Chapter Eleven
READY TO A TAKE A PEEK
I was never a thief, but as I am about to embark on a mission of the most dishonest variety, I comforted myself that I am taking from the Argentines, not from our own government.
Paul recalled every moment of his time in Port Stanley. Not least his own surrender to the Argentine officer, and his being ignominiously marched a prisoner of war to the town hall.
He told me, some time much later, after the conflict had been taken care of, that he and his comrades had been well treated, but he felt the general populous were managed with utter disregard. It's this feeling, upon his return to the islands, that had motivated him to fight and, as he is now in a position do so, to this time be a re-taker of what is the people's property, and to return to them the same. He lost a couple of fine men on the day the war ended. It had sickened him to the core and he'd lost his best friend, Thack Jackery, to almost the last bullet fired in anger. Paul had been avenged, but he is now forever scared.
I heard a car pull up outside, then another, and another, as if a convoy were descending, troop like, responding to orders from above. In the end, I soon realised that Paul had gathered an elite and close bunch of fellow ex-paratroopers, who had been sworn to secrecy. Though none believed we really did have a time machine, the truth came as a shock to every one of his brothers in arms.
Once again, I feel I must inform the reader that many of these men elected to stay in the year of the Hastings battle. Most had been bloodied often during the Falklands conflict, and, upon their return, were treated badly by Mrs Thatcher's government. Some thought it not a bad idea to discus storming the British parliament, then to demand their disabled comrades be looked after, for many of their brethren had lost limbs, eyes and, others had hidden scars. You can take loyalty only so far, then, when those whom you have put your life on the line for shit on you, treat you and yours with contempt; well, you can easily understand how they must feel.
One hundred and fifty three men stood in my new workshop, chatting amongst themselves in small groups that shuffled about as men greeted old friends. I had no tea or coffee, or anything, to offer these brave souls. Paul, as ever, had arranged to have a buddy of his to bring over his catering van. The smell of all these men in a confined space, farting, belching and smelling of beer is more than many normal folk could tolerate, but no-one seemed to mind or notice, except Maria, who kept her distance.
In the rear of the building stood the time machine, the forcefield generator and much more equipment too numerous to name here, all under a black sheet we were to reveal after we had spoken to these men in small groups. Then to demonstrate our machine. We were going to tell them our plan in the minutest detail. The initial plan is, to gather groups of 20 that will visit the past, to see what is like and what is required to contact and teach the Saxons to not be afraid of the crack of guns and the thump of grenades. Bill, Paul and myself, had worked out how we should proceed with the education of both Paul's comrades in Saxon history, culture, food, language and philosophy, as well as the training of the Saxon Housecarls in the use of modern weapons.
Many of these ex-service men had taken up teaching, some in Secondary schools, some in engineering colleges, and some, were unable to gain paid employment, despite their skills. These men looked after each-other, just as they did when they were in the service of their country.
I gazed about the room, then I called for silence. I had to resort to a Mega-Phone, before I could at last gain the attention of my audience, such is their attention on their reunion.
"Gentlemen," I said, looking around the room. "welcome to the most amazing room any of you will ever enter."
I must have sounded like a demented vacuum salesman, for there were a few cat-calls and humorous remarks I had to fend off, and I'd only said one sentence. I checked I had not left my flies undone, and that my dress is not pyjamas or something. Soldiers are a rum lot, with a sense of humour that would have put some blue comedians to shame. Nonetheless, I carried on with my speech.
"You all know Paul, so you have been briefed and understood you are to be in no doubt as to the secrecy of what you are about to witness."
"Get on with it!" came the lone voice from the crowd. I ignored the remark and proceeded to give a comprehensive account of the story. I have to admit that, apart from the one remark, the men sat in silence. There is no fidgeting, yawning, whistles or any other rudeness. I'm highly impressed. Bill then took himself to the podium, and, with a flourish, went through his speel as though he were addressing a children's party, interspersing his dialogue with the odd joke here and there, putting to shame my own verbose attempt.
Then, at last, the final address came from Paul, and, boy, did he make a meal of his spotlight. He had his buddies rolling about, joking and telling stories of past exploits. The air is as blue as an old mini-car with broken piston rings, and, proverbially, he held these men in the palm of his hand, spellbound, for a full twenty minutes, before at last he gave the microphone back to me.
"I guess I have to do the decent thing and show you what it is you have come to see."
I pressed a button and, the sound of a motor reverberated round the room. The stainless steel cords became taught, then, finally lifted the tarpaulin off of the equipment. A gasp of surprise rose to fill the room. The clatter of chairs being pushed aside, and the rush of bodies took me quite by surprise. However, order reigned and I'm able to ask for a volunteer to step forward to have his personal forcefield set into the system. I recall that one hundred and fifty pairs of feet stepped one pace forward. I pulled one man from the crowd, and, beaming with delight, the man stepped into the tube. When the deed was complete, the man stepped out of the tube, the lights went down and the man is seen to glow purple. He looked himself up and down, smiled, then stepped down to stroll amongst his companions, inviting each in turn to stab him. A couple of arm grips and the odd head butt saw the perpetrators reel back, shocked. Suitably impressed, an orderly queue formed. Twelve hours later, all the men had been scanned and belted. Tomorrow the men would then see the really exciting use of the time machine.
********
The morning is warm and the day set to be a scorcher, not that anyone is complaining. The green camouflaged tents that cluttered the grounds were emptying their contents of human activists, and the line to join the bathroom is as long one could imagine, though some did the number ones in the bushes, unable to wait. A large fox wondered about the men milling about. Some dropped a crumb or two for the animal. The little fellow seem to have no fear of humans, and the men seemed to enjoy his company.
Paul called the men to gather round him, then he and gave them a pep-talk as to how they were to assemble for their test and proof that the time machine really is not just a figment of our imagination. Paul decided that it should be done alphabetically, sir-name first. The first group lined up and stood in the position we had marked out inside the workshop. Each man had and wore his personal belt and forcefield switched on, so as not to inadvertently get himself hurt.
It's decided that I should be the one to take them back in time to meet with Harold, and to allow them to meet Harold's housecarls. Harold had been grooming, instructing his men what to expect, though Paul had had to convince more than just a few that we really were just men from the future, and not angels. These were brave men, fearless in the face of the enemy, yet they were brought almost to jelly-like at their first sight of Paul and I standing before them while we swung battle axes at each other, and felt nothing, nor any injury befell us. I am not sure how the housecarls would react to gunfire, and it occurred to me that Paul should use a rifle at some distance, then come nearer the men, bit by bit, to allow them to become accustomed to the noise. I have digressed somewhat from what is happening in the workshop.
I put down my bag of gifts and called the first group of twenty to gather around me.
"Well, boys, I guess this is the moment of truth. You will feel nothing, no motion, no giddiness or any sensation. You can piss and shit, spit even, but please, do as I ask and all will be well. We have Harold and his chief of housecarls, Brithnoth, to meet, and, as Bill has now developed the two way translator, you will understand all that is said. I will stress a couple of things. First, do not use colloquialisms, they will not be understood. Second. This is their time. I request that you treat Earl Harold as your lord. Be respectful, and he will will respond favourably. Harold is a kind, thoughtful man, powerful and fearless. His dress sense is somewhat old fashioned, but to him it is highly in vogue. You're going to be taken by Brithnoth around the headquarters to meet the men you are to train.
These men do have a sense of humour, but keep the banter light, and, if you happen to meet Swein Godwinson, please, no references to nuns or Leominster, is that understood?"
There is a general nodding of heads, and a couple of questions. One man, Colour Sargent, Vesta Swan, asked about eating the food they produced. To be fair, I had not even considered this point. I deemed it best we all return here for meals. Corporal, Tyson Mikey, wants to know if it's okay bring his tobacco and pipe to smoke. I had no objection to this, as long as it's tobacco, not the wacky-backy stuff. I reminded the crew they would return at this instant, and return back from whence they came at the same instant they had left 1066. To all intents, they had gotten into the machine, then stepped out again.
Edward Hitler asked about toilet rolls. I passed him a plastic sack and told them to run off to the house and get a dozen rolls. He gave the bag to Berry Chuck, who is the gopher this morning, and boy, could he run. These men seemed to do everything at the double, something I'd not done since I was twelve years of age. A few minutes past, when Berry returned with the goodies, and a few extra things besides; brandy being one item smuggled along. Men are men, and, who am I to curtail a nip of the hard stuff when it's needed? These were strong men, of will and body, human too. I did not care too much, as long as they did the job and behaved themselves with the females, and on this, I am most firm.
At last, we were ready to jump the time barrier, to transport our intrepid crew to January 1st,1066. Buttons were pushed and switches thrown, then, in less than the blink of and eye, we were gone. The men stepped out of the garden shed and into a courtyard full of straw and cobble stones. Standing a few paces away were Harold and Brithnoth. They spun about, as though they had witnessed a lightning flash. They had still not gotten used to my sudden disappearance and reappearance. I suppose the sight of twenty-one men dressed in modern military camouflage, with one man holding a plastic bin-liner full of toilet rolls would put the wind up any couple who had never before seen such a group.
Soon, a smile rested upon Harold's face, and he strode briskly toward us, though Brithnoth is somewhat taken aback and is hesitant to step forward, until Harold beckoned him hither. The men in my group stared at the two Saxons, perhaps wondering if this is one of Paul's re-enactment tricks, but soon, all eyes turned to the palace, the candle lighting and the very odd smells emanating from within, from the decomposing body of a king not yet dead. They all recognised the stench of necrotic flesh, but it didn't unnerve them in any way, more it confirmed they were exactly where in time I told them they would be.
"Antony! Well, these are a strangely dressed body of men," said Harold, his voice jovial. The translator system is working, much to everyone's relief and I had had visions of us signing, much like those people who communicate with the deaf. One by one, I introduced each man in turn to both Harold and Brithnoth. I'm not sure if Brithnoth is that impressed. However, he knew not to throw a punch at any of these force-field clad men, for he valued his knuckles, just as you and I.
"Brithnoth. Before you stand a small body of the one hundred and fifty of the fittest men on this island," I almost said planet, but the word would have gone over his head.
"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," I interjected myself, bending down to pick up my canvas army duffel bag, "I have with me a similar suite for you both, including underwear and boots to fit. I know your size and width, Brithnoth, I measured your boot print in the mud over there with my laser scanner. Harold, you are clearly a size twelve." The old warrior smiled, almost apologetically, clearly embarrassed at the gift. Harold nudged him, beckoning Brithnoth to receive the gift, as did Harold his.
The men spent the night in the guest rooms, that were most comfortable, but nonetheless, the smell of a dying king still lingered in everyone's nostrils. Acclimatisation is going to take a man with a stomach of enormous strength to live with such smells as these me were encountering.
The next day is a cold, damp and all-together a very miserable day. The wind is light, but biting into any exposed skin. The ex-special servicemen were used to such weather and knew how to cope with these extremes. I had returned to our own time to bring back not only the rest of the men, but the food these men enjoyed and were used to.
This is no culture shock for any of these hardened soldiers, for all had been in the Andes, Tibet and many other places to train and survive off the most horrid of grubs, snakes, roots and plants- you name it. However, if a burger is on offer, you took it.
We planed to have the men spend a month getting used to and getting to know their Saxon bothers, while ten of my initial group would return to speed off to the Falklands to steal the captured Argentinian weapons cache. When a thought struck me about the torpedoed ship, Atlantic Conveyor. For the time being I put this to the back of my mind, preferring to concentrate on the matter in hand