The last man to enter was the group’s only civilian and was an amazingly capable seventy-seven years of age. He was also the shortest member of the group and barely reached 165 centimetres, but his diminutive height and deceptively small frame belied a wiry physical strength for his age that had come as a result of many decades of hard work. The years showed heavily in the depth and weathering of his small features and eyes that were alight and intense most of the time. Hal Markowicz held a PhD in nuclear physics, along with degrees in engineering, astrophysics and quantum mechanics. He was also a Polish Jew, although he’d spent the majority of his life in the United Kingdom, and most of the time displayed just the barest hint of a vestigial accent, although it could become more pronounced whenever he became angry or excited.
When they’d all acquired a champagne flute and had gathered around that central table, Thorne raised his glass in a toast. Silently and solemnly, they all lifted theirs in unison and joined him in recognition of their achievement. They all drank.
“Glad to see we rated the good stuff,” Thorne observed with a grin, breaking the mood with timing as good as ever and raising a chuckle. His accent was heavier than normal, as it often was in times or stress or tiredness, but no one made mention of it…it was something they were all used to and knew that it was almost impossible for him to regulate.
“Only the best, of course, Max,” Alpert agreed, lifting his glass once more momentarily. “Only the best…”
“Well, it’s not JD…” Eileen began with a barely-hidden smirk, purposefully drawing groans from all present except Davies, who nodded in serious agreement “…but it’ll do.” She sipped at her own glass. “Not a bad drop at that…!”
“Yes, we know,” Green retorted with a grimace. “We all know there are only two types of alcohol in that small universe inhabited by Eileen Donelson and Jack Davies:… Jack Daniels on one hand and the rest is all piss!”
“Well, ‘Jimmy’ — piss is a strong word…” Donelson shrugged, relenting somewhat. She also sometimes liked to accentuate the Glaswegian in her own voice more than was usual but in her case, although it was quite deliberate, none of the men present ever thought the less of her for it. Secretly, most would’ve honestly admitted that it only added to the beauty of a young woman all already considered stunningly attractive. “Of course we have to make do with what we have.” She flashed a winning smile. “There’s a war on, after all!”
“You can say that again!” Thorne agreed fervently, sliding into a nearby armchair and crossing his legs, instantly appearing extremely relaxed and comfortable. “You lot didn’t have ‘Nasty Old Jerry’ trying to shoot your arse off this evening…made me feel very bloody unwelcome!”
“Doesn’t seem to have done you any harm, you whingeing bastard!” Green shot back in typically unsympathetic, very Australian fashion as they all followed Thorne’s lead and took chairs close together. The officer cadre of Hindsight was, at Thorne’s own lead and insistence, a quite informal group and there was a high level of friendship and camaraderie. “The way Nick here tells it, two of ‘em were only bloody ‘Dora-Nines’ anyway.” Green used the model number for the aircraft he still thought of as a Focke-Wulf Fw190D-9 and that the Wehrmacht called a J-4A. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size for a change.”
“No bloody fear, mate!” His commander shot back with a grin and shake of the head. Those Flankers were too much hard work for my liking…I’ll take the regular old Luftwaffe any day of the week.”
“One kill away from being a goddamn ace after just one real combat mission, and the guy’s complaining!” Davies growled in mock indignance. “Do you know how many missions it took over Kuwait for me to make an ace?”
“What…hard work was it, chasing Iraqi pilots as they all fucked off to Iran at full throttle?” Thorne laughed, displaying two fingers in Davies’ direction in a rude gesture. “At least mine weren’t running away…” then he added, relenting “…not all of them, anyway…” Thorne engaged in the banter deliberately, although he was having fun all the same. The tension in the air that night had been palpable and keeping the mood relatively light with humour was important. Just that minor exchange had noticeably relaxed the group already and all were now smiling.
“And how goes the state of the war, Brigadier Alpert?” Kowalski asked loudly, obviously changing the subject before the two ‘combatants’ started in on one of their favourite arguing points once more. The emphasis on ‘brigadier’ was in recognition of the fact that when last they’d seen Nick Alpert that morning he’d still worn the rank of captain.
“An excellent question…!” Hal Markowicz agreed, leaning forward in his chair with fire in his eyes. What can you tell us?”
Nick Alpert suddenly found himself the centre of attention as silence reigned and even Thorne and Davies became quiet. Nick was the only one there as learned in history as Thorne, and had also gained the added experience of having spent the last twelve months living in wartime Britain. He was therefore in a perfect position to judge the progress of the opening months of the Second World War.
“Yes, well as Max has already pointed out, the New Eagles are already here: in fact they’ve been here since well before I jumped into Leicester twelve months ago — that’s fairly obvious from the evidence at hand.” He delved his fingers into a top pocket of his uniform battle jacket and withdrew a pen, which he tossed to Markowicz to pass around. “Ball-point pen, courtesy of German industry…direct copy of a Staedtler, by the look of it…I suppose they found that a hugely amusing irony. That’s about as good an indicator as any, and there’s plenty more evidence both civilian and military I’ll be able to show you. Hard to call, but my best guess would put the New Eagles’ arrival sometime in the first half of the ‘Thirties. Those ball-points came into general use in Europe around ‘Thirty-six.”
“Too fuckin’ early by a long shot…!” Thorne growled, his good humour failing slightly at the revelation. He glanced at Eileen. “…Maybe ten years ahead of time…?”
“Patents were pending just before the war…” She shrugged. “Didn’t really hit the market place properly until ‘Forty-Five or ‘Forty-Six though, so close to a decade or thereabouts…”
“I’d suspected as much,” Nick nodded slowly. “On the military side, the Nazis tested a good deal of equipment in Spain during the civil war there, just as they did in Realtime…only difference is this time that included Messerschmitt Bf109 ‘E-types’ — at least four years early — and two new tanks they named as ‘Mark-One’ and ‘Mark-Two’ models that have no resemblance to the Panzer -Ones and -Twos we would know of. The acceleration of their shipbuilding programs has also been incredible…the yards at Kiel and Wilhelmshaven have been basically working three shifts solidly now for five years or so, so far as our intelligence can work out.”