JET LAG! (19 page)

              Churchill was delighted when presented with this news and ordered an immediate airstrike against the island. The only question remaining to be answered was who should do it?  The bombers of Bomber command or the Tornados of Todd's Purple force 1992.

28

Jim Charles - The Met Man

Todd was approached by Jim Charles directly after the memorial service. He asked for a few minutes of the Wing Commander’s time to talk over a few puzzling factors concerning their peculiar and unprecedented? situation.

Todd was more than mildly intrigued, so he invited Jim back to his office for some privacy. He arranged for tea and asked Jim to sit down.

‘What’s on your mind, Jim?’ asked Todd benignly. He realised that the Met Man was on his own – that was, he didn’t belong to any of the specific teams or groups – so had become a bit of a loner. He was fifty-eight years old and a bachelor, a quiet, intense and insular soul. Todd wondered whether he was becoming too lonely, though.

‘Well, sir, perhaps I should give you some background before I put forward my theories and my sense of additional disquiet. I realise that the situation is bizarre in the extreme, but there is something not quite right – even if we fully accept that we are in 1940.’

Todd poured the tea and asked Jim to continue. By now the Met Man had his full attention.

‘I was born in 1934 and remember the war very well. As a six year old I watched the aircraft above Maidstone, where I lived, and the white condensation trails were a source of great fascination. I suppose that was the birth of my lifelong interest in the weather.

Anyway, after the war I completed my schooling and went to university. My father was a regular RAF bomber pilot and stayed on after 1945 to continue his career. By the mid-fifties, I came down from Cambridge with a good degree and joined the civil service. I was determined to become involved with Meteorology – to the dismay of my parents – and began my career. It peaked as a television presenter for the BBC in the early eighties – but of course, you know all this.

I maintained my curiosity about the war and especially the part the aircraft played in the Battle of Britain, and the effect bombing had on the length of the war. Little did I think I'd ever actually be involved!

My main interest involved researching the Battle of Britain and in 1972, I published a book – an historical account – dealing with the action of the summer and autumn of 1940.’

Todd was following Jim closely.

‘So I'm talking to an expert?’

‘I suppose so. And it's this knowledge of the Battle that I wish to discuss with you – in private. I do not wish to alarm any of the other personnel from 1992.’

Todd was now becoming mildly alarmed himself.

‘What's the problem, Jim?’

The Met Man took a deep breath and continued.

‘There's something not quite right about the historical data concerning this timeframe.’

‘What specifically do you mean, Jim?’

‘Well, sir, the dates are wrong. Everything seems to be how we think it should be, but it's all just a little bit out of synch.’

Todd was now impatiently waiting for the punchline.

‘Specifically, Jim?’

‘For instance, take the information we have about the new German jet fighter. It will become known as the Me 262 – you may have heard of it – but the fact that it shot down Wg Cdr Hunt the other night is not right.’

‘I'm waiting, Jim?’

‘Well, for a start, todays date is the fifth of July 1940. In our timeframe the Nazi Me 262 prototype did not even have its first flight until the twenty-fifth of March 1942, and it was April of 1943 before the German High Command – Adolf Galland himself – flew and approved the design. What's more, the night fighter variant didn’t even get off the ground until November 1944 – or even later for ops – so I ask myself one simple question – and so should you!

What shot down Wg Cdr Barclay the other night? In our universe, in our time, the German Me 262 that I know of could not have possibly achieved the kill.

Something is horribly out of kilter!’             

29

Methwold, Norfolk

10 July 1940

              Philip Andrews was twelve years-old and like many boys of his age, he loved to strike out on his bicycle and find adventure. He lived in a big old house at Methwold, and since his family had no near- neighbours he often set out cycling on his own. This was especially so during the summer holidays, when home from his boarding school in Dorset.

              On this particular morning in July, Philip had been provided with a packed lunch of spam sandwiches, an apple, biscuits and a flask of orange squash. Cook waved him on his way as he cycled off down the main drive towards the gated entrance to the house. She didn’t expect to see him again until after tea time, knowing that a very tired little boy would return hungrily from the adventures of the day.

***

It was two weeks after the time slip and transfer of the 1992 aircraft into 1940. Constance Morrissey, nee Andrews, wife of the AVM, had been busy. She wasn’t remotely interested in the ongoing battle for survival raging in the skies over Britain. She let her husband and son deal with the day-to-day organisation and liaison with the Churchill administration.

Her personal agenda was quite, quite different.

              Yes, she had conspired with her father since 1956, when she first met her future husband – Henry Morrissey - at an Officers Mess dinner at RAF Marham. He had been a twenty-three year old pilot and was building his career in the Royal Air Force. What he was totally unaware of at the time was that Constance had specifically sought Henry out, using her father’s contacts in the government to identify Morrissey and find out where he was posted. In fact, the posting to Marham was part of the conspiracy. She attached herself to the young pilot, who was immensely flattered by the attention of a beautiful young debutante. The courtship was brief and when Sir Peter Andrews enthusiastically consented, the couple were wed at the local church when Henry was just twenty-four years old. This was unusual in itself as marriage for under thirty’s was not encouraged in those days. However, his guardian angels were carefully constructing his career.

***

              Young Philip Andrews turned right out of the driveway and cycled about half a mile until he came to a break in the fence which revealed a bridleway. The path was well trodden and was almost dry again after the bad weather during recent days. He skidded past the odd puddle as he struck north towards Hutch’s Farm. He knew Willie Hutch quite well, and often planned his cycle rides to arrive there either at elevenses or at tea-time, when he knew that Mrs Hutch would furnish him with a cool drink and a piece of fruitcake. He would spend an hour or two on the farm and then continue his ride towards home – but always by a new route. He had an in-built sense of direction and hardly ever got lost. He knew this area very well indeed, and always seemed to find a stream to paddle in whilst he ate his lunch.

              This day was no different to most. He left Hutch’s farm at about 12.30pm and rode off northwest towards the village of Nordelph. He knew it was too far to reach today, but he also knew of a path which would take him due south past Little Fleckney, and then on home to Methwold. He stopped for lunch at about 2.00pm at a large copse on the top of a rise. The view was limited but he could see the hangars at Middle Fleckney. Aeroplanes had always fascinated him – but he knew that Fleckney was closed and no planes would be flying about today. So he lay back and enjoyed the warm summer sunshine, and as he did so he saw the condensation trail of two fighters jousting high in the sky. He followed their progress for a couple of minutes until they disappeared out of site. The time was now almost 3.30pm and he reckoned that he had a good two hours riding if he were to make it back home by tea-time. He stood up, repacked his saddle-bag with the remnants of his lunch, checked around to make sure that he had left no trace of his stay, swung his leg over the crossbar and sat in the saddle.

              Just then, he glanced down towards Middle Fleckney and was surprised to note that the hangar doors were in the process of opening. He got off the saddle and threw the bike to the floor. Yes, the doors were moving apart, and he could see quite clearly an aeroplane just inside the entrance to the hangar. He stood watching for about five minutes. He tried to identify the plane, but it was too far away and too dark inside the hangar to see clearly. Right, he thought, I’ll go down to the fence and take a closer look.

***

              Constance and young Henry Morrissey had enjoyed a wonderful life in the RAF, travelling to Malta, the Far East and Germany. His promotions came thick and fast and by 1976 he was appointed Group Captain. He was involved with the Falklands War and commanded the Harrier Force on board HMS Ark Royal. In 1960, Todd had been born, followed by two sisters at regular intervals. Todd joined the RAF in 1981 and his father was by then manoeuvring his own career towards a post at RAF Upavon, where he could monitor and influence his son’s profession. By 1992, father was an AVM, and Todd a Squadron Leader at RAF Marham. Years of conspiracy, scheming and collusion had fashioned the crucial outcome.

***

              Young Peter Andrews could see the airfield perimeter fence about three quarters of a mile away. It was about six feet high and had barbed wire on top. It would take about ten minutes to cross the field leading up to the edge of the airfield – and from there he would have an unobstructed view into the hangar.

              This was turning out to be a special adventure. Wait until he told cook on his return to Methwold.

              As he got back on his bike, unbeknown to him, a man in uniform brought a radio to his lips and transmitted a short message:

              ‘Alpha HQ, this is Alpha three-four. The boy is moving towards the perimeter fence. I think he can see that the door is open. Request instructions, over.’

              The controller in Alpha HQ thought quickly. Alpha three-four had been tailing the boy for nearly three hours and as long as he didn’t stray too near to the airfield, he was happy to let the security guard just observe and report. However, the lad was now a problem. He would have to get three-four to move him back towards the south and quickly.

              ‘Roger, Alpha three-four, this is Alpha HQ, approach the boy and move him on away from the airfield. Report when complete, over.’

              Alpha three-four got to his feet and started off after Phillip. The boy had a head start of about two hundred yards and he also had his bike. As Phillip reached the middle of the field the uniformed man shouted a warning.

‘Oy, you lad, come here!’

***

              Constance decided that she needed to confide in her husband shortly after Todd was born. As a nine year-old, she had overheard her parents talking about the strange goings-on at Middle Fleckney Aerodrome and remembered the war very clearly. She recalled her mother talking about the tragic death of her brother Phillip in the woods near Middle Fleckney and by the end of the war had understood enough to give birth to an extraordinary idea. She had discussed it with her father, who had been devastated by the death of his only son and heir. The fourteen year old girl proposed a plan of such daring and peril that her father was at first overwhelmed by the possibilities. However, after deep consideration he conceded that perhaps this was all ‘meant to be,’ and that if there was a chance of influencing events – as he already knew was possible – then they should try.

              It was in this frame of mind that they hatched their forty-seven year stratagem.

              They didn’t realise or remotely understand what they planned was called a ‘Causality Loop.’ – and the subject was far beyond anybody’s comprehension in those days.

***

              Phillip stopped dead. He looked around and saw a soldier running towards him carrying a gun. Phillip panicked. He started off on his bike, turned through ninety degrees and made for a copse of trees about five hundred yards away. Maybe he could get away when he reached the cover of the woods. The man shouted again.