My Troubles With Time (4 page)

Clearly, the besieged city was no place for me to repair the time machine. I recalled from my history books that during the siege, conditions had become so desperate that the population had been forced to kill and eat the animals at the Paris zoo.

A look at the battery gauge told me that my options were severely limited by the amount of power remaining in my batteries. If I used any power to move the time machine from l870 Paris to a different time or locale, the batteries would be too weak to power my return home. My only practical alternative was to land immediately and hope that I could repair any damage to my vehicle with the emergency repair kit I carried with me.

The success of the German artillery in directing its gunfire uncomfortably close made me realize I had no time to waste. My first step was to steer the time machine to an altitude too low for the artillery to fire without risking injury to the German troops from shrapnel.

I put the vehicle into a steep dive, at the same time searching the ground below me for a suitable landing site. The artillery fire ceased, but I now became the target for small arms fire from German troops. Passing over the German lines, I traveled over the outskirts of Paris. To avoid undue attention from anyone on the ground, I searched for a landing spot in an out of the way place that also afforded me sufficient room to permit me to land the damaged time machine safely.

I had almost given up hope of achieving my purpose when I spotted what appeared to a deserted square. The area was grassed over and treeless. It was, in short, a perfect site to set down and repair the time machine.

Descending quickly, I landed the apparatus without difficulty and opened the door to get outside. Extricating myself from the time machine proved more of a problem. Each time I tried to do so, my dress sword became entangled with the control panels.

At length, I managed to disentangle the sword and climbed out. Resisting the temptation to immediately inspect the machine for damage, I carefully scrutinized all sides of the square for signs of activity. The square appeared deserted.

Most of the buildings that lined the square were two-story brick residences. Here and there were stores in the first story of residences. A rather large church occupied one corner. Most of the houses had windows that were shuttered. The store windows were boarded up for protection. Many of the buildings exhibited war damage. I concluded that the square had been the site of fighting during the siege and that the residents had sought safety in flight.

My immediate concerns eased, I turned to the time machine. A rapid check revealed no structural damage to the frame. I then took out the emergency repair kit and began unscrewing the control panel to inspect the electrical circuits.

As I bent down, my officer’s hat fell off. Annoyed, I put down my screwdriver to retrieve the hat. It was fortunate I did so. From the street by the side of the church I saw a skirmish line of German troops led by an officer in a spike helmet turn the corner.

The officer caught sight of me and shouted something guttural in German. I knew nothing of the language, but his tone seemed threatening. Then, horrified, I saw the troops behind him lift their rifles and aim them in my direction.

There was no mistaking their unfriendly intent. I quickly bent down, picked up my hat and waved it above my head in what I hoped would be interpreted as a friendly fashion. To my relief, the officer shouted something and the troops lowered their weapons. Slowly the line of troops approached me.

As a child, I had seen numerous movies portraying Germans in World War II. I frantically reviewed in my mind all of the German words I remembered from them to see if any might help me convince the German officer of my peaceful intent. Nothing useful came to mind.

In the absence of anything more suitable, I took my white handkerchief from my pocket and waved it frantically. The German officer halted his troops. I was about to congratulate myself over the success of my effort to communicate with him when I heard shouts and gunfire to my right.

Turning, I realized that the buildings along that side of the square had not been deserted as I had thought. From them, about a hundred armed men had emerged and were firing at the German troops. Their ragged appearance indicated they were French militia rather than regular troops. I ducked as bullets whistled around me, hoping that neither the time machine nor I would be hit.

The militiamen moved past me, firing at the Germans as they advanced. Several of the French went down, hit by the heavier German counter-fire. I stood and attempted to move the time machine to the side of the square, hoping to be able to protect it from the fighting.

Suddenly, I was grabbed and forcibly turned around. Two of the French militia stood pointing their rifles at me. A third held me securely from behind.

I struggled to recall my high school French. “I am a friend,” I said in French, “An American.”

The two militiamen facing me began laughing and lowered their rifles. I twisted around to look at the man who had held me. He was a redheaded giant. Laughing even louder than the other two, he released his grasp on me so suddenly that I almost fell. I realized that I had used the feminine version of the word. My embarrassment gave way to relief that my explanation had worked.

I began to explain that I had come to Paris by mistake and that I would appreciate their assistance in moving the apparatus to a safer spot when the firing increased. I turned and saw the French militia retreating, turning to fire as they ran.

Clearly, the German troops had gained the upper hand.

My erstwhile captors ignored my pleas for help and joined their comrades in withdrawing. I saw the German officer point toward me and his troops turn their rifles in my direction. I guessed that they had observed my friendly conversation with the French militiamen and concluded that I was an enemy.

Frantically I tried to move the time machine to a safe place. After a few seconds I stopped. The apparatus was clearly too heavy for me to pull by myself.

Several bullets whistled past my head. The Germans had turned to me as their nearest target now that the last of the French militia had retreated past me. Reluctantly, I turned to join them in flight. I had no doubts that the Germans would capture or destroy the time machine, leaving me unalterably marooned in 1870 Paris.

The phrase, rather a live jackal than a dead lion came to mind. I hoped that I would be able to support myself teaching physics to Frenchmen. Possibly, if I saved every cent, I might one day find a way to travel back to the United States.

Suddenly, I recalled the stirring lyrics of the French national anthem, the Marseillaise. My teacher had required the class to learn it in my second year of high school French. Possibly, I thought, its patriotic words might inspire the French troops to rally.

I drew out my sword and pointed it in the direction of the advancing Germans. “Allons enfants de la patrie,” I sang, “Le jour de gloire est arrive.”

Behind me, I heard cheers. Turning, I saw the French militia, inspired by my desperate appeal to their patriotism, had stopped their retreat and were advancing once again against the Germans.

The ragged line of French militia passed me and moved on toward the Germans, firing furiously. I was under no illusions that this attack would be any more successful against the German troops than the first one and started to run for safety to one of the buildings on the side of the square.

I had gone only a few yards when my arm was seized. I turned to find the same giant militiaman who had grabbed me before. I was about to kick him in the groin in an attempt to escape when he kissed me on first one cheek and then the other. Linking his arm in mine, he proceeded to walk briskly toward the German troops. His pace was so rapid and his stride so large that I had to run to avoid being dragged.

Seeing no alternative, I drew my sword out of its saber again and pointed it at the Germans in what I hoped was an appropriate manner. To my surprise, the fury of the French attack was sufficient to demoralize the Germans. By the time we reached the site of the heaviest fighting, the battle was over and the French militiamen were joyously picking up the equipment the Germans had left behind in their retreat.

My giant companion released my arm, uttered a shout of pure glee, and patted me on the back with such vigor that I almost was knocked to the ground. Several of the other militiamen approached us, variously shaking my hand, kissing me on the cheek or saluting me. They spoke to me so rapidly in French that it was difficult for me to do more than catch their drift, but I gathered that they credited me with leading the successful charge that broke the resistance of the Germans.

Taking advantage of the obligation the militia felt to me, I asked them in my halting French for assistance in moving the time machine to a safer location. As soon as they caught my meaning, about half a dozen of them accompanied me back to where my apparatus had landed.

I had thought the time machine heavy when I had attempted futilely to drag it to safety, myself. The militiamen, however, were used to heavy labor. With no apparent effort, they carried it from the square past the church and into a shed on a nearby street.

My helpers appeared quite curious over the nature of the time machine and one of them went so far as to try and examine the wires connecting the batteries to the engine. To dissuade such efforts, I quickly explained that it was a type of American balloon and that touching it might cause the apparatus to explode. Frightened, the Frenchmen quickly backed away from the device.

As they did so, I seized the opportunity to inspect the time machine for bullet holes or other signs of damage. To my relief, it appeared intact. I took my screw driver from the emergency tool kit and once again began unscrewing the control panel to check the electrical circuits.

The sooner I repaired it, the sooner I could return home.

W
orking as rapidly as I could, I had almost completed the repairs when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. Turning, I found myself facing a tall man clad in a dark blue uniform. Even without his sword and epaulets, the great deference the militia displayed toward him would have led me to realize that he was a senior officer.

“I am Major Colbert of Colonel De Porte’s staff,” he said. “The colonel would like to speak with you. Would you be kind enough to join me?”

His French was slow and distinct and I found to my surprise that I could understand him. His manner was polite, but I had no illusions that I had any choice in the matter. If I declined his request, I would be taken to meet the Colonel by force.

“With pleasure, Major,” I said, my pronunciation sounding atrocious to my ears. “I would be grateful if you could insure that my balloon is safeguarded. And please make sure that nobody touches it. It could explode.”

The Major ordered the militia to lock the time machine in the shed and to deploy around it to provide security. Reluctantly, I followed him outside and watched as the militia executed his orders. They did so with surprising speed.

“I am sure your balloon will be quite safe,” he said, turning to me. “Dusk is falling and the Germans do not normally attack at night.”

Colbert turned and began striding rapidly. Two of the militiamen joined me, one on each side and motioned me to follow him. I decided I had no choice but to comply. I set out and with great effort increased my pace until I caught up with him.

We strode together for several blocks, passing several lines of rudimentary fortifications manned by mixed groups of militia and what I took to be regular soldiers in blue uniforms similar to that of the major’s.

Beyond the last of the fortifications the scenery changed. None of the buildings bore signs of war damage and most of the shops were open. We passed several women on the sidewalk and a group of children playing.

Colbert stopped in front of a large stone house guarded by two uniformed sentries.

“This is Colonel De Porte’s headquarters,” he said, “Please wait here.”

The major entered the house, leaving me with the two militiamen. One of them began talking to the sentries. I gathered he was bargaining with them, offering to exchange a piece of bread for a cigarette. At length, a deal consummated, the militiaman took a loaf of dark bread from the voluminous pocket of his greatcoat. He hacked off a hunk of it with his bayonet and handed it to one of the sentries in return for a hand-rolled cigarette.

I had just declined an offer from the militiaman to take a few puffs from the cigarette when Major Colbert stuck his head out of the house and beckoned me to enter.

“Colonel De Porte will see you now,” he said. “If you would be so kind as to tell me your name, I will introduce you to him.”

“I am Colonel Maynard Snodgrass,” I said, giving myself a military rank appropriate to my uniform and sufficiently senior to afford me courteous treatment from the military officers with whom I was dealing. “I have been sent by the army of the United States of America to observe the war.”

At hearing that my military rank was superior to his, Colbert’s attitude toward me immediately changed. He drew himself to attention, saluted and then bowed. “Your servant, sir,” he said politely.

He stood back deferentially and pointed toward the door. “This way, please, sir,” he said.

I entered the building, the major behind me. The sentries at either side of the door saluted me, apparently at a sign from Colbert. I responded with a salute which was more like a wave, a gesture I recalled seeing in a movie about the French Army in World War I.

The building was almost as cold as it was outside. Dusk had fallen, and burning candles in the hallway cast only a feeble light. The thick Oriental carpets on the floor, dark wooden paneling on the walls and rich furnishings suggested that the building had at one time been the home of a wealthy family.

Behind me, I heard Colbert asking me to stop. As soon as I comprehended his meaning I halted. To my right was a closed door. The major leaned forward and knocked on it. He then opened it and stepped back, allowing me to precede him.