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The street at night looked a lot less threatening than it had that day. The cart and all its lumber were gone, and the German truck was off doing damage somewhere else in France.
There were plenty of German soldiers around, but they were more interested in flirting with the local women and having a little fun than in fighting a war.
Several of them were in a tavern at the end of the street, singing songs that reminded them of home. A few had left the tavern to enjoy the cool night air.
At least one soldier seemed to have had too much wine. His uniform was unkempt, and he looked un-military as he tried to weave his way down the street.
Other soldiers made way for him as he stumbled by. He stopped in front of the stairwell that led to the cellar hideaway.
He slumped up against the wall and pushed his helmet back a little. It was Michael Strogoff. He looked up and down the street, waiting for a moment when nobody was looking at him.
When the moment came, he slipped into the stairwell. It was very dark and very quiet. He slowly opened the door to the cellar. It creaked a lot louder than he would have liked.
He stepped into the pitch-black cellar and was right away smacked just below the knees with a heavy wooden board.
A light went on, and he fell to the floor, screaming in pain. He saw the board raised high, ready to come down on his head.
"Shazbot!" he cried.
"Shazbot?" Bruce said. "Is that you?"
"No!" Michael said, getting to his feet. "It's General MacArthur!"
"MacArthur?" the woman asked.
"Wrong war," Michael said.
He rubbed his shins, then straightened up and removed the German overcoat. He looked around and saw piles of old furniture, cardboard boxes, and other discarded belongings. The wounded soldier slept on a cot in the corner of the room.
"Listen," the young woman said. "I'm sorry. First I tried to shoot you, and now this. Did we hurt you?"
Michael smiled, despite the sharp pain in his legs. "It would take a lot more than just you two to hurt me," he said weakly.
He turned and walked towards the cot, gritting his teeth as he tried not to limp. Bruce was standing over the wounded man.
"Where'd you get the uniform?" Bruce asked.
"It's a long story," Michael said. Nodding towards the soldier, he asked, "How's he doing?"
"Better," the woman said. "He's still unconscious, but your son was able to stop the bleeding."
"My what?!" Michael asked, glaring malevolently at Bruce.
"It was a clean shoulder wound," Bruce said quickly. "His fever's coming down."
"It was just awful," the woman said, sitting on a stool. "We were on our way to entertain the troops, when the zeppelins attacked----bombs went off everywhere. The corporal took the only open road. But it took us behind the German lines."
"Do you know who she is?" Bruce asked Michael.
"No, I don't," Michael said. "But I'm sure you'll introduce us."
"This is Elise McKenna!" Bruce said. "The most famous silent movie actress in the world."
"And the most beautiful," Michael said.
"Elise McKenna!" Bruce repeated. "America's Sweetheart. Miss McKenna, this is my---dad."
Michael turned to her and made a little bow. "Michael Strogoff," he said in his most charming voice.
"Stroganoff," Bruce giggled behind his hand.
Michael turned and glared at him. "Strogoff. Remember?" he said. Then he turned back to Elise, smiled at her, and kissed her hand.
What he had in mind was holding onto her hand----possibly forever, if the silly look on his face meant anything. She gently removed her hand from his and walked to the other side of the room.
Michael recovered from the heartbreak. He looked around the room and seemed to be thinking.
"All right," he said to Bruce. "It's obvious that we have to get these folks back where they belong. You watch the corporal. I'll go out and look for a truck."
"Let me go with you," Elise said.
Michael looked her over. "Those are German soldiers out there," he said. "They're not likely to show any mercy to someone wearing that uniform you've got on."
"One moment, please."
She vanished behind a high pile of crates. A minute later, she stepped out wearing a skirt and blouse she'd found in one of the boxes.
"Costumes are my stock in trade," she said. "Now can we go?"
They walked down the street, Michael in his "borrowed" German uniform, Elise in the outfit that made her look like every other young woman in the town. They moved slowly and casually, as though they had nowhere in particular to go. As they talked, they kept a sharp lookout for an available truck.
"So, what's a famous movie actress like you doing in the middle of the war?" Michael asked.
"Everyone I know is doing something for the war effort," she said. "Mostly they do benefit performances to sell war bonds. I thought I could do more by boosting the morale of the soldiers at the front."
"Well, you sure boosted my morale."
"Thanks," she said smiling. "Bruce told me how you lost your wife."
"Bruce told you what?"
"Yes," she said. "I think it's terrific the way you're raising him on your own."
"Oh, right," Michael said, feeling pleased with himself. "Well, I haven't done all that much."
"You're modest," she said. "I like that."
"I'm very modest," Michael said. "Extremely modest."
"If you ever get to New Jersey, I want you to meet my husband."
"Your---husband?" he said, his face falling.
"He's an actor, too. You might want to talk to him about a job in the movies. You've saved my life, and I'm sure he'd want to repay you."
"Uh, Elise," Michael said, "could we get back to the modesty part?"
Elise stopped walking and motioned toward something across the street. "Is that what we're looking for?" she asked.
A supply truck sat in front of a small building. Two soldiers leaned on the fenders, apparently waiting for someone.
"Yeah, that's what we're looking for," Michael said. "Now how do we get it?
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Back in the cellar, the corporal had come to. Bruce filled them in on what was happening. Then they got around to introducing themselves to each other.
"Ralph Hinkley!" Bruce sputtered. "You're Ralph Hinkley?"
"That's right," the corporal said weakly.
"The Ralph Hinkley?"
"I--I guess so," he said, confused. "Corporal Ralph Hinkley. Los Angeles, California."
"Then what are you doing here?" Bruce asked.
"Lying flat on my aching back," Ralph said.
"But you're America's number one flying ace. You should be up in the air having a dogfight!"
"Dogfight?!" Ralph said. "Hey, I may be a little bit groggy, kid. But even I know that dogs don't fight in the air. The only thing up in the air these days is zeppelins."
"Zeppelins?"
"Yep. They're things like huge balloons, floating in the air. But they carry bombs, and the Huns are wiping us off the map with 'em."
"You mean America's losing the war?" Bruce said in disbelief.
"That's right. There's just no way to fight those blasted things from the ground."
"What about our planes?" Bruce yelled. "You just go up there and shoot the zeppelins down!"
"Planes?" Ralph asked. "You mean like---flying machines? Oh, kid, they've never been able to get those things off the ground. Some guy in Sweden has been working on them for years. All he keeps doing is crash landing in the Baltic Sea."
"A guy in Sweden?" Bruce asked. He was horrified because he was beginning to understand what was wrong here. "Uh, you've heard of the Wright Brothers, haven't you?"
"I can't say that I have, no."
"Oh, no!" Bruce cried. "No wonder that red light's blinking like crazy!" He ran for the door.
"Hey, kid!" Ralph called. "Where are you going?"
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Elise ambled over to the supply truck, while Michael waited in the shadows. She smiled at the two soldiers leaning on the truck. They smiled back.
She kept walking. Then she pretended to trip and fall. The two soldiers ran to help her. Michael quietly made his way to the truck. He opened the driver's door and slipped inside. The key was in the ignition.
"Michael!" Bruce's voice shattered the calm on the street.
"Shazbot!" Michael said.
Bruce ran to the truck. The soldiers turned and saw someone sitting in it. Michael opened the door and pulled Bruce inside.
The soldiers raised their rifles and aimed at the rear of the truck. Elise quietly slipped away at the first sound of gunfire.
"Still no guidebook!" Michael said, struggling with the stick shift.
"The clutch!" Bruce yelled, pointing to the floor.
"The clutch again!" Michael moaned.
He jammed his foot on the clutch pedal and let it out; the truck shifted into gear, and they lurched forward. Other soldiers had come from the buildings, and the truck was being fired on from all sides.
"Your timing stinks, boy!" Michael said as the truck tore down the street.
"Never mind that!" Bruce yelled. "I know what's wrong here!"
"You're what's wrong! I've got to go back and get Elise!"
He swerved to avoid hitting three people standing in the street. The gunfire was behind them now, but the soldiers would already be in trucks of their own.
"Forget about her!" Bruce said. "There aren't any airplanes!"
"What are you talking about?" Michael screamed.
"Airplanes! That's what we've got to change! Without airplanes, the Germans are going to win the war!"
They were out of the village now, and Bruce looked to see a German gun truck waiting for them. Michael spun the wheel and turned off the road.
That left them face-to-face with a haystack. There was no time to avoid it. The truck went crashing into the hay, and then came to a stop.
"Now, what was that they taught us about gearboxes?" Michael said through clenched teeth. He pushed and pulled the stick, but it refused to budge.
"Can you set that Omni to any place and time?" Bruce asked frantically.
"I'm trying to remember my auto mechanics class!" Michael shouted.
"Never mind the truck! We're losing the war! That corporal with Elise is Ralph Hinkley!"
"So?" Michael asked.
"So," Bruce said, hopping up and down in his seat, "he was the top U.S. flying ace in this war. But there aren't any airplanes! He's never even heard of the Wright Brothers!"
"That makes two of us," Michael said. "Now shut up and let me...."
He stopped because of what he saw in the rearview mirror. The gun truck had caught up with them. Twelve soldiers were piling out, rifles raised, and running towards them.
Michael looked at Bruce and sighed. "The Wright Brothers?" he asked.
"September, 1900!" Bruce said breathlessly, "Kitty Hawk, North Carolina!"
Michael set the Omni. "Kid," he said, "you better be right. Hang on!"
He pressed the button. They closed their eyes. The German soldiers reached the truck and tore open both doors.
The soldiers stared at the empty seats inside.
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