Quantum Wish Ch 7

Around me, the blur of the Smith boardroom had vanished. Time seemed to flow normally once more, but I was not in 2022 any longer. Instead, I was standing next to a concrete wall, over a concrete floor, inside of some hanger. Where was Michelle? I reached behind me and felt the wall - yep, concrete. Perhaps I was really here. I pinched myself to be sure.

Best of all, 1945 was in full, living color. Not black and white like in the old film reels. Guess I hadn’t expected otherwise; well, here we are.

Taking in the stock of the room, I saw more evidence to affirm that I was now inside of a hanger or some other large garage-like structure, as the ceiling was arched while the building was rectangular in shape; only the roof was rounded in a sort of long cylinder. Several large trucks painted in khaki were in my immediate vicinity, bearing the mark of the Red Cross and three distinct letters painted in military stencils - ATS.

Near as I could tell, I had appeared beside one of these trucks, and could not have been spotted had anyone been in the room. But where was Michelle? As for my attire, I was now dressed in a military jacket of sorts, wore khaki fatigues for a button-up shirt and slacks, had a camera over my neck, was wearing an officer’s cap, and had most of the same contents of my pockets. I was even wearing my watch.

Wait, that wasn’t my watch. Instead, I wore a new Omega dial watch with an elegant leather band. Below the twelve on the face was the model name: Trésor De Ville. Elegant, simple and functional. Currently it displayed a time of three twenty six, though I could only hope that this meant the afternoon as the sun was still up. Suppose that meant fifteen hundred and twenty six hours, if you went by military time. Outside, I could tell it was a party cloudy day, but there was no scent of rain. There was, however, a thick scent of used oil all around.

Only one thing was missing from my watch, however. The date. I knew the year was 1945, but my jacket was fairly light - too light to be an aviator’s jacket. That said, as the hanger was open to the outside, it didn’t feel too cold. I quickly checked all of my pockets - though the jacket pockets were empty, the paper bag containing the jewelry was in my pants, as was my wallet. My identification, however, had changed - instead of being born in 1980, my birth date now showed 1903. Suppose that suggested my age was the same in 1945 as it would’ve been in 2022. Accordingly, instead of dollars I now carried British pounds. For some reason, I now carried a crisp twenty-pound note. On its face was that of the current king, King George VI. How about that. A moment sooner I had imagined I might’ve been down to my last $20, but that much money would get me where I needed to go in a pinch. Where was Michelle, anyway?

All the same, the wall was concrete, and I could feel it. The only other part of my updated wardrobe was the camera, currently worn around the neck on a long leather strap lined with wool. Rolleiflex. A model with dual lenses, I guess you could’ve called it a Twin Lens Reflex.

Before I could speak, I heard Anabelle speaking in my head.

“It is a TLR camera, also known as a DLX dual lens reflex, Gregory, and yes, it is loaded with 120mm B2 black and white film from the era. I trust you know how to use that. Note that I can only speak with you when you are either alone or with Michelle. Is Michelle with you? Do not speak aloud, please, in case you are overheard.”

I shook my head.

“Very well, I apologize. Do not worry, she will find you. As you have both become separated, know that when you begin to move, both of you will be able to sense where the other is.”

My eyes narrowed curiously. How does that-

“Do not try to figure out how at this time. At any rate, you both must be present for your return to the current time to become possible, and, if you follow my meaning, you must not be missed when you have the photo in question on that film. There are only eight exposures, so please do not waste them. Someone is nearby. Good luck.”

Someone is nearby? What did she mean by that? All the same-

“I must be corporal or something.”

“Excuse me, but is someone there?” a soft feminine voice asked. Definitely not Michelle. It came from the other side of the ambulance.

Making my way around the vehicle, I came to a second truck that may or may not have actually been an ambulance though it shared the mark of the red cross and that same anagram, ATS. Not sure what those letters meant, but surely the acronym was important. Of course, my smartphone was no longer in my pocket-

“I say, are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry,” I replied. At my feet was an empty oil pan, a container of oil in a metal can, a pry bar that I recognized as a Church Key - I guess you could call it a can opener - and a few oily rags next to a woman’s legs that were sticking out from under the truck. “Can I help?”

“The oil pan, would you nudge it closer?”

“Certainly.” I gave the oil pan a few gentle nudges near the dainty pair of legs. Her feet were clad in black low-heeled shoes, while nylon leggings covered the rest that emerged from beneath a brown skirt. Though I could only imagine what lie above, I quickly decided I had best stick around to find out. “How’s that?”

An arm emerged to claim the oil pan, and a moment later the arm reappeared with a bolt inside of it. “If you would?”

Picking up the bolt, I made sure to put it into a rag so not to get oil on the camera. “Got it.”

“What’s your name, soldier? And what’s your unit? Did you say you were a corporal?”

“Er, Corporal Claxion, from the 505th logistics,” I replied.

A curious mutter followed. “Very well. What brings you to Camberley, Corporal Claxion? Or do you have a first name?”

“My bunkmates call me J.D,” I replied.

“J.D.” The response was curt but not rude. “And your orders?”

“To assist you,” I replied. “You know, since I’m here and all. But mostly I’m on my way to a mission to Oxford.”

“Oxford?” Her response took on a curious gait. “Why Oxford?”

“I’m to photograph a cricket player for a newsletter, before joining up with a supply train departing for Dover. Been chicken-footing my way across the island, you know, from base to base hopping a lift.”

“Dover, is it? More supplies to Germany?”

Sure. I hoped I was telling the right talk. “Er, yes, escorting the usual payloads to the front. About as much fun as it sounds.”

“Sounds like you’ve had your share of the front lines.”

Hesitantly, I tried to appear smug even though we were talking without exchanging expressions. “Part of the job, I guess.”

“Have you got that oil plug?” She held out her hand again.

“Er, yes. Here you are.”

A moment or two later, she spun around as her legs vanished beneath the truck, but her hands returned. “Pull?”

As I pulled, the woman who emerged from beneath the truck had curly hair, fair skin, and crystalline blue eyes. It was the young face of a queen, even though she had slight spots of oil here and there. Only here, however, she had a different title: Princess Elizabeth Windsor.

“Your majesty,” I said with a nod.

"It's 'your royal highness', by the way, thank you." She smiled brightly before offering her hands again. “Help me up.”

Taking her hand again, I did so. As I had imagined, she was wearing a full uniform. Aside from a few stripes above her left chest pocket, however, I could not see any name badge. Suppose she didn’t need one.

“But on this base I am Junior Commander Windsor, Corporal.”

I kicked my heels together and saluted. “Yes sir.”

Her smile waved away any seriousness, however. “As you were.”

Relaxing, I nodded and resumed my stance.

She proceeded to put away the oil pan, which she moved off to the side of the hanger near a large oil drum. “Do you have written orders that I might observe, Corporal Claxion? You said you were on assignment to join your unit in Oxford?”

“That’s right.” I kept my arms at my side, unsure what else to do with them even though I was thinking I should assist, or dump the oil, or something.

“Oh, I’ve always been told to just leave spent oil near this drum,” she replied, sensing my intentions. “Just leave it.”

“Yes sir.”

“You may address me as Junior Commander.”

“Yes, Junior Commander.”

We made our way back to the truck, where she kneeled to open the oil can. “Where are you from, then? The Midwest, perhaps?”

Interesting that she recognized my accent.

“That’s right,” I replied. “Minnesota.”

“Would you collect those rags?”

Collecting them without hesitation, I brought them along as we made our way to the front of the truck. The hood was already open and the oil cap was already off, resting atop the radiator. “Now then. Who gave you your orders? Was it Commander Wells?”

Shrugging but otherwise keeping my focus - I didn’t want to appear dishonest - I answered as best I could. “Sealed, and unsigned. Naturally, I burned the orders once memorized.”

Nodding, she began to pour the new oil into the engine. “Naturally. There’s no accounting for the written word, given everything you hear about in the newsreels. Suppose it invites distrust in your allies?”

“Sometimes,” I replied casually. “But I’ve learned to trust the right side, though I assure you my orders are genuine.”

“I’ll take one of your rags, please.”

Handing one over once all of the oil was into the truck, she wiped the edge of the fill spout before replacing the cap. She then gave the top a wipe, and ensuring that none of the oil spilled anywhere, tossed the can deftly into an open bin at the back of the hanger nearby.

“I find it curious that they would send you to Oxford, when your unit might be passing through here on the way to Dover. Perhaps you agree?”

“For the photograph,” I replied. “I was asked to write a newsletter, a color piece I suppose, about the standings of those still on the cricket team in Oxford. Something to share with those in the field, similar to the scores our boys might read about the Millers in the Minneapolis Star back home.”

Moving in closer, she took a hold of the camera to give it a closer look. “Fine piece of equipment. Is it yours, or requisitioned?”

“Mine,” I replied, though I was technically borrowing it from Anabelle. “All ready for photos, loaded with a new roll.”

The princess nodded as she dusted off her hands. “You’re in luck, corporal. That was my final task of the day, and that means I’m free to return home. Windsor is about halfway to Oxford, as you may know, and I should be able to bring you there tomorrow morning, provided you don’t mind an early departure.”

“Not at all,” I replied. “Suppose I might find lodging at a hostel-”

“Nonsense, it will be far faster to find you a room at the castle,” the princess replied. “Have you got anything else to collect? A rucksack or a Bergan, perhaps?”

I shook my head. Whatever a Bergan was, I knew what rucksacks were. “Sent ahead.”

The princess smirked. “You must really trust your bunkmates, then.”

“We’re in logistics,” I said with a shrug. “Brother to brother.”

“At least you thought to travel light,” she gave a wave. “In ya go, then. As soon as I report to my commander, we’ll be off.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. Had Anabelle put us here intentionally? Why not just send us directly to Oxford? And though I didn’t have any idea offhand where Camberley was, clearly it was located between Oxford and Dover, perhaps southwest of London. Either way-

“Come on then.”

“Yes, Junior Commander.” I rushed around to the passenger side of the truck and climbed inside. The princess started up the truck, which started without a fuss. “New oil, new truck.”

She put the truck into reverse and, hardly looking, began to back up.

“Um, should I-”

Without a word, she continued to back up and out of the hanger. A moment later, she shifted to first, and then second.

“Okay then.”

Returning a curt smile, she continued to drive. I imagined that she had already done plenty to earn her place here, and certainly had no reason to discuss it. This was 1945, after all. No seatbelts, besides.

“Do I make you nervous, Corporal?”

“Please, J.D,” I said. “No, not at all.”

“You are fidgeting,” she said.

“Guess I get nervous around, you know, royalty.” I almost used the word ‘queen’ and was proud of myself for avoiding it.

“As long as I’ve been my father’s daughter, I’ve known who I am,” the princess replied. “But I also have heard many times that it might be a very long time before I ever see the throne. In the meantime it’s my job to serve, rather than be served, come what may.”

“Certainly, your father the King seems a healthy, fit fellow,” I said before adding. “I read the papers from London, and even an American like myself can recognize how much he means to the country, and appreciate how much he means to you.”

She smiled. “My father is a good man,” the princess said with a nod as she turned the truck onto a different service road. “He tends to turtle up on the radio while giving speeches, but he has worked hard to encourage the troops who work here as well as those fighting on the continent.”

“Indeed,” I said, though I wasn’t sure of what day it was, I attempted it anyway. “The last speech I heard was very moving.”

“Agreed, I rather enjoyed his Easter speech myself.” She braked and put the truck into park outside of an official looking building. “I shall be just a moment. You’ll wait here?”

“Yes, Junior Commander.”

She hesitated a moment. “Maybe you should go back to ‘sir’ -” before hesitating again. “Perhaps I’ll see what the base commander thinks.”

“If I might speak freely, I’d say you should never question yourself,” I said, before adding, “Sir.”

She smiled, perhaps sensing my snark. “One more moment.”

* * *

In the meantime, Michelle had discovered herself just outside of a hanger on a military camp. The weather was partly cloudy, the day had the temperament of April, and while there were units jogging around the base it didn’t seem like a bastion of activity at the moment.

She checked herself over, discovering that she was wearing the uniform of a mechanic or a logistics worker, though she also wore a tie and pants, as well as dusty brown shoes and a standard cap.

Removing the cap to check the label, she read the emblem. ATS. Auxiliary… what? Service, perhaps, she mused to herself.

Looking around, Michelle took stock of her surroundings. She was on a base, perhaps a training facility, standing next to a hanger and a short distance away from another hanger - not directly adjacent, certainly, but at least far enough -

“Far enough away for a volley of bombs,” Michelle mused quietly as she began to wander away from the hangers around the camp.

“You there!”

Michelle looked around curiously. Was she visible to whomever-

“Yes, you! Wandering around idly when there’s work to be done?” A woman officer wearing a brown dress uniform had been driving by on a jeep and pulled to a stop. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on something?”

Michelle stood closer to attention. “Yes-”

“Yes what?” The officer indicated her stripes.

“Yes sergeant!” Michelle said with a salute.

The officer pulled down Michelle’s arm. Remember, she was driving on the right side of the vehicle.

“Sarcasm is for the Germans, soldier. Follow me, they need a few hands on the parade field.”

“Yes sergeant!”

Michelle started for the back seat of the jeep, but instead the sergeant began to drive away, forcing Michelle to jog. Keeping just ahead of her, the sergeant turned toward the fading sun - west - and into a larger field on the opposite sides of several hangers. By then, of course, Michelle was already beginning to sweat.

“Pump those legs, soldier! Basic training wasn’t that long ago!”

Was it now, Michelle thought to herself. Of course, the training she’s had wouldn’t impress this sergeant - no way - and if she kept running at this pace, she’d be channeling into a much different type of horsepower soon.

“Don’t get lost back there!”

Fortunately, Michelle’s chance arrived when the sergeant made a turn to the left behind the opposite row of hangers - and Michelle went right. In doing so, she snuck into the back door of a hanger which had been propped slightly ajar. As she caught her breath, she overheard a soft voice.

“…to leave for Glasgow now would be desertion, while going to Berlin, even this late in the war? My mother already would rather I be getting married, making grandchildren-”

Michelle gasped. What was this woman talking about?

“Who’s there?”

Michelle hushed herself quickly, and it wasn’t a moment too soon, for at that exact moment, her hands turned into tires. But they weren’t her tires - these had flatter hubcaps and much simpler treadlines. “Great.” She had but a moment to look before her feet began to change, sending her reeling.

“Someone is there!”

Afraid to speak, Michelle moved to her hands and knees as her hips began to widen and grow taller as her hips rounded into a protruding large trunk in an ovular shape - otherwise known as a boot to the Brits - while her midsection formed into blue panels with angled windows in a rather elongated cylindrical arch, which quickly extended to her neck, chest and shoulders which formed into the windshield before her nose and face elongated, forming into the hood while her eyes migrated into sealed beam headlights and front bumper, where her teeth adopted a more vertical orientation as they morphed into the grille.

Now parked between the door and several ordnance boxes, Summer - though she would not have been called that - had appeared. An Austin 16 model vehicle from 1945, royal blue in color, with two rows of seats and - strangely enough - sixteen horsepower. I would learn this was pretty powerful for the era.

For now, we’ll call her Ladybug. She’ll straighten me out later.

Finally, the person who was talking to herself came over and found the car - and narrowed her eyes. A woman who had been wearing a uniform similar to the one Michelle had been wearing a moment earlier - before transforming into a car, of course - looked over the Austin and made faces.

“But I heard-” she shook her head. “Surely I heard-”

Instead of speaking, Michelle decided to do something drastic. She turned her ignition key, and seeing that the Austin had a push button start - pretty revolutionary for a 1940s era car - focused on her starter. A moment later, her engine turned over and fired right up.

“Goodness!” the woman with reddish hair and fair skin gasped. Suddenly, she came to a conclusion - whether because of her musings or otherwise - and made a decision.

“Fate is sending me a message,” the woman said to herself. “Yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly. Otherwise why on Earth would there be a car right here - and starting up by itself no doubt-”

To add fuel to that fire, Ladybug casually opened up her driver’s side door. Remember, she was now right hand drive - so the right side opened.

Quickly, the woman made a sign of the cross over her chest. Still dumbfounded, Ladybug doubled down once more and turned on her headlights, bringing brightness to the area. By another coincidence, there was now a clear path outside of the hanger.

“Very well,” the woman said. “If I tempt fate any longer, I swear it’s going to run me over.” Finally - perhaps to Ladybug’s overwhelming relief - the woman climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed.

Sitting there a moment, the woman looked over the controls. “Now, I seem to recall how Father showed me how to do this. Clutch, shift, accelerate; clutch, shift second, accelerate-”

Had Ladybird had her fill? She quickly - earning a gasp from the woman - shifted into first and began moving toward the exit.

“Yes, yes, very well, I can take it from here, thank you.” The redhead took over and turned onto the main camp road, driving for the main gate.

“No more!” the woman said, shifting into third and accelerating past the gates. Someone had rushed out to move the security arm, but Ladybug couldn’t stop in time - and the redhead had pushed her farther - and both went barreling through the checkpoint.

A moment later, the princess and I drove up in our lorry. She rolled down the window and turned to the gate agent.

“Was that Margot?”

“Yes, Junior Commander,” the gate agent replied. “Suppose I’ll have to write her up again?”

The princess nodded. “Suppose so. She always comes back, though. You’ll give the report if Margot doesn’t return tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes, Junior Commander,” the agent said again. “See you tomorrow?”

“Thursday,” the princess replied. “I’m to pick up supplies in Oxboro on a side mission.”

Then, today must be Tuesday? I made a mental note of that.

“Very well,” the gate agent said before saluting. “See you then.”

A moment after we went onto the main road, I decided I’d ask.

“This Margot, she’s gone AWOL before?”

“Six times this month,” the princess replied sadly. “Not to worry, though, most of our recruits are here because their boyfriends or their sonless fathers asked them, and Margot - well, she’s unique.”

Apparently seven times was the cutoff? I nodded quietly before wondering. “Do you need to follow?”

“No, I don’t reckon so.”

The princess took a roundabout onto a lane called Marshall Road. Hoping my assessment of the sunlight was correct, we might have been going northbound. Thinking we might have left Michelle behind, I wondered if she would ultimately catch up. No - she was ahead of us. Anabelle had said that I could sense Michelle’s location. That’s when Anabelle spoke to me.

“Michelle was the blue car, Gregory. Do not concern yourself, I will correct her course shortly. You are fortunate to have gotten a ride.”

I might’ve smirked audibly.

“Yes, her departure was rather dramatic, wasn’t it?” the princess said suddenly, returning me to the moment. “Don’t share this with anyone, but I’ve got it on good authority that the allied front is very close to Berlin.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said with a nod. “This war has gone on long enough, and taken more than enough lives.”

Sadly, she nodded. Perhaps she wanted to continue that direction of conversation, but as I didn’t know how publicly known it was about the Holocaust at that time during the war, and assuming she didn’t - I could be breaking the rules by bringing it up. Fortunately, there was enough ambiguity to my statement to interpret it against soldier’s lives, rather than innocents.

Perhaps to break up the conversation or because she didn’t want it to go farther, the princess turned on the radio. I checked my watch - just after four o’clock. The news came onto the BBC and began reporting.

Most of the news mentioned was local, but they did touch on the war a little. The princess turned it up for this part. The main stories included the news about the sinking of a U-boat, and that the Allied armies were believed to begin a siege of Berlin. Perhaps that was more important than the suspension of the All-Star game at Fenway Park in Boston - the princess turned the volume down for that segment.

“Guess we’re not the only ones to know,” I said. “About the siege.”

The princess smirked. “They must be very close to report this on the news. Perhaps we are much closer than the general indicated to the BBC.”

As the princess continued to drive us beyond the country fields and into the next city - Bracknell - I settled in and hoped that Michelle could keep up. Surely Windsor would not be too far a drive, or else she wouldn’t make the drive daily.