“While the Japanese are pushed backward on all fronts, the Germans lose ground badly in the East against the USSR and, on June 6th, the invasion of France is launched from Southern England with British and Allied forces landing on the Normandy beaches. By the beginning of 1945 the war is lost for the Axis: Hitler suicides early in May and Germany surrenders while in the Pacific, the Japanese cease-fire commences on August Fifteen. The official surrender in the Pacific is signed on September Two, and the Second World War officially ends almost exactly six years after it began with something like fifty-five million people dead including twenty million Russians alone. The Nazis have also murdered in their concentration camps over six million Jews, foreigners and various ‘social undesirables’.”
“That’s a fanciful idea for the future,” Trumbull said finally as Thorne took another, deeper drink — his tone was wary and he still wasn’t altogether sure what the man was getting at. “Not a particularly pleasant one, but better than some alternatives I could imagine. What’s all this conjecture supposed to mean?”
“Not conjecture,” Thorne stated categorically, starting to feel the effects of the alcohol a little more now. “I had a chat with Nick last night and learned that things are going badly for England — very badly! The situation here shouldn’t be so bloody dismal by half!”
“You just ‘learned’ all this last night? I had no idea Australian news services were so far out of date!” Trumbull muttered sourly and drank some more of the offered scotch, the flask now just a third full. “We’ve been doing the best we can here, let me assure you…” The pilot could feel the alcohol beginning to have a vague effect on him also, the most likely due to a light breakfast and no lunch as yet.
“That’s not the point,” Thorne growled, a little exasperated. “I’ll give you an example: Nick tells me the BEF lost ninety percent of its men at Dunkirk; either killed or captured on the beach by advancing German armour. That shouldn’t have happened.” After a moment’s silence, the enormity of the event caught up with him fully, as if a focus for parts of the world Thorne once knew that was now coming apart at the seams. “That shouldn’t have happened,” he repeated solemnly. “Hitler should’ve held the panzers back outside Dunkirk in spite of Guderian’s requests to advance. The Brits should’ve evacuated three hundred thousand men!”
“Well perhaps that should have happened,” Trumbull snapped and stopped walking, angry now over a line of discussion that on the face of it appeared ludicrous to him. “The simple fact is that it didn’t happen and I still don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about!” He stood there with hands on hips, daring Thorne to explain himself.
“The problem is it did happen!” The Australian shot back, halting also as that single statement left the pilot speechless. “That’s exactly what happened! History’s being changed and what I’ve told you about the course of the war — what should happen — is no longer stable or certain…” Thorne was feeling some slight disorientation himself now as a whole range of concepts and facts that were no longer reality whirled about in his mind, the thoughts muddied somewhat by the growing influence of the scotch. Despite all he’d been briefed to expect, some of the historical cornerstones of his world were being shattered before his eyes and that wasn’t an easy thing to deal with, sober or otherwise.
“But…but what you’re talking about are things that haven’t happened yet…” Trumbull stammered, trying to grasp what Thorne was driving at. “The things you’re saying are events of the future!”
There was silence as the two locked eyes, Thorne’s expression deadly serious. “Only the future for you…!” For a moment, Trumbull almost scoffed openly at what the man had said but the look on Thorne’s face stopped him cold. Reality or madness, this man believed what he’d just said.
“You yourself said you didn’t believe the Lightning could exist,” Thorne ploughed on quickly now, the words coming in a rush. “It won’t… for about sixty-five years… None of those aircraft out there will…”
“You… you’re saying that you’re…” Trumbull couldn’t finish the sentence. “This is impossible!” He decided instead. “I don’t know what you’re attempting to achieve here but this story is pure fantasy!” He stalked off in disgust, but Thorne could hear an undertone of uncertainty in the man’s voice now. Thorne took a large gulp of alcohol and drew a deep breath, knowing there was no way he could not stop now.
Loudly, he called after Trumbulclass="underline" “I was born on the Third of May, Nineteen Sixty-Five to Robert and Joan Thorne of Melbourne, Australia….” the words stopped the pilot in his tracks once more and for a few moments he stood stock still, continuing to face away from the other man. “I grew up in the inner Melbourne suburb of Collingwood before moving to the country in 1975 at ten years of age.” He ignored the pilot’s disbelief as the man turned again to face him from a few metres’ distance.
“I attended state secondary school before beginning flight training with the Royal Australian Air Force at the age of eighteen. After graduation as a flight-lieutenant I served ten years with the RAAF including three years with Number 75 Squadron, flying F/A-18 fighter jets as squadron leader. Upon leaving the air force in ‘Ninety-Three, I travelled to England to work and continue my studies at Oxford. Halfway through my PhD in Modern History I was recruited by the Special Intelligence Service, and England has been my home ever since.” He took a deep breath.
“I completed two university degrees during that time, including my PhD, which focussed on the rise of Nazi Germany and the Second World War. It was for this reason I was specifically assigned by the SIS to a special task force tracking a new and powerful Neo-Nazi movement spreading across Europe; a movement being backed by some high-level German businessmen and industrialists.” Thorne gave a thin smile as he spoke those words. “At that stage, we weren’t fully aware of what we were getting ourselves into.”
He could see by the expression on Trumbull’s face that the man was teetering between belief and denial — that reason and logic were at odds with the things he’d seen in the last twelve hours that gave evidence to Thorne’s claims.
“Take a look at the bloody planes, Alec!” Thorne insisted, his voice softening as he took a few steps forward to stand beside the man once more. “Where have you ever seen anything even remotely like them? You haven’t, and you know it! They’re so far beyond anything produced in this era by anyone that there’s really no other possible explanation.” He knew that statement was slight leap of logic but he also knew he was telling the truth and wasn’t really particular about how he got it across. “Tell me something then: from what I can gather, the RAF is just about done for, right?” Thorne decided that maybe he could take a different tack and skirt the subject a little for a while.
“Close enough, much as I hate to say it,” Trumbull admitted, nodding slowly after a long, uncertain pause. “We’re sending up everything we’ve got and it’s still not enough. They attack the airfields by day and the cities by night. The raids are accurate — the night raids incredibly so, sometimes. There are relatively few civilian casualties for all that but the bombs never fail to destroy or damage something of importance: a munitions factory at Enfield Lock, an engine plant at Derby, the Supermarine production lines in Coventry. There just aren’t enough pilots or aircraft left.”