"What do you mean it isn't here?" I ask, totally taken aback that I may not have a ticket home as planned.
"We sent it to London for safe keeping," admits Hogan, rubbing his neck to relieve suddenly tense muscles. A dark look passes over his features which he quickly masks.
"We didn't want any one 'appenin' across it by accident," adds Newkirk. They trade covert glances and I have to wonder if there is more story behind that reason. I remember the end of the original story had Hogan coming to the future but no one knows what happened to him. Did Newkirk follow him? Maybe the others as well? Obviously they returned to their proper time but their little safety precaution wasn't helping me any.
"Terrific," I say scornfully, not realizing how Hoganish I sounded. "So get it back! Get London to air drop it to you tomorrow night. It's my only way home."
"It's not that simple," Hogan replies. "We only get drops on a regularly scheduled basis unless it's a dire emergency. London can't spare the manpower or risk the flight crew more often than what they currently do."
"Well that's not like the series," I mutter. Didn't London always drop everything to cater to Papa Bear's whims? "So when is your next resupply?" I ask, thinking there has to be an easier way to do this.
"We just got one yesterday. Next one's in three weeks," says Carter.
"Three weeks!" I sputter. I can't believe my luck. I'm stuck in Stalag 13, most probably down in the tunnels for three weeks. I briefly wonder if they'll send me to England via sub but realize I'm probably not worth the risk to the Underground members or sub crew, nevermind the potential information the Gestapo could learn if I was captured. I'm not terribly concerned about the passage of time, because they can send me back to any when, so I can still be home for dinner. I'll just be three weeks older than when I left.
"Kinch, get on the horn to London and request they include the time travel device in their next drop. Advise them we have one traveller who needs returning but we are able to handle the situation until our next scheduled resupply," says Colonel Hogan.
Kinch moves behind his work table and cranks up the antennae before settling in to send the requested message.
"In the mean time," continues Hogan, "you'll have to stay down here and out of the way. There will be no sneaking upstairs just to have a look around and no using the tunnel exit for a little walk in the woods. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," I reply, knowing he is issuing the order to protect his men and the Operation even if he is a little brusque about it.
"You never answered my question," he states, leaning back against the central table and crossing his arms. He looks casual, but I know he means business.
"My writing name is 'oboe11'," I reply. I debate about giving my real name, but Mary Sues always have unusual names and since mine is a combination of my grandfathers' names, well perhaps it's fringing on the Sue-side. While I'm hesitating, Hogan begins to frown. As he reaches a full scowl I realize I've stopped speaking and hastily add, "and I'm here to meet you. Only that's backfired a bit." I squirm a little under his intense gaze, knowing he's subtly prompting me to elaborate. "I just wanted to pop in, meet you all, deliver my gifts to make your lives a little nicer, snap a few pics and then go back. Figured I'd be here an hour tops, until you burst that bubble." Hogan makes a non-committal grunt as if to say 'it's not my fault'. "Well, it's not like I expected to go on a mission or anything!"
"Darn right you're not!" he spits out before he can help himself. Hogan gives me the once-over again as he takes a deep breath and regroups. "You military? Royal Marine?" His tone makes it clear how doubtful he is about that being true.
"I'm quasi-military, sort of," I reply, my cheeks heating as I go red with embarrassment. Extrovert is fading fast.
"Care to explain?"
"I'm with the band," I mumble, looking away and folding my arms around myself in a self-hug as I sag back against the tunnel wall.
"The band?" Hogan exclaims incredulously. He obviously doesn't think he heard me right.
"Yes. The Band." I give him a bit of a glare for mocking me. "The Band of Her Majesty's Royal Marines Association Ontario to be precise. I wear army boots and a pith helmet and I could march circles around you flyboys!" I declare firmly, pushing up off the wall to sit upright.
"Really?" asks Hogan. I can see the beginnings of a twinkle in his eye and I'm sure what I've said has delighted him to no end. Behind him, the others are exchanging glances and I'm sure they're just as amused.
"Really," I affirm, unable to quit while I'm ahead. "I can quick march, slow march, and counter march. I've done routines which would make your head spin. I've done pinwheels and crisscrosses. I've even done a battalion wheel…" Hogan's eyes crinkling and his mouth twitching as he tries not to burst out laughing at my enthusiasm halts me mid rant. "Yes, well, ahem," I clear my throat a little and try not to look too abashed. "My aptitude tests in high school said I should have been a logistics officer but while it wasn't unheard of having women serve then, it wasn't particularly popular so I satisfied my military tendencies by being in the band instead. Lot less people shooting at me. I'm good at drill but it's the only training I've had. Everything else I know is from books, television, or movies, and most of them have been American."
Hogan nods, accepting the information but doesn't comment. Maybe I'm reading something into his expression but I sense he's somewhat disappointed.
"Okay, so I'm a pretend soldier, I admit," I say. "Maybe I make more of it than it truly is but it's due to respect for our veterans, not to dishonour their service and sacrifices. The way the Marines march just a little bit prouder when the band plays Life on the Ocean Wave is amazing to watch. Don't tell me you don't stand a little straighter whenever you hear Wild Blue Yonder."
"You still honour the military in the future?" he asks and his tone would seem to say he was slightly surprised by this.
"Yes, we still have Remembrance Day services on November 11th. We also have the Highway of Heroes."
"What's that?"
"When a Canadian soldier is killed in action overseas, they always return through a specific air base and are processed in a nearby city before being released to the family. The stretch of highway between the base and the city is called the Highway of Heroes and every time a soldier comes home, the bridges over the highway are flooded with people, a lot with flags, who come to pay respects to the fallen soldier on his last trip home. It's very moving."
There's a silence as the group absorb the import of my explanation. I've tried to keep the description basic so as to not give away too much information on the future to these men who have yet to live it.
"So we're still at war then?" asks Hogan quietly. I catch a quickly smothered look of despair in his eyes and I realize he's jumped to the wrong conclusion that we're still fighting the Nazis 66 years later. He must not have had much exposure to world events on his jaunt to the future or else he's afraid something happened to change what he knows.
"Actually it's a different war. There have been several since this one ended," I explain, praying they will garner some hope for their immediate future even though I've been purposely vague.
I can see Hogan preparing to ask me another question. Before he can get it out, my stomach grumbles loudly.
"Sorry," I say, mildly embarrassed. "It's dinner time at home. I should be back already."
Hogan signals to LeBeau who promptly disappears down a nearby tunnel. I hear a slight rumble and squeak and realize he's just gone up to the barracks. He returns quickly with a sandwich. By the glare Newkirk's giving me, I think he was planning on having it himself which does not win me any brownie points with him despite bringing the tea.
"Thanks," I say, taking a small bite. Hogan continues to ask questions while I eat and long after I finish. I answer the best I can, leery after reading too many science fiction books about disrupting the timeline. I do learn that I managed to land myself on May 15, 1944. I snort to myself – my mother's birthday, literally.
How much information should I give to them? Will it help win the war or prove detrimental to history as I know it? I know a lot about what happens at the end of the war but even D-Day hasn't happened for the Heroes yet. What would Hogan say if I told him I'd been on a U-boat? The fact that it's in the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry probably wouldn't count for much, never mind the fact the sub won't be captured until June 4th. My head is swimming and I inadvertently yawn with the exhaustion of answering questions but not telling what I know.
Hogan takes my yawn at face value and realizes how late it's gotten.
"We should be hitting the sack too. Got early roll call tomorrow. LeBeau…"
"Oui, mon Colonel?"
"Give her a bit of a tour, let her know what areas are off-limits, and get her settled for the night."
"Oui, mon Colonel," replies LeBeau.
I'm whisked away for the nickel tour, discovering they even had a bathroom of sorts where I could get washed up for the night. I suppose it made sense, given the number of days and nights they had visitors in the tunnels waiting for transport to London but I had never thought about it before.
Before long, LeBeau's tucking me into a cot in a sleeping room near Carter's lab. "Bonne nuit, ma chère."
"Merci, LeBeau, et bonne nuit," I reply, hoping I haven't totally butchered my high school French.
He nods with a slight smile as he leaves so I guess I didn't do too badly. Probably a lot better than Newkirk ever would.
I settle into the cot, finding it comfortable but my eyes refuse to close. So much has happened today, it is hard to grasp. And there are a pair of someones back at home I miss desperately. Three weeks trapped in these tunnels is going to be hell. It's a long time before I finally find some sleep.