Read Dale Cozort's Alternate History Newsletter - Feb 2011 Page 4
***
Billy Chandler stood at attention as the captain in charge of the base's supply operation paced back and forth in front of the gathered supply personnel. The captain was going on at length about the importance of their jobs and of properly accounting for every piece of equipment and every drop of gasoline, "Especially in this period of crisis."
Thunder rumbled outside of the big crude-looking corrugated metal shed that doubled as a warehouse, dining hall, and now a meeting room. Rain mixed with hail splattered down on the metal roof above them, almost, but not quite drowning out the captain. "The tidal wave put most of the British ports out of commission for a period of time that is classified. Again, I want to emphasize that the troops at the front are depending on us to keep the planes ready to go. They're fighting a desperate battle against the Jerries. Your job is to make sure they have the support of the US Army Air Corp. The planes have to fly. For the next few weeks we'll use our hard work and our smarts to fill in gaps in the flow of supplies. It all counts. It all adds up. Every can of spam. Every rocket. Every drop of gasoline. Every part that can be salvaged to keep planes flying."
The gravel field outside was a mess from the continuing thunderstorms, and Billy hadn't heard a plane taking off or flying overhead for most of a day. World War II air operations were for the most part a thing of fair weather, especially when the planes were operating from improvised fields like this one.
The Captain droned on, and Billy scanned the assembled men for his quarry. Sergeant Roland Grimm stood a little apart from the other soldiers. He wasn't a tall man, probably only an inch or two above five and a half feet tall in his boots. He exuded a toughness though. A dark, pockmarked face, with a couple of visible scars, one less than an inch from his right eye, was topped by thick, soot black hair. He looked to have a bit of Indian blood, real Indian, not the play Indians from back at Yamassee Crossing.
Grimm glanced over at Billy, apparently noticing his stare. Billy nodded almost imperceptibly and moved his eyes forward. He took a final glance at Sergeant Roland Grimm, air force supply sergeant, and if Billy's information was correct, major black marketer. The man looked the part, though his uniform was neat and exactly regulation and his attention stance was unwavering and apparently attentive. His shoulders were broad, and his biceps bulged under the sleeves of his uniform shirt. His upper body seemed too big for his legs, almost as if someone had sawed off about six inches of leg off of what was originally a much taller man.
Billy mulled the idea of a tidal wave. That was real. He had almost been caught in it. But why a tidal wave in Britain? Tidal waves usually come from earthquakes. He thought back to the moments before the wave hit. Nothing he remembered gave even the slightest indication of an earthquake. The BBC went off the air. He tried to remember how long it had been between the radio going off and the coming of the tidal wave, but couldn't narrow it down beyond 'maybe five or ten minutes.'
After the meeting, Billy splashed his way through the rain to a Quonset hut he shared with several other enlisted men. A tall red-headed guy slouched down on a nearby bunk and said, "That was waste of perfectly good poker-playing time."
Billy sat on his bunk and listened to the rain pounding down. A generator ran somewhere nearby, giving power for the bare incandescent bulbs that provided light to the crowded bunk room. Billy stared enviously at the guys who gathered around to join in the poker game. I can't. I wouldn't stop and I wouldn't throw the games, and I would get noticed. That last part brought him up short. He glanced at his watch, holding it up close to the dim bulb. Way overdue for a certain phone call.
He made his excuses and waded back out into the deluge to the nearest phone, talked his way through the guy at the desk and dialed the operator. When he gave the number, the voice at the other end of the line said, "That's a British number. All of the circuits to Britain are down from the tidal wave. Try again later."
"How much later?"
"We don't know. It could be a week or two."
He was supposed to get additional instructions on arrival. With that no longer an option, Billy thought over his options. Just do my cover job. Keep my eyes open for Sergeant Grimm to make his moves.
Sergeant Grimm strutted by, almost as if conjured up by the thought. He glanced at Billy. “You smoke, kid?” He had a deep voice, almost incongruously so, and a breezy, casual manner.
“Nope.”
Grimm took out a pack of Camels and lit one. “Filthy habit.” He blew a smoke ring. “Where you from?”
“Yamassee Crossing.”
“Little town somewhere in the heartland. From the accent I’m guessing somewhere not quite southern but close. Northern Missouri or southern Illinois.”
“Northern Missouri. I don’t know if you’d call that south.”
“So now you're out seeing the world.”
“More like getting shipped around like a tin can and sitting at a desk all over the world. Different places. Same view.”
“You get a lot better view back here than they do up at the front.” Grimm took another drag of his Camel and exhaled two perfect Os. “The thing about small town is that it doesn’t get you ready for the big city. People are good or bad. Friends or enemies. Right or wrong. You go to the big city and things don’t work like that anymore. There are people you can do business with and people you can’t. There are people who can get you things you want or need, and there are people who can’t. Army is the big city. It takes guys from farms and small towns and it uses them until they figure crap out. Small town doesn’t make a guy stupid though. You catch on. It just takes a while. You’re in a good spot here; out of range of artillery, out from under mom and dad. You’re in a good spot to kick up your heels and figure who you really are.”
“Maybe.”
“Like women?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Other women, mostly. Some guys. If you get to wanting something in the women department let me know. I know people who know people. New people from the states, especially the small town guys, they take a while to figure out that knowing people is how things get done in the big city, and this,” he waved his arm to take in the airbase. “This is the big city.”
“I’ve been around a bit.”
“Not enough to get the corn fed off of you yet, but that’ll come. Got a girlfriend back home? Write back and forth every couple of days? If you do, remember that she’s there and you’re here. Lots of things you can’t do through the mail. Let me know.” Roland Grimm walked on, out into the storm.