My Troubles With Time (22 page)

Breakfast and lunch came and went, with no news from Parsons. I had about given up hope of seeing my defense counsel when the door of my cell opened and he appeared. I could see from his expression that the appeals had failed.

“Please sit down, Lieutenant,” he said in a sorrowful voice, “I’m afraid the news I have for you is not good.”

“I can take it standing,” I answered, although my knees did seem wobbly and my head had started to pound.

“I’m afraid all the appeals have been denied,” he said, “Even the one to Washington.”

“They were able to answer so quickly?”

“Yes,” he replied mournfully. “They did it telegraphically. It was all arranged beforehand. I’m afraid there is nothing more to be done. The time for your execution has been set for 8 a.m. tomorrow morning.”

“So early?” I said. Even a few minutes of additional time for me seemed at that moment precious.

“The Japanese ultimatum expires at midnight tomorrow. They want to make sure there is no delay or mishap. I’m so sorry,”

Parsons continued. “I wish I could have been of greater help to you.”

“Nobody could have done more for me, Commander,” I said, although it seemed incongruous that I should be the one consoling him. “I’m very grateful.”

I patted him on the shoulder as he turned and knocked on the cell door for the guard. “Thanks for everything, sir.”

He turned back to me and we shook hands. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” he said. He looked like he wanted to say more, but the cell door opened. As he left the cell, I thought he was about to cry.

With nothing more to hope for, I resumed my pacing. How ironic it was, I mused, that despite overwhelming odds against it, I had actually achieved my childhood fantasy of sinking the Japanese carriers only to be executed for my pains. If only the Japanese aircraft had attacked Pearl Harbor on the morning of December 7
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, as they should have, I would not be in the mess I was. Could it be, I wondered, if there were alternate tracks in time, and I had some blundered into one in which Japan had not attacked Pearl Harbor.

I was so deeply immersed in my thoughts that I did not hear the cell door open and someone enter. It was not until he said, “Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” that I turned and found myself facing a navy officer, wearing the insignia of a lieutenant commander. He seemed to be rather old to be in service; he had only a fringe of hair on his head, and that was completely white.

“I am Samuel Porter,” he said, “The Episcopal Chaplain at the base. I am here to offer you what religious consolation I can at this difficult moment of your life.”

“Thank you, sir,” I answered. “I appreciate your offer, but I am not a particularly religious man.”

He smiled, a smile of great compassion. “I know the anguish you must feel, Lieutenant. Perhaps just talking to me would help you feel better.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Please call me Chaplain,” he interrupted.

“Thank you, Chaplain, but really, I’d rather be alone just now.”

He smiled again. It was obvious he really felt my pain.

“May I call you Maynard?” He asked.

I allowed that he could. “Although I am the Episcopal chaplain,” he continued, “I also regularly conduct the services for the other Protestant denominations on the base.”

“No, Chaplain, it isn’t that.”

Porter was indefatigable. “If you’re Catholic.” He said, “I can have the base Catholic Chaplain, Commander Murphy, stop by.”

Again, I shook my head, “Or if you’re Jewish,” he continued, “There are Jewish congregations in Honolulu. I am sure Dr. Goldberg, would be glad to come if I called him.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “On those occasions I go, I usually attend the Episcopal Church. But right now, I’d like to be alone with my thoughts for a bit.”

“I understand that,” Porter said sympathetically. “If you would like to talk to me at any time, just tell the guards and they know how to reach me. In any event, I’ll be with you tomorrow morning.”

Porter left and I resumed my pacing. I tried to think, but found it was difficult because of a series of staccato sounds that appeared to originate outside in the quadrangle. I dragged my bed over to the window and stood on it, attempting to ascertain the cause of the pounding. I could see nothing.

My worsening headache caused me to lie down on the bed and shut my eyes. As I was beginning to doze, I heard the door to my cell open. Instantly awake, I jumped up, hoping it was Parsons with news of a reprieve.

Instead, I found myself facing a marine captain, the same officer who had commanded the escort when we had futilely searched for my time machine. “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said softly, “I’m sorry about the bad deal you got.”

I couldn’t think of anything other than “thanks” to say. He looked embarrassed. “People in circumstances such as you are in, Lieutenant,” he began, carefully choosing his words, “Are given the opportunity to pick what they’d like for dinner.”

“You mean for my last supper?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Frankly, Captain,” I said, “ What I have for dinner tonight really isn’t what I have on my mind.”

He blushed and I felt sorry for him. The poor man was trying to be nice.

“I suppose, after all,” I added, I might as well take advantage of your kind offer. How about broiled pork chops and apple sauce, with chocolate angel cake for desert?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, smiling. I gathered he was pleased he could do something for me. “I think the officers’ club ought to be able to send that over.”

“Thanks, Captain. Oh, one thing more. Can you do something about that awful hammering?”

The embarrassed look reappeared. “I’m very sorry about that, Lieutenant,” he said stuttering, “I’ll see if there’s anything I can do, but I’m not optimistic. That hammering, it’s the noise of their putting together the gallows for tomorrow.”

Still flustered, he said goodbye and left. After a few minutes the noise outside suddenly stopped. When it resumed, there was a greater interval between the banging. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something.

Sometime later the noise ceased. I was uncertain whether this marked completion of the work on the gallows or only the approach of the dinner hour. An empty feeling in my stomach suggested the latter, but without a watch to check the time, I wasn’t sure.

I was still pondering the question when the door to my cell opened and a marine guard brought in my dinner. It was clear that some pains had gone into its preparation. On the standard metal tray were two dishes decorated with the logo of the officers’ club. Metal covers had been placed over the dishes to keep the contents warm and the mug of coffee had been replaced by a large thermos container and a china cup and saucer. There was even a linen napkin and a silver knife, spoon and fork for me to use.

“Here’s your dinner, sir” the marine said as he handed the tray to me and left, “I hope you enjoy it.”

The cell had no table or chair, obliging me to place the tray on the bed. I sat down next to it and removed the metal cover protecting the smaller of the two plates. On the plate were a warm dinner roll and two large pats of butter.

So far, so good, I thought, uncovering the second plate. “God damn it!” I said out loud. Instead of the broiled pork chops and applesauce I had asked for was a large ham steak and a small slice of canned pineapple. As for the requested chocolate angel cake, there was simply no desert at all.

I felt so depressed that when I thought about it I had to laugh. Here was I, still a virgin at the age of thirty-three, a failure at the university and with no family friends. And when I went back in my time machine to 1941 seeking to become a hero, what happened? I was an even worse failure.

Few individuals could in less than a week have managed to sink three capital ships of a friendly power, brought their country to the brink of war, and gotten themselves sentenced to hanging for murder, mutiny and piracy. In short, if a Nobel Prize were awarded for failure, I was a certain winner.

I buttered the roll and bit into it. It was good. Next, I turned to the ham steak. The meat was so salty as to be virtually inedible. Unscrewing the top of the thermos, I poured the coffee into the cup. It was good, the best coffee I had had since setting off in the time machine. There was even a small bottle of heavy cream, which I poured liberally into the coffee. In my predicament, I saw no reason to worry about my cholesterol level or about gaining weight.

Finishing the roll and the coffee, I left the rest of the meal untouched. My thoughts had gone back to my unhappy childhood when the door of my cell opened and a marine guard entered. He picked up the dinner tray, eyeing the uneaten ham steak.

“Not too hungry, sir?” he said as he turned to leave.

“It wasn’t the broiled pork chop and apple sauce I asked for,”

I answered, “Nor did I get the chocolate angel cake I wanted for desert. Apparently the condemned man in this jail doesn’t get what he requests for his last meal.”

The guard said nothing as he left. A few minutes later I was surprised to see the door open again and a young, redheaded marine first lieutenant who I had not seen before entered.

“I’m sorry about your meal, sir,” he said. “We sent over your request to the officers’ club. However, they told us that the club had three large receptions this afternoon and tonight and they were all out of pork chops. The closest they could come to the pork chops was the ham steak. They also didn’t have any time to bake an angel cake.”

“Oh, well,” I said, “There’s always breakfast tomorrow.”

The lieutenant blushed. “I’m afraid not, sir. They don’t normally give someone in your situation breakfast. They’ve found too many tend to vomit, and it ruins the solemnity of the occasion.”

“Well, thanks, anyway, Lieutenant.”

He started to leave, then stopped. “Just a minute, sir,” he said as he left the cell. He returned in a few minutes with a brown paper bag in his hand. From it, he removed a paper plate covered with a napkin. “Here, sir,” he said, handing me the plate. “They’re chocolate chip cookies. My wife baked them fresh for me this afternoon. She’s a great cook.”

I shook my head. “I can’t take your cookies, Lieutenant.”

“Please, sir,” he insisted. “She has more at home for me.”

Looking at him, I decided he would feel hurt if I refused his offer. “Thanks,” I said, “I’m very grateful. Please tell your wife how much they mean to me.”

After he left, I sat down on my bed and uncovered the cookies. There were four of them and they did look delicious. I had two, savoring the richness of the chocolate pieces scattered in profusion through the dough. It was hard, but I forced myself to leave two, deciding that I would enjoy them even more later.

I paced my cell for a bit and then lay down on the bed, wondering if I could sleep. I tossed and turned, unable to keep my mind off my imminent execution. Finally, I decided it was foolish wasting my few remaining hours in sleep. Instead, I lay there, reviewing in my mind the course of my life and wondering what wrong choices I had made which I would now correct if I could.

It was still dark outside when I arose from the bed and resumed my pacing. I was hungry, but I had broken down and eaten my two remaining cookies earlier. Dawn came and I wondered how many minutes I had left before the guards came to lead me to my execution.

When I heard someone at the door, I quickly said a short prayer and prepared to face the gibbet as bravely as I could. The door opened and I stepped back with a gasp of surprise. Instead of the marine guards, in walked Admiral Richard Stafford!

“Lieutenant Snodgrass,” he said, with a smile on his face, “ I owe you an apology. At the court martial, I thought you were a disgruntled naval officer who had run amok. Now I realize you are a patriot.”

I gazed at the Admiral, stupefied at the course of events.

“Naval intelligence,” he went on, “intercepted and was able to break some Japanese radio messages. It seems the Japanese carrier task force was under orders to launch a surprise strike against Pearl Harbor early on the morning of December 7
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as you stated at your trial.

Only an equipment failure on one of the carriers caused the attack to be delayed. Our airplanes would have been caught on the ground and destroyed and our battleships in the harbor sunk if you had not attacked when you did.”

“Son,” he went on, “The entire nation owes you a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid.”

“Thank God!” I exclaimed, “You mean I’ve been reprieved?”

Stafford shook his head. “I’m afraid not. If you were reprieved, we’d have to explain why. The Japanese would learn that we’ve managed to break their codes. No, I’m afraid the execution will have to go forward as planned.”

“But I’m not even a naval officer!” I burst out. “Check the Navy Department records! There’s no Lieutenant Maynard Snodgrass on your rolls!”

“Oh, we know that,” the Admiral said. “We knew it before the court martial. We assumed then that you were a civilian who had somehow managed to acquire sufficient expertise to command a battleship. We preserved the fiction that you were Lieutenant Maynard Snodgrass to prevent the public from thinking a civilian could kidnap an entire battleship.”

“Just who do you think I am then?” I asked.

“We realize now Lieutenant Snodgrass,” if I may call you that,” he said with a wink, “That you belong to Naval Intelligence. You obviously volunteered for the hazardous mission of attacking the Japanese fleet, knowing that you were sacrificing your life to help your country.”

Before I could try further to disillusion the Admiral, he stepped back and saluted me. “Son, he said, it has been a real honor to know you. You should be aware that the Navy plans to award you one of its highest decorations for what you have done. Posthumously, of course, and in secret.”

I tried to think of something, anything, I could say to persuade him to delay my execution. There was no time. Before I could open my mouth, he barked an order for the door to be opened. The marine guard must have been standing just outside the cell, waiting for the command. The door opened instantaneously and the admiral was gone.