believe how torn up the entire area was. It was pockmarked with shell holes that were mostly filled with dirty water. Another thought hit him, Boy! It’s damn cold up here! They don’t close down the war because of rainy weather . . . no, this isn’t like a training hop. He tried to get lower in his cockpit and avoid the wind and rain. It didn’t work. The rain pelted and stung his face and the icy water trickled down his neck.

They skimmed low to stay under the clouds and suddenly Reese began frantically pointing upward. John looked and saw another aircraft off to the right at a slightly higher altitude. He looked at Reese who was pointing at the Lewis still locked down. John suddenly understood what the pilot was shouting about, a German aircraft was setting up for a run at them.

He quickly unlocked the gun, threw the tarp away and grabbed a drum of ammo, only to watch it float away from his grasp as Reese dipped his aircraft lower. John used both hands on another drum, only to have the unlimbered Lewis machine gun swing around and hit his arm, causing him to drop it out of reach down in the aircraft’s belly. He fumbled with the clasp that held the last drum attached to the aircraft and finally, in desperation, took off his bulky gloves only to watch as they flew out of the aircraft.

Suddenly three holes appeared in the canvas between him and Reese. At first the time traveler was perplexed, then shocked as he realized the little holes were made by the German’s machine gun bullets.

My God! He thought, as he frantically grabbed the last drum while trying to stabilize the Lewis and see where the enemy aircraft was, all at the same time. He inserted the ammo drum into the chamber and scraped his knuckles on the charging handle as Reese suddenly dived even lower.

They now skimmed over barbed wire entanglements and rusted hulks of destroyed vehicles. Finally, John saw where Reese was pointing and found the Hun’s aircraft in a slight dive toward them. The enemy could only perform a shallow dive because they were so close to the ground and John tried to get his sights on him. Reese was jinking and dodging, left and right, making it impossible for John to draw a bead on the enemy airplane who was intent on shooting them down. Reese suddenly slid the aircraft so they were flying side-by-side for a fraction of a second giving John a good shot.

Suddenly, John remembered, Hey! I can’t kill this guy! I’m not allowed to kill anyone who didn’t die in this war and I don’t know if this fellow made it or not. He calmly squeezed off a few shots of fiery tracer shells at the German’s tail and was surprised to see him climb up and away.

John was puzzled until he realized, Heck! He doesn’t want to die either, especially this late in the war. He tried to unwind, but as he looked at his hands he realized his knuckles were white as he gripped the Lewis. Wow, he thought as he scanned the sky, will I be able to pull this off? There’s so much going on at once. It’s not like grading some air cadets for formation flying: this is the real thing! He shook his head as Reese dipped the nose again making John apprehensive. Does he see something I don’t? He thought craning his neck around.

Then it seemed to all unfold at once. Straight-ahead was an airfield. The hangars popped up suddenly as he discerned the camouflage from the background. Tiny Spad fighters were parked all around the field, some taxiing, some being worked on and a few in the landing pattern.

Reese greased the two-seater onto the slick grass runway and got out, lighting a cigarette as calmly as could be. John sat in his rear seat totally fatigued and wet with sweat and rain. A mechanic walked toward him looking to see if he was hit, so John hopped out as nimbly as possible. He opened the hatch which had two more holes drilled through it, retrieved his bag and stuffed the flying clothes in it before securing the hatch.

Maybe they won’t miss the gloves. He thought as he walked toward the operation’s tent. His legs felt rubbery and he cringed as he walked on shaky legs. Damn! He thought, just like I tell my recruits, combat is dangerous stuff. But now I truly know it is! He removed the flying coat and noticed two huge sweat stains beneath his armpits.

Following his pilot into the operations tent, he was struck once again by the informality of the men, and the smell of mildewed canvas tents and clothing. Most were dressed in old flying clothes as if they had just come back or were going out on missions.

As usual it was a sergeant who seemed to be running the place. The bushy-haired young man looked up from his paperwork and said, “Hi, Captain. Can I help you?”

“He’s from Air Training Command and is gonna fly with you guys,” said Lieutenant Reese as he gulped down a mug of coffee in the corner. “He’s a pretty darn good shot too, boys. Kept a Hun Fokker fighter off my tail.”

I did? John thought handing the sergeant his orders.

“Looking to get some combat time, huh, Captain?”

John nodded, “The brass thought it’d be a good idea to get some combat experience to pass on to the boys back at Air Training Command.”

“Well,” said a tall captain who had walked into the tent,” then you better hurry up. The Boche seems to be runnin’ out of gas.” He stepped forward and offered his hand. He was dressed in a brown Army uniform with a Sam Browne belt strapped across his chest, “Captain Eddie Rickenbacker,” he said, “I’m the commander of the Ninety-Fourth Squadron.”

John shook his hand and said in awe, “Captain John Brand. Pleased to meet you, sir. I’ve read lots about you.”

“Lies, John, all lies,” Rickenbacker said with the big grin he was known for. “The Public Affairs Officer likes to make sure the Army Air Corps gets to look good in the papers.” He waved an arm around the tent as he continued; “These are the people who keep the Corps in the good light. They’re flying sunup to sundown trying to catch the Hun before the sport disappears.” He motioned to the tent flap and said, “Sounds like the brass have finally come up with a good idea. Come with me. I’ll see to getting you a spot to put that bag down, and we can talk about getting you up there with us.”

They walked in the light rain across the muddy path on wooden boards that threatened to sink into the mire. Rickenbacker seemed to know everyone’s first name and acknowledged them all, while throwing easy salutes in return.

They got to another tent, smaller than the first, with four cots surrounding a potbelly stove. John noticed the many damp patches in the ceiling of the tent.

“Sorry about the lack of permanent structures, John, but we keep moving around a lot and this is what we have to live in right now.” He pointed to an empty bed and said, “Throw your bag there and follow me to the hangar.”

John dropped his bag, and they were out of the tent again, once more following the planks to another, larger tent, with the words ‘MAINTENANCE’ painted on the front.

This tent had partial wooden structures supporting the canvas ceiling. As they walked in, the smell of gasoline, mingled with castor oil and grease, permeated the dank air.

Rickenbacker took a deep breath and said with a smile on his lips and his eyes shut, “Smell that Captain? That’s the smell of an exhilarating form of movement . . . flight! This is what makes us so different from the ground-pounding soldiers.” He held his arms out straight and continued, “Don’t get me wrong. We need them and couldn’t make it all work without them, but flying is the thing. And we couldn’t leave the earth without the miracles our mechanics perform every day in keeping the kites airworthy.”

John nodded and said, “I couldn’t agree more with you there, Captain.”

Three mechanics were working on a Spad and John walked closer in awe. He touched the side and Rickenbacker asked, as he spotted the love John had in his eyes for the nimble fighter, “So, John, how many flight hours do you have?”

The time traveler suddenly thought, I couldn’t tell him I have over nine hundred and thirty hours. He’d look at me like I’m crazy. “About two hundred and forty-six,” he answered.

“And what’s the reason,” Rickenbacker asked, “that Air Training Headquarters sent you way out here to possibly get your head shot off so late in the war?”

“Actually, to tell you the truth, it was my idea.” John said continuing his cover story. “I told them it’d be good to get some real combat time so I can pass it on to the students and they agreed. But I just wish I’d thought of suggesting that earlier.”

“So, you wanted to get in the scrap sooner?”

“Whoa, did I! I tried everything I could think of. But, no, they wanted to keep me in Air Training Command. That is until I gave them the idea of imparting real combat experience to the students. Then, of course, it became their idea.”

“Ha! I know what you mean.” Rickenbacker said as he slapped John on his shoulder, “Well, first thing tomorrow morning, you and I go up for a test flight. How many hours do you have in a Spad?”

“Four,” John lied.

“Not to worry,” answered the commander, “it’s like riding a bike. If you flew one type, you’ll catch on real fast to this baby. Anything else? I have some paperwork I have to do before I turn in.”

“I just want to get some chow, but I have one request.”

“Sure, what’s that?”

“Tonight I’d like to take apart the Vickers machine guns that will be on my Spad, and give it a good cleaning. Along with the bullets.”

Rickenbacker laughed and once again slapped him on the back. “Ha, that’s just like me. I like to take care of the things that I don’t want to fail at a crucial moment.” He nodded and said, “You got it.” He pointed to an officer working in the tent’s corner. “Go see Lieutenant Belli, our armament officer, and tell him I said it’s okay. Now, I have to run. The orderly will wake you at four. We want to get in the air before the sun comes up.”

The slim, light haired armament officer was doing some paperwork in a small cubicle at the corner of the maintenance tent when John approached him with his request.

“Welcome to the squadron, and no problem with that request, captain,” he said as he stood and shook John’s hand. “I’ll have one of my men clean up a workbench for you, and lay out two Vickers guns and belts of ammo for you.”

Belli thought the new captain was odd, but let him come back with a sandwich and coffee and take apart the twin Vickers machine guns and reassemble them. He watched as he did his paperwork, as John took the belts of .30 caliber bullets and cleaned each bullet individually, then placed them back in the canvas feed belt.

 

It took John three hours to complete his task and he thought with satisfaction, Glad I checked that ammo. He fingered six of the bullets that were dented or had sand on them. Those dents and sand are enough to jam the guns. Four possible duds were tossed away.

Finally, he walked back to his tent and was in bed by ten o’clock. Snores from the other three bunks told him he was the last one in and he tied the tent flap. He saw a towel tied to the bottom of his cot and he grinned. The tied towel was the standard sign for, ‘wake this guy up’ so the duty sergeant wouldn’t wake the wrong men up. He had planned on reliving his first taste of combat, but was asleep as soon as he hit the sack.

 

At exactly four, the next morning he was shaken awake by the orderly as Rickenbacker had predicted. As John got out of bed, he became aware that he had butterflies in his stomach. The other three men in the tent slept through his bumping in the dark, as he got dressed.

He finally left and made it to the only light on the dark and foggy field, the mess tent. Inside sat Rickenbacker and another officer.

Rickenbacker waved him a greeting. “Over here, John,” he said, patting a wooden bench seat. He pushed a pot of hot coffee toward him along with a chipped mug.

“This is Captain Kenny our operation’s officer. He’ll get you some flight gear. You best have some coffee first. Believe me, it only gets worse as Cookie boils it more.”

John shook hands with Kenny, finished his coffee, and then all three left and went to one of the canvas hangar. As they entered John saw that it was filled with various types of flying gear: boots, helmets, heavy pants, coats and long gloves all designed to keep the pilots warm at altitude.

Kenny gave him a pair of the long, fleece-lined, chest-high pants with wide suspenders to keep them up, followed by high fur boots. The jacket was leather with a fur collar and the ever-present silk scarf, which would be used to wrap around the lower half of his face. John knew it was used to cover the pilot’s nose to keep the oil fumes from being breathed. Finally, he put on his leather helmet and goggles and was handed long, fur gloves.

Rickenbacker stood back with his hands on his hips and grinned. “Well, you’re as ready as I can make you. Be sure to keep your mouth and nose covered with that scarf.”

John nodded, “I know, oil fumes.”

“Not just oil fumes John,” said Rickenbacker with a knowing grin. “The engine uses castor oil for lubrication and if a pilot ingests enough of that he gets a sever case of the trots.”

John shrugged his shoulders, Boy. Learn something new every day, he thought as he tightened his scarf

“Now,” said the commander, “let’s waddle out to Number 13.” He looked at John and, still smiling, asked, “Are you superstitious?”

“No, knock on wood.”

Rickenbacker laughed and said as his grin disappeared to show his business side, “Here’s the plan. I take off, with you thirty seconds behind me. We do a left-hand turn and form up over the field. We’re just doing a familiarization flight, checking out the area so you don’t get lost. Then we separate and come at each other and do a little playing. If I put my hand straight up, it means stop, form up, and we land. If your kite’s engine acts up just put her down anywhere. Got it?”

John nodded as they stopped in front of Number 13.

Rickenbacker patted the side. “She’s good and reliable. A little long in the tooth, but a proven steed. And Lieutenant Belli says you serviced her guns yourself.” He motioned to John, saying, “Check her out then climb in and I’ll meet you on the field.”

John followed his lead and started his walk-around of the aircraft. He looked at the wiring on the engine, then the fittings to make sure they were tight. Next he actually kicked the tire and pulled on the wire bracings as he had done on his Boeing trainer many times before. He pulled down on the ailerons, pushed the rudder back and forth, and ended the pre-flight check by lifting and lowering the elevator. He looked up at her and thought, well, all seems tight where they’re supposed to be tight, and loose where they’re supposed to be loose. It’s show time, John.

Two mechanics helped him push the fighter out of the hangar. Once on the dew slicked grass he got into his seat, and a mechanic hopped up on his wing and helped him strap up. He put on his long gloves and thought, No parachute. And this is what they called the good old days?

The mechanic climbed down and went to the front of the aircraft. He put both hands on the prop and called, “Contact!”

John called back, “Contact,” as he threw the switch to the ‘on’ position.

The mechanic pulled the propeller through one turn. Nothing happened. He pulled it through again, and again, nothing. The third time the engine coughed to life and the machine started making the same vibration he experienced in the simulator.

As the time traveler watched for other airplanes, he suddenly thought, Not only am I doing this, but also I’m not nervous at all. His training had kicked in and he had become an aviator again, at one with his aircraft. Nineteen-eighteen or nineteen-forty, he thought, flying is still flying. The rules are the same; it’s just a different machine. He looked to both sides as he slowly rolled over the slightly uneven grass parking area and used the rudder to make turns to avoid parked aircraft and fueling trucks.

Finally on the empty grass field, he saw Rickenbacker waiting, his engine idling. John pulled up next to him and the commander nodded his head as he gunned his little machine and it trundled down the field, becoming airborne in less than one hundred feet.

John counted to thirty and opened his throttle and quickly picked up speed.

Wow! It feels just like the simulator, he thought as he rolled down the runway. He watched the speedometer and when it reached thirty-six miles an hour, gently pulled the control stick back and immediately got the feeling he loved so much; liftoff!

He did a gentle left-hand turn and formed up with Rickenbacker at five hundred feet. He followed the commander as he did some easy turns, each one getting tighter. He wants to see how I handle a stall, John thought.

As the turns became tighter, he felt his aircraft start to shake. Losing airflow over the wings, he thought, as Rickenbacker watched him with a smile. Suddenly his aircraft stalled and started a fluttering dive toward Earth. John automatically pushed the nose down and added more power. The Spad quickly righted itself and he climbed back up to Rickenbacker’s tail. John smiled to himself as he realized his training had kicked in automatically.

Looking back past his tail at him, Rickenbacker knew John was looking to dogfight. He obliged him by doing a quick pull up and went into a roll at the top as he looked back for John. He smiled at seeing John still on his tail. Rickenbacker quickly pushed his nose down. He knew that for a split second he was out of John’s sight, because the nose of John’s aircraft would be in the way, so he quickly rolled to the left. He watched John go by, still looking forward expecting to see Rickenbacker in front of him. With a grin, he quickly pulled up and was on John’s tail.

John saw him in his rear view mirror and tried to shake him, but he couldn’t. He zoomed and dived doing everything he knew from Air Training Command, but Captain Eddie knew them all. John cut his engine power back to idle hoping the commander would overshoot and end up in front of him, but Rickenbacker was on to that old trick and simply cut his to match John’s speed and stay on his tail.

Finally, Rickenbacker pulled up beside him and raised his arm.

Time to land, John thought, looking for the field. He followed Rickenbacker to the aerodrome and they landed.

Hopping out of his Spad, John smiled as he realized he felt comfortable in the nimble fighter. Maybe I will be able to pull this off after all, he thought.

They went back to the operations tent and as he stripped off his flying togs, Rickenbacker turned to him and said, “That was some pretty nice flying John, how about some breakfast?”

John grinned and nodded. He felt like a million bucks! They walked on the planks back to the chow hall.

 

After sitting with some coffee and doughnuts, Rickenbacker said, “Well John, I think you have what it takes to go up against the Hun. I don’t know how you are at handling the guns, but I have to assume that a man who takes the time to clean his guns and ammo is able to take care of himself.”

Two other pilots joined them and the commander introduced them, “John Brand, Captain Tom Dowd and Lieutenant Divers. They’ll be flying with me on the eleven o’clock sortie.” The commander looked at his watch then dipped a doughnut into his coffee and continued, “I’m leading that sweep over the trenches in one hour John, want to join us?”

John answered immediately, “Yes, sir, I sure do!”

“Good. Then you stick with me. There’ll be four of us and we’re going to fly over the front for ten miles and we’ll see if any Huns want to come up to play. If they do, don’t take any chances for now, unless you get a good, clean shot.” He dipped the last of his doughnut in his coffee and downed it. “You can go in Number 13. Double check and make sure that Belli put the two Vickers guns you cleaned last night, onto that Spad. Okay?”

“I’m on my way, sir,” John said as he left the tent.

 

One hour later the four Spads warmed up on the grass. A green flare arched up over the field, and Rickenbacker reacted by gunning his engine. The others followed at thirty-second intervals with John as the second man in the flight. He was told by Rickenbacker to stay close to him and he did. John had always handled formation flying better than most, and this time he was Rickenbacker’s shadow. He was pleased to see the commander give him a thumb’s up after they formed up and circled the field. After a few minutes flying east, Rickenbacker pointed down and the four fighters went low and just skimmed over the trenches of no-mans-land.

The area between the lines was empty of movement, but when they reached the German lines, any of the gray clad troops they saw took a pot shot at them as they zipped past them at over one hundred and ten miles an hour.

Suddenly an airfield appeared beneath his wings and Rickenbacker buzzed the runway, which was empty of aircraft. A few puffs of black and red smoke told John that it was an enemy runway they buzzed, and he instinctively ducked as the anti-aircraft artillery shot up at them.

They circled the airfield for twenty minutes, dodging an ever-increasing barrage of anti-aircraft fire, when their leader waggled his wings as he called off the mission. The German air force decided to sit this one out, so they returned to their aerodrome and all started doing mock dogfights against each other.

Rickenbacker started by doing a loop and getting on the tail of Dowd. Because John stuck close to his leader, he was doing the same maneuvers that his leader was. Suddenly, John looked back and spotted Divers just as Divers got on his tail. John immediately pulled the same maneuver that Rickenbacker had pulled on him that morning and was soon on Divers’ tail. Utilizing every tactic he knew of dog fighting, John stuck to Divers through every gyration the man performed. Finally, Rickenbacker raised his arm and the four landed.

On the way back to the operation’s tent after landing, Divers slapped his back. “Dang! John, you got some great moves.”

John laughed and answered, “Captain Rickenbacker taught me that one just this morning.”

Divers and Dowd went back to their tent and John asked Rickenbacker, “Sir, I have an idea that can give us an advantage over the Hun should he decide to tangle with the group. Mind if I tinker with Number 13?”

Rickenbacker slapped his back and answered, “Any new trick you guys come up with in the States that’ll keep us alive, I’m all for. Go ahead, and tell Lieutenant Belli I said to give you all the help you need.” He smiled broadly and said, “You fit in real well today, John. I’ll see about taking you along on another mission soon. Wish you had joined our group a few months back, we could’ve used you. See you tomorrow.”

John watched Rickenbacker walk towards his tent. The day after tomorrow’s flight is the flight I must be on, he thought, “or, catch up with you somehow before that fight goes bad.”

He went back to his tent, took some of the Ninety-Fourth’s letterhead notepaper and did some sketching. Satisfied, he went to see Belli in the maintenance tent.

 

The young lieutenant sat at a small wooden desk writing some reports, and looked up as John walked in. He stood and said, “Hey, Captain, how did it go today? Was there any problems with ‘ol number 13?”

“It went real good, Lieutenant, and 13 was at her best.” He waved the sketches and continued, “I have an idea I’d like to try out, and Captain Rickenbacker said you’d be the right man to come to.”

“Sure,” answered Belli. He cleared a place on his desk and looked at the papers John put down on it, “how can I help?”

John spread his sketches out, and they both sat down to study them. He said, “I noticed twice, that when I had someone on my tail, there was no way to slow down to let the other guy slide out in front of me. If I cut my engine to slow down, the lack of visible exhaust tells the guy behind me that I killed my power, and he does the same thing and stays behind me. So, I’d like to keep my engine on full and still be able to slow her down. He’d have no warning of me slowing down, and by the time he realized it, he’d be out in front of my guns.”

Belli looked at him and scratched his head. “Boy! I see your problem. So, how are you going to do this, Captain?”

John pointed to his drawing and said, “Simple. We build, what I call a speed brake. I want to attach a flat, three-foot-square board to the belly of my Spad. I want to hinge it at the front and hook up a control stick to it. When I pull back on the stick, the flat board will be forced down and out into the slipstream and slow down the airplane. I’ll be in a perfect gun position when he slides in front of me. Then I’ll simply retract the board and resume flying at full speed, but now, I’d be on his tail.”

The young officer was visibly impressed. “Wow, Captain, you guys in Air Training Command are good. Bet the guys will wish you had come along sooner.” He picked up the sketches and continued, “Let’s take a look at this.” He pondered it as he walked around the tent, muttering, “Three foot square board. Okay, let’s see, got some one-inch floorboard. That should do it. Also, got an old control stick and some hinges.” Then he looked up and said, “This should take about two hours to get together, Captain.”

“Great,” answered John, “I’ll help you.”

 

Slightly over two hours later, John and the maintenance officer stood by Number 13, smiling as they admired their handiwork. The board was hinged at the front, to the airplane’s belly and was flush against it. John climbed in the cockpit and at a nod from Belli, pulled back on the control stick. The board lowered from the belly and stuck down into the slipstream. The lieutenant gave him a thumb’s up.

“Looks good from here, captain.”

John climbed down and said, “Let’s keep this between us for now, Lieutenant. I’d like to try it tomorrow without anyone knowing.”

“You got it, Captain,” he said as they washed up, “it’ll shock ’em.”

 

At four, the next morning, Rickenbacker entered the mess tent. He smiled when he saw John sitting at his table sipping coffee. “Hey John, I thought Air Training Command guys liked to sleep late.”

“Ha,” replied John, “not when there’s a chance to have another go at the boss in a dogfight.”

“You challenging me?” asked a laughing Rickenbacker as he poured himself a mug of coffee and grabbed a doughnut. “You must really have done some tinkering last night.”

John nodded as he drained his mug.

“Okay then, Captain,” replied the commander, “let me have a cup of java and we’ll try you out again.”

 

Forty minutes later the sun was just rising and John and the commander were aloft at five hundred feet. As usual Rickenbacker started the mock dogfight by raising his arm. They separated, and then turned to face each other as they started maneuvering to best the other fellow.

John’s hundreds of hours of flying time kicked in, and he felt at home in this arena. His experience showed as each tried to get on the other’s tail.

As they zoomed and dived, the noise of their engines brought out the entire base to watch. Entrepreneurs started taking bets on the outcome. The commander was heavily favored, but Belli took the odds against the new guy.

John and Rickenbacker were at it for twenty minutes when the commander finally got on John’s tail. John looked back and saw Rickenbacker about to come within machine-gun range, and quickly pulled back on the second control stick in his cockpit.

This control stick pushed the board away from the belly of his Spad, and it bit into the slipstream causing his fighter to stumble in the air and quickly lose some speed.

To Rickenbacker, it seemed as though part of John’s airplane dropped away and he thought, Damn, his plane is breaking up on him.

In an instant, Rickenbacker was aware that his Spad had just passed John’s and he looked back to see John now on his tail, the speed brake now flush against the aircraft’s belly.

The commander laughed out loud and said to himself, “Ha! Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. He’s a ringer! He bested me! Damn, I have to get that contraption on my machine.” He looped and slid left and right only to see John still on his tail. Finally, he threw his arm up, and John slid in next to him. They flew back to the field and landed in formation.

When the fighters finished rolling to a stop, Rickenbacker jumped out and ran to John as he was getting out of Number 13. He slapped him on the back. “John, when did you guys come up with that? That’s great. Are they going to put it into production?”

John had a little white lie ready for him and said, “That’s one of the reasons I’m here, Captain. To see how it works in combat. I’m to see if I can go up against a Hun, and best him, using this.”

“This what? What’s it called?”

“It’s called a speed brake. It creates a drag on the fighter and slows her down real fast. Before the other fellow realizes it, he’s in the front of your guns.”

“Great! I want one too.” He turned to the maintenance officer who was collecting money from the others and said, “Lieutenant Belli, can you put one together tonight for me?”

The young man shook his head no. “Sorry, Captain, can’t. We used the last spare control stick on Number 13. But give me a few days and it’ll be ready.”

Rickenbacker continued as he crawled under John’s Spad, “Ingenious! Just ingenious.” He turned to John. “Tomorrow we go up with a two-seater that Headquarters wants us to escort over the lines. They think the Germans are getting ready for an offensive and want some pictures. I’ll bet the Hun will be there too. Can you be ready at four?”

“I’ll be ready, Captain. In the meantime, I want to tighten up a few wires on thirteen. Just some fine tuning.”

“Good,” answered the commander as he started back to his office. By that time, most of the group were under the Spad, and wanted to know all about this innovation.

John went back to the hangar tent when Belli and the mechanics went to chow. He sat up in the cockpit of Number 13 and took out the communicator hairbrush, pressed down and turned it to show the small keyboard. He typed in:

BILL, I’M GETTING SET TO GO OUT TOMORROW ON THE MISSION RICKENBACKER HAS THE PROBLEM ON. SCARED AS ALL GET OUT, BUT FEELING GOOD ABOUT MY LITTLE SPAD. SHE GIVES A GOOD RIDE AND IS QUICK AND RELIABLE. I BUILT A LITTLE ADD-ON SPEED BRAKE FOR DOGFIGHTING. HOPE THIS DOESN’T MESS UP TIME IN ANY WAY BY INTRODUCING A NEW INVENTION BEFORE ITS TIME. WILL CONTACT YOU AFTER THE MISSION. JOHN B.

He sent it and two minutes later the device vibrated in his pocket. A message was coming back from Bill Scott in 2011:

HELLO JOHN. GOOD TO HEAR FROM YOU AND GLAD ALL’S GOING WELL. DON’T WORRY ABOUT INTRODUCING SOMETHING NEW. THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IS THE MISSION. TEXT ME BACK WHEN THE MISSION IS COMPLETE. BILL.

John put the message unit away and went off to relax in his tent. Got to get up early and be sharp tomorrow. It’s gonna be the flight of my life.

 

At four o’clock the following morning, the orderly shook him awake. He dressed in the dark as he listened to engines being warmed up. It was raining and the field was covered in fog as he walked over to the mess tent. He felt butterflies in his stomach as he realized the outcome of today’s flight could change the lives of so many people to come. And, the outcome depended on him.

He entered the tent that served the group it’s chow and spotted Rickenbacker, Dowd and Divers drinking coffee. All were talking with their hands as they relived past missions using one hand as the enemy and the other as themselves. They dived and zoomed as pilots had done ever since the beginning of flight, in 1903.

The commander waved John over and he grabbed a mug of coffee and joined them.

“Morning all,” he said sitting down. They greeted him and Rickenbacker got right down to business.

“Guys, Headquarters wants us to escort a two-seat B.E. 2C over the lines. They think the Hun’s going to attack and need some photos of the area to see if there’s a buildup.” He took a sip, then continued, “Now, the two-seater has to fly at three thousand feet to get the best results, but if we want to catch some Huns, we’re going up to eight thousand feet. Forecast says the sun will be up by then and at our back, so we’ll be sitting pretty if the Hun attack the photo plane.”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The word is, there are talks going on and the war may be over any day now, so I don’t want to lose anyone.” He sat back and continued, “However, I think it’s necessary that we keep pressure on the Hun. And it doesn’t hurt that they usually go after the two-seaters, so we have a good chance of getting some victories for the group today. Anyway men, stay aggressive, but stay safe. Got it?”

They all nodded.

“Now,” he turned to John, “as you guys know Captain Brand is from Air Training Command, stateside. He has that little speed brake gizmo attached to his crate as you saw yesterday. Today, his job is to hopefully, engage the Hun and see firsthand how it works.” He took a sip of coffee then continued. “I have a feeling it’ll turn out to be a big advantage for our side, and I want John to get home and teach that maneuver to all the new guys coming along.”

He looked at his watch. “Takeoff time is eleven fifteen, weather permitting. The photo aircraft needs good light for his mission.” He finished his coffee and said, “I’m going to take advantage of the downtime to do some more of the danged paperwork. See you guys later.”

He left and Dowd asked John if he wanted to play cards with them but John begged off saying he wanted to check the aircraft.

Walking back to the operation’s tent, he thought, Boy, they’re a couple of great guys and I’d love to play cards with them. But, I just don’t feel right making friends with people that are twenty plus years in my past. It seems unfair somehow, like I’m lying to them. He went back to check on Number 13.

 

John looked out at ten-thirty and saw the fog lifting as the sun struggled to burn through. He double-checked the twin Vickers guns and the speed brake for the umpteenth time, then walked slowly to the hangar to put on his flying clothes as the butterflies returned.

At eleven o’clock, the mechanics rolled out the aircraft and all four pilots climbed into their respective Spads. Rickenbacker started his engine and the others followed. Soon all four signaled that all was good with their aircraft and taxied to the starting point on the grass runway.

Takeoff was becoming normal for John as he advanced the throttle and bumped down the grass strip following the commander after the thirty-second separation. Dowd and Divers followed, and they joined up over the field. Finally, Rickenbacker waggled his wings and pointed the aircraft’s nose east.

They headed east and did a slow climb until they reached five thousand feet. They circled over Chervou Aerodrome as the two-seat photo aircraft slowly climbed to its assigned altitude of three thousand feet. It headed east with the four escorts above.

Once again Rickenbacker waggled his wings and pointed up, signaling the start of the climb of his group to eight thousand feet.

Alone in his wood and canvas cockpit John felt the cold creeping under his clothing. He became aware of little things he had never thought of before. He constantly swiveled his head looking for the enemy while listening to every noise his Spad made.

What was that? He thought. Did the engine just miss? He checked the few gauges he had, over and over, only to check them again. All were good. And the cold! I’ve never been so cold in my life! he suddenly realized. He had flown this high many times, yet had never felt the cold so much. It’s combat! I’m nervous! Damn, he thought, I’ve got to control this, I’ve got to remember that I know what’s going to happen and stay calm.

He saw Rickenbacker and the other pilots looking down for the enemy they hoped to catch from above. They weren’t noticing John’s Spad slowly falling behind. With an effort John pulled his long glove down and checked the time. Twelve-twenty five. Got to get some more height to pull this off. He added power and gently raised the Spad’s nose toward the blue sky above. Number 13 started slowly climbing in the thin air as the other Spads continued their flight at the lower altitude. If they noticed my departure from their flight, he thought, there’s nothing they can do about it at this point. Their main task is to provide cover for that photo recon aircraft below them.

John finally got his fighter up to nine thousand feet, and was just below a large white cloud when he looked up and thought he saw something. What was that? He nudged his fighter up into the cloud’s base. Once inside the cloud, he noticed it was easier to see through it and spotted shadows above him. Aircraft! he realized. They’re about to pounce on the flight! He looked down and saw Rickenbacker and the others just as they started their dive on the two German fighters now attacking the two-seater below.

The shadows quickly got sharper as they flew through the cloud, heading for the diving Spads below. They zoomed past without seeing John, and he quickly pushed his nose down and pursued the three red enemy triplanes, one with a white tail.

Damn! I should have started my dive as soon as I saw them, he thought, as the three planes pulled away from him. John opened the throttle all the way and stood the Spad on its nose, finally picking up ground on them.

The Germans were so absorbed as they watched Rickenbacker’s group that they didn’t notice John diving on them.

John went all out to get the enemy in range, before they got into range of his group. The wind screamed through the wires of his biplane as it shuddered through the air and he felt the aircraft vibrate in the sharp dive. He realized his effort was too late, the enemy was going to strike before he would be able to stop them.

No! It’s no use, he thought, they’re going to reach the group before I can get them in range . . . unless. John squeezed off a burst at the enemy aircraft, and, even though they were out of range, the chatter of his guns made them break off their attack. The three diving, red triplanes flew off into different directions.

“I’ve done it!” shouted an elated John. “I’ve completed my mission and saved Rickenbacker!” He watched as his group circled the two-seater and began to head for home. John stayed at a higher altitude to watch over them as they flew toward safety.

 

All was fine in John Brand’s world as he sat at six thousand feet and watched the trenches glide by. Suddenly, red-and-black puffs of antiaircraft artillery started bursting around him. They were pretty shades of black, red and orange but John knew they were packed with deadly explosives that could blow him out of the sky. He started jinking his fighter around to mess up their aim. Well, he thought as it stopped, that seemed to have worked. They quit shooting at me.

Suddenly his instrument panel exploded in a shower of sparks, glass and wood splinters. One of his Vicker’s machine guns was knocked off its mount and his small windshield was blown away. Instinctively he pushed the stick forward and dived.

“What the heck . . .!” he shouted as he looked back over his shoulder, only to see a red Fokker with a white tail peppering his Spad whenever he straightened out. Damn! he thought. No wonder the antiaircraft guns stopped. They didn’t want to shoot down their own guy.

John threw the aircraft around the sky as he looked at the broken gauges. This guy must have circled around and climbed up after I forced him to break off his attack. If there’s good news, he thought, it’s that the engine seems to be okay and so do the controls.

John looked to where he thought Rickenbacker and the group might be, but the sky seemed empty, except for him and the triplane on his tail.

Another burst riddled his right wing, separating some wires as he quickly twisted away, only to see a burst fly over his left wing. This guy is good, he thought as he flipped upside down and dove towards the ground. He was wringing wet as he sat as low as possible, knowing the wood and canvas behind him gave no protection at all.

“Damn! Where’s the group?” he said, looking around as he put the Spad into every twist and turn he could think of. Damn! Not even a cloud in the sky to hide in, he thought as he continued to jink his aircraft every which way. Another burst caught his fighter in the tail. He was shaking when he remembered the words he used to instill confidence in his trainees, You are the best fighter pilot in the world, and in combat if you remember that, you’re more than halfway to beating your opponent.

Suddenly he recalled why he was picked to be here. Hey! This is the only combat I’m going to get in this lifetime, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose to some guy from the past.

He put his hand on the second control stick and, knowing he had to make the guy behind him cocky, flew in a straight line for a millisecond. The enemy sensed his moment, steadied and fired a burst just as John pulled back on the stick, which pushed the speed brake down and out into the wind. Immediately his Spad seemed to stumble in the air and lose speed, allowing the red Fokker to fly over and slide in front, giving John a shot at him. He felt his finger tighten up on the remaining Vickers’s trigger as he saw the enemy pilot look back with amazement and grave concern on his face.

He suddenly let go of the trigger as he thought, Wait! What am I doing? I can’t kill him! I don’t know if he died in this war, or what he went on to become.

Now John was in a quandary. Well John, what now? he thought as he copied every move the Fokker made. I’ve got the tiger by the tail, and if I scoot he’ll catch me, and my family line is over. Yet I can’t take his life.

He looked around but still there was no help from his group. Frustrated he thought, The mission is completed. It’s now getting down to him or me. He checked his fuel. The gauge was broken and he had no idea how much he had left in his tank. Man, I have to do something fast, he thought, as he once again started tightening his trigger finger. Wait! I’m the best and I’ve got some tricks he’d never think of. I’m going to take out his propeller, and if he’s as good as he seems, he’ll be able to land his crate and walk away.

John pulled his nose up for a fraction of a second then dived, accelerating a bit and swooped over the top of the enemy fighter as he tried to drag his wheels through the Fokker’s propeller. He missed and found himself out in front again.

The enemy pilot lost no time and fired off a burst chewing up some more of John’s rudder. Damn! John thought as he quickly pulled his speed brake down, putting him in the rear again.

John once again pulled up, then dived trying to damage the triplane’s prop, and once again the red fighter quickly dipped its nose and John missed, only to receive another burst from the enemy’s twin Spandau machine guns.

How many times do I do this, he thought, as he once again pulled down his speed brake, before he gets a good burst in me?

The enemy pilot looked back and wondered what the heck was going on with this crazy American as John once again swooped down on him. This time John’s wheel missed but his tail passed through the arc of the enemy aircraft’s wooden propeller, shattering it, and some of John’s control cables along with it.

Damn! he thought as he fought his loose controls. He looked over and saw the red Fokker going down alongside him minus a good piece of his prop. He couldn’t help but think, as he tipped his helmet in a short salute, Well fella’, good luck to you,

His Spad was vibrating as he fluttered over no-man’s-land. He saw a small patch that was relatively flat and willed his fighter toward it. He hit tail first and it snapped off, sending the front end along the muddy landscape, finally ending nose down in a trench. John quickly shut off the ignition and unfastened the safety belt as German artillery started dropping around him.

“ ‘ere mate,” said a voice from the trench, “take me ‘and.”

John saw a group of soldiers in the trench. One reached out for him and pulled him, head over heels, into the safety of the muddy trench. A smiling Aussie announced that he was safe behind the Allied lines. He said they saw it all and if John shared a cup of tea with them, they’d phone up to headquarters that he downed a Hun. He joined them in their tea and was more than a little surprised, that they didn’t seem to take the German shelling too serious as they brewed their tea, deep in the trench. An hour later an Aussie motorcyclist drove him back to the airfield.

 

As he got out off the motorcycle Rickenbacker and the rest of the Ninety-Fourth greeted him. The commander slapped him on the back saying, “Men, Captain Brand and his secret weapon saved a bunch of us today, not to mention the photos that we got back to HQ.” He looked at John and continued, “The Aussies in the trenches phoned us about the fight you had up there today. They also said you downed a Hun.” He slapped his back again. “Sounds like you got to complete your mission, John.”

John smiled as he said, “Yes, sir, Captain, the speed brake worked and I have some combat time to pass along to the next batch of students.”

John realized he wasn’t lying about that. As he wiped mud from his face he saw a red spot of blood from a slight cut on his cheek.

“You’re wounded!” said Rickenbacker, as he looked closely at John’s forehead. “You get to wear the Purple Heart, Captain Brand.” The commander smiled his big grin and continued, “I just have to imagine the boys back at Air Training will be a jealous group now.”

John shook his head and said, “Sorry about ‘ol number 13 captain.”

“Don’t worry about that John, Lieutenant Belli will put in for a new replacement plane and I’ll get to be the pilot.” Rickenbacker walked him back to the operations tent and asked, “So, what’s next?”

“I’m going to head out tomorrow,” answered John.

“So soon?” asked the commander with a look of surprise. “Want to try bagging another one tomorrow?”

John knew the war would be over in two days. He also thought that he had spent enough time pretending to be in the Army of 1918. Sooner or later someone might take a close look at this inventive officer from Air Training Command and say they needed him in Europe to evaluate German aircraft. A million things could go wrong to keep him trapped in the wrong time. Besides, he thought, I want to see my boy and grandson.

To Rickenbacker’s question, he said, “I’d love to stay, sir, but Air Training Command needs me back as soon as possible. I’ve got some great information to pass along to keep our new boys alive in this type of environment. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

“Fine. I’ll set up transportation back to the rear. Meanwhile, I’ll see you in the mess for supper.”

John left to wash and change.

 

After a nap, John felt refreshed and went to the mess to see the group one more time before he left. He walked in and they were all there before him. Rickenbacker was at his usual table along with Dowd and Divers with another man. They all greeted him as he sat with his tray.

Rickenbacker smiled his big grin and said, “John, this gentleman insisted he meet you, so I took the liberty of asking him to join us for supper. Tomorrow the Field Police take him to their holding pens, but for this evening, he’s our guest.”

It was the German the time traveler had downed that afternoon. John looked at the stranger. His blond hair was close cropped on the sides, but long in front and almost covered his deep blue eyes. When he smiled, dimples appeared in his cheeks.

The German officer suddenly stood and saluted John as he said with an accent.

“Sir, I salute you. You flew a masterful flight this day and it was the first time I was ever put down.” He stood ramrod straight in his field-gray officer’s uniform, which he had worn beneath his flying suit. At the neck of his tunic was an Iron Cross of the German air force.

John smiled as he offered his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you sir and I’m glad you survived your trip down to earth without your spinner.” Then he thought, Boy, he looks familiar.

Rickenbacker said, “Gentlemen, please sit.”

Suddenly John recognized the officer he had downed. My God, it’s Herman Goering! He stared as the future head of the German Luftwaffe addressed him.

“Sir, I am Kommandeur Herman Goering of Jagdgeschwader Freiherr von Richthofen No. 1, Jasta 11. I am at your service. Now, please tell me, your people say that one of your machine guns was in perfect condition, yet you never shot at me, and many times you could have. Why?”

John shrugged his shoulders and answered, “The war is almost over, sir, why take another life?”

Goering nodded and looked down, knowing that he had tried to kill John. He removed his Iron Cross and said to John as he handed it to him. “Sir, for me the war is over. I can only hope to go back and help rebuild Germany and see what life holds in store for me. Please accept this as a token of friendship that I hope endures over the years to come.”

Rickenbacker stood and raised his wineglass, “Gentlemen, to outliving the war.”

They all stood and raised their glasses.

The supper lasted until ten o’clock, and John finally said good night. He thought as he walked back to his tent, Life is funny. I almost killed the future head of the German air force of 1940. If I had killed him, someone else would have taken his place in the future, maybe someone even more capable than him. We’ll just have to see how it plays out in the forties.

 

The next morning the orderly woke him at seven o’clock. Rickenbacker and the group were flying already and John was told that, at eight-fifteen, a B.E. 2C would fly him back to Le Petit Quevilly Aerodrome. After a fast cup of coffee, he threw his bag into the camera bay of the two-seater and they took off.

The trip was uneventful and he hopped a truck back to the docks of Le Havre. He spent the night in the Officers Club and once he was alone in his room, took out his communicator and typed:

BILL, HELLO FROM 1918. I’M HAPPY TO SAY, MISSION COMPLETED. CAPTAIN EDDIE IS SAFE AND THE WAR ENDS TOMORROW. I’LL BE ON A TROOPSHIP LE BEBE THAT IS GOING BACK TO NEW YORK. AS YOU KNOW WE’LL BE AT SEA WHEN THEY LEARN OF THE WAR’S END BUT THE SHIP WILL CONTINUE THE TRIP TO NEW YORK CITY. SHOULD SEE YOU IN FOURTEEN DAYS. REGARDS JOHN. P.S. COMBAT WAS GREAT, SCARY AS HELL AND I’VE HAD ENOUGH FOR A LIFETIME. GOT A SMALL SCRATCH FROM THE FOKKER’S GUNS AND CAPTAIN EDDIE GAVE ME A PURPLE HEART.

 

The trip back went as expected and when the announcement came of the war’s end over the radio, the ship ran with lights blazing and drinks flowed freely.

Fourteen days later it docked at the foot of Forty-Eighth Street and John walked down the gangplank into the streets of New York City, 1918. He joined the line of people waiting for taxis when someone from one of the black-and-yellow cabs across the street called his name. There was Bill waving him over. John threw his bag in the front and jumped in.

They shook hands, as Bill said, “Couldn’t let a serviceman, who just left combat, come home and not have someone waiting for him. Welcome home, Johnny.”

“Thanks, Bill, for picking me up, and getting me my combat time.”

“No problem. I’m sure you did a great job.”

The taxi pulled up at The 1800 Club, and Bill said, “I have a nice dinner ready for you.”

“Good. I need a good meal. That shipboard food was mostly military meals and I feel like I lost weight.”

They went into the garden, and then up the inside staircase and Bill opened the door.

 

DATELINE: 1918 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY

The lights were low as Matt greeted them and looked at his pocket watch.

“Good evening, gentlemen, your timing is perfect, dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.”

Bill pointed to a small room off the den lit by candlelight. “Go ahead, John, I’ll join you in a second.”

John walked into the room and two men stepped from behind an 1800s dressing screen. John recognized his son immediately and then his grandson. They smiled as they walked to him, arms outstretched.

 

Bill left them alone and Matt brought him a steak supper, which he ate by himself in his den.

Later that evening, Bill took John back to his 1940 Ford Coupe parked in front of the garden.

John smiled as he said, “Bill, the past few weeks were the best that could happen to a man. To see my boy, and his boy both successful in life was fantastic. That plus getting some combat time and besting Herman Goering, well, that’s the best.”

They shook hands as he continued, “Thanks to you, Bill, I’ve changed my life in many ways. I quit smoking and will look forward to teaching my students all I know.” He hesitated and asked, “Will I ever see you again?”

Bill hesitated a second, then answered, “I won’t say no. A good man is hard to find, and now that I know you are as reliable as your grandson, well, you never can tell.”

John started his car’s engine and with a big grin, gunned it and drove back to Floyd Bennett Field and his job as a Flight Training Instructor. But, this time with some combat time under his belt along with a Purple Heart and an Iron Cross.

 

DATELINE: 1865 PLACE: DIAMOND’S BAR & GRILL, NEW YORK CITY

The next day Bill took John Brand the Third out to lunch at the Diamonds Bar & Grill of 1865. They took the booth in the corner next to the stuffed moose head. Paddy Diamond brought them a couple of tall beers and they ordered the steak special with boiled potatoes, fried carrots and onions. He brought them a second beer with their lunch and went back to tend bar.

Bill raised his glass and said, “Here’s to your grandfather and a successful mission.”

John raised his glass, “To grandpa.”

“So,” continued Bill, “how was the family reunion back in 1918?”

“Bill, it was fantastic. I want to thank you for letting me bring my dad in on the time travel secret. I thought it was odd, how he accepted it right away, and then I heard the whole story. This time travel thing is so intricate, it’s baffling.”

“How so?” asked Bill as he sipped his beer.

John sat back and laughed, “My dad already knew!”

Bill’s eyebrows arched. “He knew? About the time travel?”

“Yep! He knew. Here’s how it all went down.” He sat forward and spoke in a low voice, “You sent my grandfather back to 1918 and he completed the mission. He came back, and when his son, my father, was twenty-one-years old, grandpa told him about his trip back. He even showed him the sketch of the speed brake he drew on the Ninety-Fourth Squadron’s letterhead with the group’s logo, the ‘Hat in the Ring, on it. He also showed him the Purple Heart he got from Rickenbacker, along with the Iron Cross from Goering.”

He took a sip of his beer then went on. “So my dad knew as I was growing up. But my grandfather is a wise man and told him not to tell me until after we had the family reunion at the club last night.” He sat back and smiled, “Pretty wild, huh?”

“I never knew.” said Bill, “That’s amazing.”

“And,” John continued, “my grandfather’s playing tennis with my dad tomorrow. He’s truly a new man . . . a healthy man, thanks to you.”

Paddy Diamond came over to Bill and motioned to a gentleman seated at the bar having a Vodka Tonic. Bill smiled as he recognized his right-hand man at the club, Matt.

Bill nodded slightly at him and said to John, “Matt would like a word with me, Johnny. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” He picked up his beer and went over to the bar and sat next to Matt. “Cheers, Matt. Visiting or here for club business?”

“Bit of both, sir. I have a bowling date with Paddy and Mr. Edmund gave me a message for you.”

He passed Bill a small cube that fit in his palm. Bill pressed his thumb against it, and the cube, recognizing his print, activated a small hologram. The electrons put together a tiny figure of a woman. It spoke to him, saying,

“Good day, Mr. Scott, or good evening, as I’m not sure when you are looking at this mini-hologram. I’m Maryellen Muldey and we have a problem we’d like to bring to your attention. It concerns an early aviatrix, Amelia Earhart. When we are ready, we’ll contact you through your descendent, Mr. Edmund Scott. Thank you for your time, Mr. Scott, and we look forward to seeing you again.”

The mini-hologram clicked off. Matt asked, “Shall I accompany you back, sir?”

Bill shook his head, “No, Matt, thanks anyway. Enjoy your game, I’ll see you later.” He walked back to John.

“What’s up?” John asked.

“Got to wait and see about a mission they have coming up.” He looked at John and continued, “We may need you, Johnny. It’s about Amelia Earhart, the lady pilot.”

John nodded and with a smile answered, “Amelia Earhart? Wow! Just give me a call. I’m set to go.”

They returned to the garden of the club and as Bill locked the gate behind them he said, “These were easy times, John. It’s always a treat to return to 1865.”

“Yep, maybe I’ll retire to here.”

“Well, if you do, I’ll meet you in Paddy Diamonds.”

They went back to The 1800 Club of 2011.