Christopher Nuttall: Second Chance

“Ground control, this is Baker-One,” he said. “Command, it’s a native liner; I think it’s the Queen Elizabeth II .” He swung the aircraft around the liner, grimly aware of the crewmen running over the decks of the ship, until he saw the name painted on the rear of the ship. “Confirmed; it’s the Queen Elizabeth II .”

“Understood, Baker-One,” the controller on the AWACS said. “Resume patrol; HMS Lancaster has been dispatched to intercept.”

“Understood, Control,” Eccleston said. With a final look at the strange antiquated ship, he turned his aircraft towards the sun and resumed his long patrol.

“Ship Ho ,” the watcher cried, and Captain Townley lifted his binoculars to his eyes. Far in the distance, a ship could be seen; a small unfamiliar white ship that bore a British flag. It seemed remarkably small for its power; it moved through the water with the greatest of ease.

Captain Townley scowled. He’d served in the navy himself and he’d never seen a ship like that. It reminded him of one of the corvettes, except the corvettes were dangerous to their crew in a way that this one seemed to laugh at. It moved through the water, heading directly for the Queen Elizabeth II , and Captain Townley stared at it as it matched the course of the liner with ease.

“Heave to,” a man shouted from the ship. Captain Townley gave the orders absently, trusting in his crew as he watched the new ship. They’d spoken English, which suggested that they were not Germans, and yet… he could make out the name of the ship; HMS Lancaster.

But HMS Lancaster was an armoured cruiser of 1902 and it was paid off in 1919 , he thought, as the strange ship launched a boat. There is no HMS Lancaster .

And then the crew of the strange ship came onboard and Captain Townley’s world changed forever.

Over English Channel

6 thJuly 1940

It was a clear blue day, perfect flying weather. It was at times like these that Adolf Galland, Gruppenkommandeur of the JG-23 flying group, allowed himself to imagine that he was having a peaceful flight in peace time, rather than flying towards England. The Messerschmitt Bf 109 seemed to be humming, as if a flight of angels was escorting it, rather than three of JG-23’s other pilots. Galland smiled, feeling his moustache ticking him; the plane was one of the greatest planes in the world, a fair match for the British Hurricane.

He grinned. The British hadn’t been as ready for the war as the Germans had, but they’d fought well, although their leaders had been donkeys . He remembered providing air cover to the bridges over the Meuse; the British had left them alone until after they’d moved up anti-aircraft guns. He'd flown raids over Britain before, but this one was different. The Luftwaffe was burbling with rumours about strange aircraft being sighted over France, ones flying higher and faster than any known aircraft, and his mission was to investigate. If the British had produced a new fighter, the war might be… prolonged.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a glint of light and he turned his aircraft heading towards it. Slowly, oh so slowly, a shape took form; a strange boxy aircraft moving along very slowly. He’d seen pictures of similar objects, but nothing so… bright. It was painted a bright yellow colour and seemed to be trying to evade the German aircraft. As it turned away from them, he saw the British flag on the rear of the aircraft.

What the hell is that? He asked himself, unaware that he was seeing his first helicopter. He’d seem some plans for experimental aircraft; had the British somehow tested, built and deployed a completely new class of aircraft without them catching on? Shaking his head, he pulled his aircraft level with the strange British aircraft, and when he was certain that he had the crew’s attention, he fired a burst of tracer past their nose.

Follow me , he indicated with his hands. There was a pause, it seemed as if the British would comply, and then a streak of light screamed across the sky and struck Heinz. An explosion flickered for moments – and then a Messerschmitt Bf 109 was gone ! There wasn’t even any debris!

Enemy aircraft , Galland’s mind screamed, and he forced his plane into a steep dive. The water rushed up at him and he pulled up seconds before he would have slammed into the Channel, swooping away as fast as the plane could go. He felt a tingle between his shoulder blades and he swung the plane sharply to the left, narrowly avoiding a burst of tracer fire.

He was dimly aware of the first aircraft beating a retreat, but he ignored it; his eyes had finally spotted the attacking aircraft. He stared at it; it seemed to be playing with his wingmen, twisting neatly after them. A second aircraft blasted past his aircraft, so close that he could feel the turbulence, and then he saw one of his wingmen angle his plane just right, firing a long burst directly at the enemy craft. It leapt ahead, trailing smoke, and vanished into the distance. There was a pause, and then the second craft fired; a monstrous torrent of flame that disintegrated the Messerschmitt .

Shaking, knowing that he had to get the information back to General Kesselring, Galland tore his plane away from the battle and fled, knowing that he could be knocked out of the sky at will. One of the strange planes followed him for a while, keeping pace with ease, and then departed. The sight of a French airfield had never been so welcome; the news that he’d been the only survivor of the flight terrifying.

Sitting in the flight hat, drinking a bottle of terrible French wine ‘liberated’ from the local village, Galland tried to put his experience into words. The Fuhrer needed to hear about what had happened – for when the strange craft came over France, Galland knew that unless the Germans adapted their tactics, they would be defeated with ease.

German Army Base

Nr Calais

6 thJuly 1940

The more SS- Standartenfuhrer Herman Roth read of the strange collection of books from the future, the more puzzled he became. Mentally, he cursed the unknown owner of the books; the Iraq War, no matter how important it might have been in 2015, was hardly relevant to his problems. There were details galore of strange and terrible weapon systems – Conflict Iraq was very helpful in that regard – but tantalisingly little on the subject of the current war.

It was one of the great injustices of history that Stalin, unlike Hitler, never overreached himself , he read, and scowled. What mistakes would the Fuhrer make in the future that might still be? Clearly, the arrival of the time travellers had changed things, but were they for the better? Had learning about powerful weapons systems – what was a British-dominated nation like Iraq doing with tanks that seemed to exceed the capabilities of Panzer IIIs? – really helped them?

Of course , he thought. The technical experts had already started to examine the aircraft, which was now stripped of anything that could be moved. The strange luggage of the passengers had been examined; far too many of the technical gadgets made no sense to Roth, let alone the technical experts.

“Jan,” he called, and waited for the guard to enter the room. “Jan, go down to the cells and bring me one of the prisoners.”

“Jawohl,” Jan said. The limping SS guard wasn’t fit for active duty and resented it. Roth returned to the books and waited; it took Jan ten minutes to return, with a young blonde lady. Roth remembered her; she had been the woman who’d been holding the subhuman African.