My Troubles With Time (19 page)

“Then where is it?” asked Parsons in a sorrowful voice.

“Look!” I shouted, spotting something at the edge of the clearing. I ran to it. “There,” I said pointing, “That’s the shrubbery and branches I used to cover the time machine.”

“Then where’s the machine?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Possibly somebody found it and removed it.”

I realized it was a lame excuse as soon as I said it. Parsons shook his head. “How large did you say your machine was?”

“About six feet high. Possibly eight feet long and six feet wide.”

“I imagine it weighed quite a bit.”

“Something like three hundred pounds. I used aluminum where I could to reduce the weight.”

“There’s no sign,” said Parsons, “That anything heavy was dragged from this spot. You know, Lieutenant,” he added lugubriously, “You really had me believing for a minute that you had a machine hidden here.”

I didn’t know what to say. As I tried to think of something, the marine captain interrupted my thoughts. “We’ve wasted enough time,” he said. “Let’s get back to the car.”

Without protest, I permitted the marines to turn me around. Trailed by Parsons and the marine captain, I then docilely climbed the hill to the tavern, a marine at either side, and got into the rear seat of the car. All the while, I tried to think of some explanation for the disappearance of my time machine.

I had no doubt that the clearing I had searched was the one in which I had left the time machine. The pile of shrubbery and branches I had used to cover the machine was proof of that. At the same time, I had to admit that Parsons was correct: there was no indication that the machine had been dragged from the spot.

The only possible solution was that someone had found the apparatus, climbed inside, and somehow managed to start the motor and fly it, whether through time or geographically or both. The error was clearly mine; I had foolishly neglected to install any lock on the door or in the ignition switch.

I sat silently as our convoy left the tavern parking lot and drove back to the navy base. It was clear my life was finished. Even if by some miracle I was not found guilty and executed, without the time machine I was hopelessly trapped in 1941, without friends or resources.

The car stopped in front of the administration building and the marine next to me assisted me to get out. I shook my head. With great effort, I managed for a moment to shake my despondency.

“Captain,” I said, addressing the marine captain who had gotten out of the front seat and was issuing orders to a sergeant to dismiss the detail which had accompanied us. “I want to thank you for being so decent, for allowing me to go down to the creek and participate in the search. I hope it won’t get you into any trouble.”

He looked touched. “I don’t think it will,” he said slowly. As I turned to walk into the administration building between the two marines, he called after me, “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

Back in my cell, the marines removed my handcuffs. They left and I was rubbing my wrists when Parsons entered the cell. “Now that we’re back here, Lieutenant,” he said sorrowfully, “I think we ought to go over our case for tomorrow.”

I tried hard to listen, but without much success. All I could think of was the hopelessness of my situation. At last, frustrated by my indifference, he left, saying he would see me at the court martial and to try and be of good cheer. From his sorrowful expression, I doubted he had as little faith in the chances of our defense as I did.

When Parsons left, I threw myself on the bed and closed my eyes. I felt drained of all energy, drained of all emotion. I heard the noise of my lunch tray being removed, with its contents untouched, but paid it no mind.

The hours went by, as I lay despondently on my bed. Finally, I forced myself to open my eyes and get off the bed when the dinner tray arrived. I was in no way hungry, but at least managed to drink down the mug of coffee.

Slightly energized by the hot coffee, I paced my cell for what seemed like hours, trying to think of some solution. It was futile. My despair returned. I tried to divert myself with mathematical calculations, to no avail. Again, I threw myself on the bed. This time I wept.

The next morning, I awakened and forced myself to eat the fare on my breakfast tray. I had just finished, when the cell door opened and two different marines entered. They handed me a razor, face towel and shaving soap. Under their close scrutiny, I shaved, for the first time since I had entered the cell. When I dried my face and dressed, they gave me the necktie, belt and shoelaces that had been taken from me.

“It’s time for us to go upstairs, Lieutenant,” one of them told me as he opened the cell door. I expected that they would handcuff me again. Instead, walking on either side of me, they permitted me to leave the cell and walk upstairs with my hands free.

We proceeded down a corridor to a part of the building I had not been to before and stopped in front of a large door guarded by an armed marine. He opened the door and stood aside to let us pass. Inside I found myself in a makeshift courtroom. A slightly raised platform ran along one side of the room. On it, three tables had been placed end by end for the members of the court martial to use. In front of the platform, two smaller tables had been placed, about a dozen yards apart. Seated at the one to my right, was Parsons, studying a yellow pad.

Passing armed marine guards standing just inside the door, I was escorted to Parsons and left there. My defense counsel rose, shook hands, and motioned me to take the vacant chair next to his.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said, trying to look cheerful. The effort was not convincing. “Won’t you sit down.”

I took the chair next to his and looked around. Behind us were several chairs. One was occupied by an oriental man wearing a naval uniform that was obviously not American. “Who is that oriental naval officer?” I whispered to Parsons.

“That’s Admiral Miyaguchi. The Navy Department agreed to let the Japanese government have one of their officers attend the court martial as an observer. You can tell how important this trial is to them by the fact that they assigned a vice admiral as their observer.”

I looked at Miyaguchi again. He seemed to be staring at me, with a curious expression on his face.

Seeing someone walk toward the table to my left, I turned and saw a tall naval officer walking arm in arm with the civilian who had interrogated me. After some minutes of conversation, the civilian withdrew and the officer sat down at the table. He seemed young for his grade, that of lieutenant commander.

Parsons completed reading his notes and looked up. He noticed my interest in the new arrival and said, “That’s Commander Fletcher. I was hoping he wouldn’t be assigned to handle the prosecution. He’s the best lawyer in the Pacific Fleet and probably one of the two or three best in the entire navy.”

I was about to reply when the door at the back of the platform swung open and everyone around me stood. “Those are the members of the court martial entering,” Parsons, said, “You have to stand.”

I rose to my feet and stared at the men who would decide my fate. The first to enter was the presiding officer, Admiral Stafford. He took his seat at the center of the tables. Four navy captains followed him, two seating themselves on either side. After a pause, an elderly commander entered and took a chair behind the admiral. “That’s Leeland,” Parsons whispered. “He’s assigned to provide legal advice to the admiral, but doesn’t vote.”

The proceedings began with Admiral Stafford reading excerpts from several official documents attesting to the legality of the court martial and to the appointment of its members. As he hurriedly read, I noticed Commander Leeland frowning. Parsons scribbled something on a sheet of notepaper and passed it to me. It read, “Stafford is omitting some of the legal niceties in the interests of speed. We may have the basis for an appeal on procedural grounds.” When he saw that I had finished reading, Parsons carefully took his note, tore it into pieces, and put them in his pocket.

When he had completed his reading, Stafford turned to Fletcher and asked him to read the charges and specifications. The commander read off a detailed listing of the violations of navy regulations I was accused of committing. I found much of the legal terminology confusing and my mind drifted off into wondering why a Japanese vice admiral was attending the court martial as an observer.

I was brought back to reality by Parsons tapping me hard on the shoulder. “I assume,” he said, ‘That you want me to plead you not guilty?”

“Yes,” I responded indifferently. As my defense counsel had told me, it didn’t make any difference how I pleaded. The outcome would be the same.

Parsons stood. “Lieutenant Snodgrass pleads not guilty to all charges and specifications.”

“Did you get that?” Admiral Stafford asked. I realized that he was speaking to a sailor who was acting as court stenographer and compiling a written record of the proceedings. In my absorption, I had failed to see the sailor enter and sit down at a small table, that had been brought into the room for his use. I realized that I had just learned an important lesson; I had to pay attention to what was going on.

Satisfied with the recorder’s response, Stafford turned to Fletcher and asked if the prosecution wished to make an opening statement. The commander stood and, without consulting any notes, proceeded to outline his case. He spoke clearly in a firm voice and I found his presentation of the facts compelling.

I was, he declared, guilty of mutiny, piracy, murder, attempted murder, and the unauthorized use of government property. I found it odd that the last charge, a comparatively minor one, had been added to the first four far more serious ones. Apparently one of the captains on the court martial thought so too; I saw him smile as Fletcher mentioned the last charge.

Basically following the outline of my confession, the prosecuting officer declared that I had unlawfully gained access to the
Nevada
, had attempted to murder a senior officer, Commander Travis, in a premeditated effort to gain control of the ship, and had taken it to sea without orders. Not content with this, I had then deliberately sought out and ordered the
Nevada
to fire on the naval vessels of a friendly nation, sinking three of the capital ships and killing over three thousand of their crews.

By the time he concluded his initial statement and sat down, it was obvious Fletcher had already convinced the members of the court martial of my guilt. I could not really blame them. I had to agree I was guilty as charged.

It was now Parsons’ turn. Stafford asked him if the defense wished to make an opening statement. My defense counsel waived the chance to do so.

Fletcher then presented his case. In all, he brought in just five witnesses. The first was Commander Travis. His left arm was

in a sling and the top of his head was wrapped in a large bandage, presumably covering an injury he had received when I pushed him into the sea. I could see sympathetic expressions on faces of the members of the court martial and detected glances of anger directed at me.

Under Fletcher’s expert questioning, Travis told the court that I had approached him on the deck of the
Nevada
on the morning of December 7
^th
, identifying myself as an officer newly assigned to the ship. Upon ascertaining he was the senior officer on board, I had led him to the railing on a pretext, and then deliberately pushed him over the side into the sea.

Asked by the prosecutor if the man who had committed these acts was in the courtroom, Travis responded in the affirmative and pointed directly at me. “That’s Lieutenant Maynard Snodgrass,” he said in a voice dripping with disgusted. It was clear from the expressions on the faces of court martial members that they had been favorably impressed by Travis’ testimony.

It was now Parsons’ turn to cross-examine Travis. “Commander,” he began, his voice as sad as ever, “You testified that Lieutenant Snodgrass pushed you over the railing into the sea, is that correct?”

“Yes!”

“Did you see him do this?” Parsons inquired.

“No, my back was turned.”

“Then how do you know it was Lieutenant Snodgrass who pushed you, and not someone else?”

“Because.” Travis shot back triumphantly, “there was no one else near us on the deck.”

“Please tell the court,” my defense counsel continued, “How long were you in the water before being rescued.”

“I would say, about fifty minutes.”

“And in the fall you suffered injuries to your right arm and head?”

“That is correct.”

“Are you a champion swimmer, Commander?” Parsons asked, looking slightly less sad.

“Then, commander, how were you able to keep afloat in the water, seriously injured, and quite possibly in a state of shock, for almost an hour?”

“I had a life preserver,” Travis said, as though explaining the obvious.

“Did you stop to take one with you from the
Nevada
when you left the deck?”

“Of course not, Snodgrass took me by surprise when he pushed me off.”

“Then Lieutenant Snodgrass threw it to you? That seems like odd behavior for someone who is charged with attempting to murder you; don’t you agree?”

“Snodgrass wasn’t the one to throw me the life preserver?

“Then who did?” persisted Parsons. “You have already testified that there was no one else on the deck near you.

“But …,” Travis attempted to explain, but Parsons gave him no opportunity.

“Thank you,” he interrupted, “I have no further questions for this witness.”

Fletcher jumped to his feet, protesting that Commander Travis had not been given an opportunity to answer the question. Stafford agreed, and in a few follow-up questions to Travis, Fletcher attempted to repair the damage to the prosecution’s case. As he spoke, I whispered to my defense counsel, “Thanks, that was great!”

“It wasn’t bad,” he admitted, “But I don’t think it will win you any votes for acquittal.

The prosecution’s next witness was Ensign Stevens. As he entered the courtroom, he flashed me a warm smile, as though to apologize for what he would be obliged to say about me. I smiled back, feeling sorry for the young officer, who had rendered me such invaluable assistance.