18:45 (GMT)
Tuesday, September 3, 1940
Base intelligence section, R.A.F. Northolt
The rest of the day was hectic for Nancy. After receiving her medal, she had to show her equipment to Dowding and McNaughton, printing some datafiles as a demonstration. They had then visited the infirmary to look at the bodies of the men from the future. The doctor could not tell much on them apart that they were perfectly human, except for six-fingered hands, heights above seven feet and apparent total lack of body hair. The two senior commanders looked at the corpses for a long time, visibly shaken by actual proof of time travelers before their own eyes. The afternoon had then been occupied by the myriad administrative steps and paperwork needed to officially accept Nancy in the RAF as a Canadian Army exchange officer. The fact that a Canadian fighter squadron was already resident on base had however helped the process. Just before supper, Wilson’s men moved her personal belongings to the WAAFs barrack, where a small room had been given her. After another disappointing meal at the mess, Nancy was now back at the intelligence section, ready to bid goodby to Doctor Jones. He had now a briefcase full of computer printouts, apart from her GPS, cellular telephone and radar detector. She handed him a last few pages containing what information she had on the ‘Cambridge Five’ and other Soviet agents in Great Britain.
“I hope that General Menzies will have enough influence and power to clean up that mess. If not, and if the Soviets get hold of my presence here…”
“I understand your fears. Stalin can be a very vindictive man indeed.”
“You can say that again, Doctor. Have a good trip home and say hello to Vera for me.”
“I will. Thanks for everything, Nancy, it will help my work immensily. I hope I will see you again in the near future.”
He then gave Nancy a last handshake and stepped in the car sent from London to retrieve him. No doubt that Menzies and Winterbotham were anxiously awaiting his return to 54 Broadway Street to hear his report.
Returning inside the operations building, Nancy found Doug sitting at his desk with little to do. She smiled at his idleness.
“You know, probably the biggest difference between now and modern warfare is night operations: in Afghanistan, much of the action came at night, making it normally my busiest time. Now, you guys can only barely operate at night or can’t find anything smaller than a city with your navigation techniques.”
“Well, this is all very interesting but it still leaves me bored.”
“Not for long!”
Under his questionning gaze, she took out of one of her equipment boxes what looked like a small aircraft control stick attached to a sort of miniature instrument panel. Telling Doug to come with him, she led him to the relaxation lounge, where she hooked her panel to her wide flat screen television. Loading a laser disk in the side of the panel, she lit the screen and initialized the program. Doug suddenly got excited when the screen showed what looked distinctly like the inside view of a Hurricane fighter cockpit.
“What is this?” He asked as he sat with her on a sofa facing the television.
“A video game that simulates air combat. It’s called FIGHTER ACE and you can choose between flying a Spitfire, a Hurricane or an American Mustang, among many other models of airplanes.”
Nancy then explained to him the different controls on the game control pedestal and stick. Since the cockpit visible on the screen was an exact replica of one from a real Hurricane, Doug got the hang of it very quickly. He was soon involved in a ferocious dogfight with a pair of German Bf 109 fighters and became as excited as a kid at Christmas. His squeels and comments seemed to attract the attention of Air Commodore Nicholls, who was passing in the hallway. Sticking his head inside the lounge, he watched with surprise a Doug Wilson jumping up and down on his seat, frenetically playing with the control stick.
“What the hell is this now?”
Doug and Nancy were taken by surprise by Nicholls sudden appearance. The moment of distraction was enough to result in Doug’s simulated airplane receiving a salvo of 20mm German shells in the engine.
“Aw gee, sir! You got me shot down.”
Nicholls walked to them, watching as the screen showed the results of the simulated engagement. He then got excited too.
“This looks like fun. Can I try this too?”
Not wanting to argue with a commodore, Doug reluctantly gave his place to Nicholls. To his secret satisfaction, his superior got himself quickly shot to pieces just after taking off.
“Blast! I’m rusty at this. Can I try again?”
Having fun herself watching two grown men turn back into kids, Nancy restarted a new game for him. He didn’t fare much better the second time. Doug nearly shoved Nicholls aside.
“Let a pro show you how it’s done, sir.”
“Pro? I was flying fighters in combat when you were still wearing diapers! Alright, show me if you are really that good.”
As Doug was about to start an engagement, Nancy changed some of the parameters of the game.
“What are you doing, Nancy?”
“Making it more interesting. You will now fly a Spitfire and you will need one: you will now go against FW-190 fighters.”
“That new German plane you told us about?” Asked Nicholls.
“Exactly, sir. Remember, the FW-190 is very fast, agile and heavily armed. It is also a much smaller target than the Bf 109 you are accustomed to. Be careful!”
That warning was of little help, as Doug’s Spitfire was quickly shot to pieces in a one-on-one engagement against a FW-190. Nicholls was suddenly thoughtful, as he watched Doug get shot down another time.
“You know, Captain Laplante, this could be a good way to help train our pilots to face this new German fighter.”
Doug suddenly realized the truth in Nicholls` comment.
“You’re right, sir! It could make the difference between life and death to our rooky pilots about to get in their first air combat.”
“By jove, I like this idea! Do you see any problems with this, Captain?”
“Not at all, sir! Simulator training is actually an important part of a fighter pilot’s training in my time period. When do you want to start training your pilots on this, sir?”
“How about right now? I can have some of the off-duty pilots report here in minutes.”
“Very good, sir, but you will get a fight with the outgoing WAAF shift, who expect to be able to watch their movie at 20:30 hours.”
“I will deal with that. What’s the scheduled movie tonight anyway?”
“STAR WARS, a science-fiction movie with a lot of space dogfights.”
“Oops! Alright, simulator training will conclude at 20:30 hours. It is time anyway that our pilots enjoy those movies also: God knows they deserve some entertainment.”
It is thus that Nancy was bombarded with the title of special morale and entertainment officer and was put in charge of scheduling both simulator games and movies in the lounge. The simulator games were immediately a huge success, with off-duty WAAFs cheering on young pilots competing in flying skills against one another. Both the morale and dogfighting skills shot upwards from that evening on.
23:15 (GMT)
WAAFs barrack, R.A.F. Northolt
Nancy looked around the small room assigned to her, Doug Wilson standing behind her in the doorway. Everything looked so antiquated to her, starting with the metallic frame bed and the Victorian style sofa. Opening a door near the room’s entrance, she found a small bathroom with a shower stall, a toilet and a sink. Finally sitting in the sofa, Nancy was struck by the awful reality of her situation: this antiquated world was probably where she was going to spend the rest of her life. She tried to keep a brave face in front of Wilson but couldn’t keep in her tears of despair and bitterness. She suddenly felt Wilson’s reassuring hand on her shoulder. The RAF officer was now sitting besides her, a concerned look on his face.
“What’s wrong, Nancy? Can I help in any way?”
She stared in his eyes, finding only genuine worry in them. From the first time she had met him he had proved to be decent and kind, never trying to take advantage of her. In her actual, precarious situation, he would have been well placed to pressure her to his profit. Instead, he had been nothing short of an absolute gentleman. Her hand came up to his left cheek, caressing it slowly.
“Thanks for being such a nice man, Doug. Could you stay for a while? I really could use some company now.”
“Sure! What is troubling you, Nancy?”
She bowed her head, trying not to see the antiquated surroundings of her room as she replied in a low voice.
“This whole world is wrong. I don’t belong here, Doug.”
He bit his lip, taking a moment to respond.
“What are the chances that you could find your way back to the future?”
“Next to nil.” Was her discouraged answer. “Nobody now has a clue about time travel technology, including me. The ones who abducted me and brought me here are dead. My only hope is that someone from the future will come for me and bring me back to my own time.”
“So, what are you going to do now?”
“Doug, I can’t wait for that improbable someone and simply watch this awful war go on as dictated by history. By giving away my historical data, I probably already have affected the course of history. Thinking about it, that was possibly what those two persons who abducted me were after: somebody who would change history by its mere presence here. If that was their goal, then they chose well: I could easily turn this war upside down with my knowledge.”
“Do you think it would be wrong to change history this way?”
“Normally, I would say yes. However, I realized only today that those two from the future would not have dropped me here if that meant that their own time would be disturbed by my actions here. Somehow, this must mean that normal history is safe from my interference.”
“But how could that be?” Asked a puzzled Wilson.
“You know, time travel was a popular theme in science-fiction litterature in my time. One of the theories often put forward in such books is that any attempt at changing history would create a parallel history, or timeline if you prefer. That way, you would have both the original history, still intact, plus the new, revised history running in parallel.”
Doug Wilson scratched his head, obviously overwhelmed by such a concept. However, he could see no logical flaw in her thinking.
“So, if that’s the case, it would mean that you would be free to completely modify the history of this war, without having to worry about destroying the main historical timeline?”
“Basically, yes! And I may be happy to do just that, after all.”
“Oh, why?”
“Because I know about the horrors to come in this war and it makes me sick to think that I would let them happen while having potentially the power to prevent them. This obscenity of a war will cost the lives of over 57 million people, most of them innocent civilians. If my involuntary presence here is going to create a new timeline, then I might as well make it a better world.”
Doug Wilson stared in silence at the wall, thinking over Nancy’s words. He finally looked at her questioningly.
“Do you think that you can truly change the war and save some of those people?”
Nancy rested her head on his shoulder before answering.
“Alone, no! In collaboration with your government, yes! Understand though that my fight will be against the present German government, not against the German people. I will not be part of any deliberate attack against civilian targets.”
Doug caressed her head while smiling at her.
“I wish that everybody would be as discriminate as you in this war. Thank you for helping us: I’m sure you will be able to save many lives.”
Some tears reappeared at the corner of her eyes.
“I hope so. God help me if I made the wrong decision and end up destroying my own history.”
“Nancy, nobody can say for sure now. You can only do what you think is best. Fate will decide.”
Looking into her eyes, Doug still saw traces of fear anbd doubt. She also looked exhausted.
“Look, I better let you catch some sleep: tomorrow will be a busy day.”
For a moment, it appeared like Nancy would not let him go, staring at him with something that looked like a cry for help. Doug, as much as he was furiously tempted to stay with this lovely and fascinating woman, knew that he could not: this barrack was full of female auxiliaries and the base commander would have his head if he stayed overnight. He thus simply gave a tender kiss on Nancy’s forehead before getting up and leaving. With Doug now gone, Nancy resigned herself to a night in this antiquated setting, alone with her demons.
10:40 (GMT)
Wednesday, September 4, 1940
Sector operations room, R.A.F. Northolt
Everybody was tense as the German aircraft were reported approaching the sector. RAF fighters had already started engaging them and the situation was getting confused. Nancy, sitting besides Air Commodore Nicholls on the observers’ gallery, watched as WAAF plotters pushed little aircraft symbols in place on the large plotting board. A duty officer listening on a telephone turned his head towards Nicholls.
“Sir, our ground observers posted along the railway track near Guildford just signaled a large force of Messerschmitt Bf 110 overflying them, heading towards Brooklands and following the track.”
Nicholls looked sideways at Nancy, glee in his eyes.
“Just as you predicted, Captain. Now is time to teach the enemy a lesson.”
Picking up one of the telephones, he got the air controlers on the line.
“Tell First RCAF, 303 and 504 squadrons to leave their orbiting stations and dive on the Bf 110 force following the railway track near Guildford.”
He then picked up another telephone.
“Tell Brooklands to be ready for incoming bandits. Make sure the Vickers workers are in their shelters.”
Nicholls grabbed yet a third telephone after putting down the others.
“Air Marshal Park, please! Sir, the trap is closing now. Bf 110s have just been spotted over the railway tracks as predicted. My three squadrons are diving on them now, sir… Yes sir, I’ll do that.” Putting down the telephone, Nicholls concentrated back his attention on the plotting board. An excited duty officer soon shouted.
“Our squadrons have the Bf 110s on visual. They are engaging!”
“Yes!”
Nancy felt a surge of pride for the young pilots now in the midst of air combat: with luck, they could really hurt the Germans today.
The next ten minutes were extremely confusing, with reports, sometimes contradictory, arriving often simultaneously. One thing was clear, though: the Germans were not going to make it to the precious Vickers aircraft factory. If the British, Polish and Canadian fighter pilots radio reports were anywhere near accurate, it was then turning into a real massacre, with the Germans doing the bleeding. After another five minutes, the German aircraft were reported turning back and fleeing, still pursued by Hurricane pilots like by sharks smelling blood in the water. Cheers echoed along the gallery. Nicholls waited for further confirmation of this before getting back on the various telephones.
“Hello, Brooklands? What shape are you in?… No damage?… Excellent!… Air Marshal Park? Nicholls here! The enemy has turned back, with reportedly heavy losses to them. The Vickers factory is intact, with no casualties there… Sir?… Gladly, sir!”
He then smiled at Nancy.
“Air Marshal Park sends you his thanks for a job well done.”
“Sir, I think that these young pilots doing the fighting deserve the praise, not me. I just printed some reports, for God’s sake!”
Nicholls had a look of fondness in his eyes as he answered back.
“Captain, between you and me, I would have been proud to have a daughter like you. Don’t undersell yourself.”
The voice of the duty officer came back, more subdued this time.
“Our fighters are on their way back. We have three aircraft confirmed lost and four damaged.”
Nancy’s heart sank. She would later learn that Jean Daigle was among the dead pilots.
11:54 (local time)
Abbeville-Drucat airfield, France
Hauptmann Groth threw his flying helmet against the wall of the airfield’s debriefing room, furious and grieving: only three of his squadron’s Bf 110s, including his own, had returned from that catastrophic mission against the Vickers factory. The second squadron of ZG 76 was finished for long months. From what he could hear, the two other squadrons of the wing had not fared better. The intelligence officer started to ask a question, but Groth seized him by the collar, nearly strangling him.
“THE BRITISH WERE WAITING FOR US! I WANT TO KNOW WHO TOLD THEM! UNDERSTOOD?”
He then threw away the half-choked officer and left the room to go start a monumental drinking binge at the canteen. When the harried intelligence officer called his counterpart at the first squadron, it was to learn that the man had been punched in the eye by an enraged pilot ant that the wing’s intelligence officer was just now having a screaming match on the telephone with the duty officer at the air division’s headquarter in Wissant. Another few missions like this one and the division would be finished!
20:40 (GMT)
Base intelligence section, R.A.F. Northolt
Meg Thomas, asking first the permission of Sergeant Latham, who was on evening shift duty, entered the intelligence section and approached Nancy, who was absorbed with some work on her computer. The Canadian smiled weakly when she saw her, which alarmed Meg: Nancy was normally much more effusive than that.
“Hi, Nancy, still working at this hour?”
“I’m nearly finished here. Just give me a moment to save my document and close my program.” After a minute or so, Nancy took out her laser disk and shut down her computer, then turned towards Meg.
“What can I do for you, Meg?”
“Well, everybody is celebrating the outcome of today’s battle and I thought that I could invite you for a drink at the pub just outside the main gate. Some of the girls would like it very much if you could join us there.”
“Yes, the celebrating, of course.”
Her voice had no enthusiasm and her eyes gazed through Meg without really looking at her. Meg had seen this kind of expression before.
“Nancy, what’s wrong? Did you know one of the pilots killed today?”
She nodded, silent for a moment.
“His name was Jean Daigle. He was from Québec, like me. I hardly knew him. In fact, Meg, that’s exactly the point: we never had the time to know each other. He was killed only two days after we first met. That’s not fair!”
“Nancy, me and the other girls have lived through this many times already, believe me. Don’t let it eat you: there are too many other people left to care for who also care for you. You may grieve but you also have to go on. Come, let’s have a toast in his memory.”
“Alright, I will do that. You girls need a lift?”
She was finally showing a real smile as she looked straight into Meg’s eyes. Meg smiled back: she was going to be okay, at least this time.
“That would be appreciated, Nancy.”
“Then let’s go! You show me where that pub is.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, Nancy was parking her Mitsubishi Outlander in front of a brown wood and brick pub. Apart from Meg Thomas, three other WAAFs had joined in for the ride, including Supervisor O’Connors. The place looked lively and sounded like it was full. Nancy thought to herself that she could use a change of atmosphere after all.
“O.K., girls, let’s crash this place.”
Sean Brady had to say that his pub had rarely been this full of fantastic rumors, unlikely stories and outright blarney. What was strange about it was that it all centered on one person, which made him really curious. The fact that it was about a supposedly attractive young woman made it even more interesting to Sean. Today’s German debacle in the air, of which he had been told plenty already by many drunk pilots, was pushing everybody into celebrating and cheering up, which was very good for his business. Sean was in fact starting to worry about running out of beer, which would definitely be a first for him this year. Seeing the sign from one of his customers sitting at the counter, he hurried with a fresh mug of ale, putting it in front of a fairly drunk RAF Leading Airman who was one of his most regular customers. That one, apart from being full of beer tonight, was positively overflowing with blarney as well.
“No kidding, Sean, she… this Canadian girl… a real special woman I tell you … She his taller than me… with nice curves everywhere… Would have loved it…”
“I can imagine that. We Irishmen like our women well shaped.”
“Bet you do, Sean. They sure make really nice girls in the 21st Century.”
That last remark made Sean wonder whether Sutcliffe was too drunk or was delusional.
The young man sitting besides Sutcliffe bobbed his head in agreement with Sutcliffe. He had drunk much less beer than his comrade, but had nowhere near his capacity to stand alcool. He was nearly falling off his stool as he tried to speak to Sean.
“She’s cute alright…also got a nice car.”
Sutcliffe broke in laughter, slapping John’s back and nearly making him spill his beer.
“Count on a young virgin boy like you to like cars as much as women.”
“Hey! I dated that WAAF last month, remember?”
John’s cheeks were reddening rapidly by now.
“So? Did anything with her yet?” Was Sutcliffe’s stinging reply. Shaking his head in amusement, Sean went to serve another customer at the other end of the bar. That one was however left alone, for good reasons: nobody liked that Brannigan, not the least Sean himself. The man was a thug and a troublemaker. This beer would be his last one here, lest he started another fight. Brannigan had obviously heard Sutcliffe and John, as he snikered to Sean, who kept at arms length while serving him.
“That young weasel! He couldn’t do it if he wanted to. He missed an opportunity to see that Canadian girl butt naked. I didn’t!”
“What do you mean?”
“Mister Harris had her strip-searched. She had arrived on base with some tall tale about being a time traveler from the year 2012. She has a real nice body, though.”
Sean had heard about the demise of Harris, but not the reasons for it. Now he knew and didn’t feel sorry for him: any Irishman who would treat a girl like this would end up sooner or later with a knife in his guts. Now, that tale about her being a time traveler was by far the biggest piece of blarney he had heard yet tonight. Another customer at the bar looked at Brannigan with daggers in his eyes. Brannigan saw that and would have jumped on him if not for the fact that Airman Peters was even bigger and tougher than him: Brannigan, like many bullies, was really a coward at heart. Peters’ voice was low, dangerous.
“You speak ill of that lady again and I’ll flatten you. She saved the life of my best buddy, who would have bled to death without her, apart from her manning that machingun and shooting down that darn Junkers 88.”
Sean couldn’t believe his ears.
“She, a girl, shot down a German plane? I thought that was pure blarney.”
“Blarney, like hell! She received the Military Cross from Dowding himself yesterday. You have to respect a lass like that.”
Sean couldn’t agree more with Peters. While replacing Peters’ mug with a full one, Sean tried to tie up all the things he had heard about that Canadian girl in the last three days: everybody agreed that she was tall and pretty; she had proved that she had guts aplenty; there was a lot of talks about her bringing in her car some strange and fantastic equipment; and now this story about her being a time traveler from the year 2012. He shook his head, wishing he could meet such a woman. The sudden silence that fell inside the pub made him turn towards the door. He saw four WAAFs, preceded by a tall woman in camouflage pattern uniform, taking a table near the door, with other customers giving away their seats to make room for them. Peters whispered excitedly to him.
“That’s her! The tall one in field uniform.”
Suddenly interested by all this, Sean decided to see for himself and grabbed his serving tray before heading towards her table. He got more confused as he got near: he had seen all kinds of uniforms here in the past months but none like this one. In fact, the closest thing to this outfit had been worn by a paratrooper. He dismissed that idea as ludicrous, until he saw the paratrooper’s wings above the left breast pocket of her camouflaged shirt. She noticed his gaze and smile in amusement.
“I’m sorry if this distracts you. I have to agree that it is a bit unusual to see this on a woman around here.”
“Er, I find no offense about that, miss, on the contrary. What can I get you?”
She must have detected his Irish accent, as she tried to order in halting Gaelic. That made him right then more respectful of her: she had both brains and diplomacy to add to her claimed virtues.
“You visited Ireland before, miss?”
“Yes! I spent about a month travelling back and forth between the Republic and the Ulster to write a story once. I never had the chance to learn Gaelic properly. About our order, could you bring us five beers, please?”
“Coming right away, miss”
Sean hurried back to the bar and filled five large mugs to the brim: no point in being cheap with ladies. That was an elementary rule of women dating that too many men ignored at their own peril. Besides, she certainly deserved the extra attention. Sean brought the mugs to her table and raised a hand to stop her from digging in her pocket.
“These are on the house, miss. Anybody who bothers to try learning Gaelic on a short trip to Ireland deserves a free ale.”
“Why, thank you very much!”
She then raised her glass while looking at him.
“Long live Ireland!”
That was spoken in Gaelic. Sean was touched by her words. She had said it with respect, contrary to many of these bloody British, who turned everything Irish in derision. As he was turning away, one of the WAAFs called her Nancy. So, her name was Nancy Laplante. Thank God for nametags!
Sean had returned behind the bar for about fifteen minutes when he saw Brannigan walking towards the door. Remembering what the bum had said about the Canadian woman, he watched him closely to make sure he didn’t create some trouble. Sure enough, the idiot stopped in front of her table and spoke to her. The shocked and infuriated looks of her WAAF companions told Sean immediately what he needed to know. He hurried towards Brannigan as the latter raised his voice to a near yell.
“You slut have no business wearing an officer’s uniform: you’re a fake and a spy!”
The woman got to her feet, her face red with anger. That was when Brannigan tried to slap her across the face. Tried was the operative word: Brannigan’s hand never touched her. With reflexes and speed that left everybody in the pub, including Sean, flabbergasted, the Canadian deflected the blow and, seizing and twisting his wrist, forced his arm in a painful hold behind his back. She then hit his immobilized elbow with a sharp blow delivered with the side of her hand. Brannigan yelled in pain and fell to his knees, holding his right arm. Sean grabbed him by the collar and forced him to his feet, getting ready to throw him out. Then a massive silhouette got near them.
“Let me get rid of this trash, Sean.”
That was Private Peters’ voice, full of anger and hatred. Sean did not insist and let the big man drag Brannigan out of the pub. The sound of muffled blows that came from the outside after that sounded like music to the barman’s ears. Sean then approached Laplante, who was still standing by her table.
“I’m sorry for this incident, Captain. I assure you that this bum will not get inside this pub anymore.”
She nodded and smiled at him. He noticed that she was the same height as he was.
“By the sound of it, I doubt that he will be able to go anywhere for a while.”
“Quite true! Those were incredible reflexes you showed earlier, Miss.”
“Oh, I just practice regularly karate and judo: they are oriental forms of martial arts which develop speed and agility to a high degree.”
“Indeed?”
So, she was also deadly in hand-to-hand combat. Sean thought about the faces that the Germans who would receive his next written report via Dubl