Catalyna-2
It wasn't until I reached the stump and Newkirk had gone down I thought of another problem
It wasn't until I reached the stump I thought of something: Newkirk had gone down and I was expected follow him, while Olsen would then take the rear. But, I realized that at that angle Newkirk was down there, he could look up my skirt. Not only for modesty's sake, but I realized my underwear was not exactly what was in vogue for the 1940s. I remembered that the underwear was well, rather large and droopy, not exactly my cotton knit bikinis. Especially in the psychedelic pattern; even if it were a muted green. The best I could hope for would be my panty-hose would disguise them.
"Damn and Blast!" They didn't have panty hose, or at least not the kind I had on. Dancers wore a type of tights, but anyone taking a look at me would see I'm not a dancer. I wasn't even sure mine were made out of nylon. At least they were silky sheer.
"Move away from the ladder a bit. I don't want you to look up."
"Look, Luv, I'm not trying to get a gander at your knickers. Just come on down, I'll catch you if you slip." But, to my relief Newkirk did move slightly back.
Luckily not too far, as I did have a small problem with the ladder, missing a step and sliding down half-way. I also think he did get a glimpse of well-rounded thighs, when my skirt kept rising as I was going down. Olsen came down after purposely missing several bottom rungs and landing with a thud on the tunnel's well-packed earthen floor. Show off.
As they were leading me through the tunnels, I noticed a variety of smells, the earth of the tunnel, an oily smell probably of any one of the many machines they had down there, and the smell of men. Okay, this bothered me most. I realized that deodorant is fairly recent widespread use and these men were probably only bathing once every two weeks, so it shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was. This is what struck me; making everything real: the ripe smell of men and I do not mean that in a good way.
I was also silently thinking, as I made my way down the tunnels, "they are going to ask me questions. My name for one."
My own name, both first and last, were common German names: not good.
Well, there was my online name: Catalyna. Nope, how many women born in the 1890s were named that? (I remembered this piece of triva while researching a cross-over between Dorothy Sayer's Lord Peter Wimsey and Hogan's Heroes. I had realized Lord Peter would have been 50 by the time of WWII and was thrilled to find the story would work.)
Cat would be simpler, they could figure it out for themselves if it was short for Catherine or something else. Okay one down: last name? How about my mothers? I was told it originally meant "gone to war" in Dutch. No, not a very auspicious name. My mother's very English grandmother's name? Reeger. Yeah, Cat Reeger. It sounded like a stippers' name. I was trying to be a lady. In this time, gentlemen protected ladies; the other type usually had to fend on their own.
It wasn't until we had reached the radio room when I had decided on a name. Then I saw Hogan, leaning against the desk, talking with Kinchloe. Change that; when he looked at me I realized this was COLONEL Hogan another person entirely. Serious, frowning and no twinkle in the eye. I wanted my Hogan with the twinkle.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Another one. Olsen caught her outside the stump."
Colonel Hogan took a deep breath and looked at me. There was a presence here, a bulk, a… a… yeah, presence that no TV could show. Right now, I felt like a small shrub in a forest of giants. Oh where, oh where was LeBeau? I don't think he could help me, but at least he would bring the height average down.
Colonel Hogan ignored me for the moment and asked Newkirk if I had any identification. I could have answered that if he bothered to ask me. No, my purse was back at the Archives. Hopefully, some clerk had picked it up and wound up calling my sister to let her know I had disappeared. Guiltily, I realized my dogs and bird were now all alone, with no one to take care of them. They would be there waiting and I wouldn't come back; waiting at the window, watching every passerby hoping for me to come home…I started to cry.
I can tell you right now, I'm not one of those women who can look beautifully dewy when I cry. In spite of being mostly a girly girl growing up that is one talent I have never learned. Tears come forth from the eyes washing any makeup away in the flood; the nose becomes a red slime water fall; the lips are rubbery, red, wet, elastic inner tubes. All in all: not at a pretty sight.
I hadn't quite gotten to the wailing stage, so it wasn't until Colonel Hogan had asked Olsen and Newkirk if I had been searched, that they noticed I was crying. I was slightly mollified when the Colonel pinched the bridge of his nose as Hogan did when he was frustrated. But, he did produce a clean handkerchief for me.
He motioned to Newkirk and Olsen to take me to a side tunnel to do the frisk. I silently prayed that this time, they were definitely not like their TV counterparts as they would be most likely to cop a feel. I don't care if this was real or not, I'm not for the odd thrill. Where was that nice Carter. I knew he wouldn't, or would he here?
I followed, taking off my shoes on the way. It was just a habit from traveling on airlines; you always take off your shoes for them to search while you get patted down if you are the lucky one to get such special treatment.
They did seem surprised to see my shoes in my hand. "What are these for?" asked Olsen.
"Don't you want to make sure I don't have a bomb in them?" Maybe I shouldn't be so helpful?
As Olsen (he actually was being a gentleman; I didn't feel any more awkward with him as one of the women security at the airport) was patting me down, I think he was trying to calm me by asking me my name.
"Cat, (sniff) Cat Ballou."
I will forever swear on my mother's grave that this was not the name I had thought of in the tunnel. Why I said it, I'll never know. I think this should have been my first clue to keep my mouth shut afterward.
"Nice name. French?"
"Non, (sniff, sniff) je ne parle pas français, je suis une américaine." Hadn't a clue why I answered in French. Since I hadn't taken French since elementary school I wasn't even sure it was good French.
Olsen just sort gave a half smile and a snort, "Yeah, we know. You're an American."
He stopped and gave me a questioning look when he felt the underwires of my bra.
"Underwires." I helpfully explained.
He looked more confused.
"You know, gravity fighters."
"Gravity fighters?"
"You know," here I cupped my hands in front of me just below my breast line and swiftly brought them up to my own. "Gravity fighters."
I was rewarded by Olsen and Newkirk turning beet red. "Gravity fighters."
Now they took me back to the Colonel.
"She's clean," reported Newkirk.
"Name's Cat Ballou. Or so she claims," added Olsen.
"Okay, Mrs. Ballou, where are you from?" started the Colonel, gesturing to a seat.
"Not Mrs., Ms." I automatically corrected sitting down. No, not Ms not until the late 1970s. "I mean Miss."
I hoped he just thought I couldn't get it out because of the aftermath of crying.
"Miss Ballou, then, where are you from?"
"D.C., you know, Washington, D.C. I work for a PIG there." I was talking fast until I realized: Uh oh. First rule when you are being interrogated: you just answer what was asked. You don't volunteer other information. I had a feeling it was going to get worse. Especially, when I had just realized in this timeline, I was a Miss Grundy. Some old spinster.
Did anyone even use the word spinster in 2008? Although I was wearing a simple short-sleeved, moderately cut, V-necked black sweater, in some ways it made it worse: I was Miss Grundy ready for a night on the town. A very tame night on the town. A very pitiful, tame, night on the town.
"Miss Ballou, we don't care about the personalities of the people you work for right now," Colonel Hogan was steering the conversation back.
Tears started again welling in my eyes.
Now I want to take a moment to explain a theory I have: the brain and the mouth are not necessarily connected. I don't care what medical men or scientists say. There have been times when my brain has been otherwise occupied, my mouth had slipped the lead and bounded off over meadows and fields gaily saying all sorts of nonsense to people I would rather impress, while my brain has been running behind, yelling, "Shut up. Shut up, SHUT UP!" I'm quite sure this has happened to most people one time or other in their life whether they admit it or not.
Such a thing was happening now. My brain was trying to comprehend these were real people, and I had somehow traveled back into time. I could be in real danger. It was trying to control the impulse to cry with abandon. My mouth, seeing a hole in the fence, decided to slip through and off it ran.
"No, I mean I work for a public interest group. Mr. Raymond is actually a very nice man. But, I just went to the Archives Building during my lunch hour. I didn't mean any harm, but GSJessica told the list that we would find something interesting there and since I hadn't heard of anyone else going, I just went…" I kept on talking faster.
"G.S. Jessica?" Colonel Hogan interrupted, saying the first two letters as if expecting them to be a rank. "What is his full name?"
"I think he's a she. I don't know her real name. Most of us on the list just go by aliases. They're from all over the U.S. I think we have an Aussie for sure, maybe one or two Canadians, I know at least one German… " Oh, my bad. Yeah, I'm on a list of people who just use aliases, who are from all over the world and I reside in D.C. That sounds harmless: NOT. But, the mouth is not to be discouraged.
"I did have a purse, but it was left in D.C. when I came here, it has all my id, money and credit cards…OH! Someone could have found my purse and stolen my identity. And my dogs… my dogs and bird…" okay, waterworks are on again.
"But, anyways, I'm here, I don't know any one and I want to gooooo hooooooooome. I don't like it AAAnd you don't have a twinkle!"