Back in her time (2 page)

Pops had known this day would come! Why hadn't he told me? Warned me? Pops would have got locked up in a psychiatric ward, that's why.
If it was so difficult for Pops to tell her, how was Taylor supposed to explain it to Pops now? After all, she was just a teenage girl.
Nobody listens to me back in Toronto. Why should this be any different?

It was blurry now, but Taylor was starting to remember the future like it was her dim past. She had taken the bus to London one weekend to see the old guy, who was sick with pneumonia. “Go up to the attic and fetch the old box camera. You know. The one you took off that German. You remember, it's brown leather, about this big,” said Pops in a weak voice as he formed a square with his gnarled hands. “It's in that fancy French Provincial dresser with the bowed legs. Bottom drawer. Hurry.”

Of course, Pops would have explained it all to her then. He
was
going to tell her. But, Taylor had paused up there in the hot, dusty room, poring over the war mementos in the drawer. There she had found Pops's tarnished, coin-like medals resting on a strip of cotton, like the kind used to top off prescription bottles, in a little blue cardboard jeweller's box, and some black and white pictures of groups of young soldiers, standing in front of tents and wooden buildings, like at the “Y” camp. The men who smiled in the tiny snapshots weren't much older than Taylor. Two soldiers, arms around each other, smiled for the camera in one picture. One looked like her, the other a younger version of her grandfather.

She had run down to show her grandfather, but the old man was sleeping again. At her grandmother's insistence, Taylor had returned to Toronto, the weekend over. She had taken that one picture with her. That was all Taylor remembered until she woke up in the slit trench, with her young grandfather next to her.
Wait. I went to school with Dieter. Why is that all foggy?

Here in the past, Pops would think Taylor crazy if she told him that she was from the future. And a girl. Just like Taylor had thought Pops was crazy back at the farm. Taylor's head hurt with all these thoughts pounding her grey matter.
Maybe travelling through time did cause a concussion.
Taylor needed to explain this to Pops.
How long am I here for? I can go back, can't I?

Pops had been dropping clues to Taylor for years about this.
Think, think! What had he said?
If Taylor had only listened to the old guy, this would be a lot simpler. Pops had probably been waiting a long time to tell her. Pops had had to wait until she was born. That was over forty-five years after the war was over! When Taylor's mom and dad couldn't conceive children, it must have been worrisome to Pops. That's right! On one of her better days, before Dad had left for good, Mom had said Pops was their biggest supporter when they went to adopt her. She had laughed when she told the story.

“Your Pops said we must adopt a girl, not a boy, and name her Taylor for our family name. We thought it was a good name, and it went well with Wilson. When we finally brought you home, he was ecstatic. You should have seen his eyes widen when he saw the birthmark on your little chest. He said you were the perfect girl.”

All along, Pops had been waiting to warn Taylor about their time together during World War II. It made sense now. But, how could Taylor explain all this to Pops, here and now?

Maybe …
Taylor had looked at a few of the history books around the farmhouse when she went visiting and was bored with nothing to do. No friends at the farm, just like in Toronto, except for Dieter and the Goth crowd. It would help if she could just remember a few facts. If she could predict a few skirmishes, the soldiers here would either think she was lucky, psychic, or plain nuts. It was worth a try.

Now, what facts can I remember? What towns had been the site of battles or fights?
Of course, the history books mostly reported when the Canadians and Americans won at different places, not when the Germans won. That's what Mr. King, the history teacher always rambled on about. History books were full of the conqueror's side, not the loser's. If Taylor could remember a couple of noteworthy encounters and how many soldiers were wounded, killed, and taken prisoner, that would get Pops's attention.
Do I even have the guts to fight? Maybe I'm just a nothing, like those cheerleaders and jocks back in my time always say at school. Would they listen, here, to a seventeen-year-old girl, who they think is a boy, who doesn't even know what platoon she's supposedly from? What if I change history?

Careful consideration would have to be given so she didn't screw things up for her future. What if her grandfather got shot and killed? Then her mother would never be born, and she wouldn't have been adopted by her parents.
Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

This could get tricky. Taylor would really have to watch out for Pops and herself.

First, she would have to come up with a regiment name and explain how she happened to be in the trenches with her grandfather's platoon. The more believable she was, the more they'd trust her. They mustn't find out she was a girl, either. Girls weren't in the line of fire back in WW II. Just nurses. Women were just seeing action now, in the Y2 years. She'd have to be very careful. She had to pee right now, but she'd have to hold it until she found some bushes. That would give it all away if they found out.

* * *

Right now, she felt like a spy, and Pops looked at her as if she were. At least Pops had handed her a gun, even if the magazine was empty. She did have ammo in her web pack, though. It was a start.

The soldiers marched through the night, leaving the comparative safety of the trenches behind for the open fields. A squadron of Lancasters flew overhead, surging the tired men forward to the next front. Taylor trudged along on autopilot while she tried to think of places her grandfather had fought during the Second World War. She would have to make Pops believe who she was. To be successful, for them both to exist in the future, she must do the right things.

Taylor wracked her brain.
I'd better come up with a regiment name for myself.
She scratched an itch on her upper arm, brushing off dirt.

“Hey, Whitey. Look,” said Taylor pointing to the coloured flash on her sleeve.

Whitey turned around. “A Highlander, eh? Sarge will be happy to know it.” Whitey smiled, showing two rows of crooked, yellowish teeth. “What I'd give for a smoke,” he said.

Taylor instinctively checked her pockets and felt a soft package. She pulled out the cigarettes.
I smoke here too, I guess. Dieter and I always smoke in the pit around the back of the school.

“Put those away. I said I wanted a smoke but I don't want to get my head blown off. Those Krauts see my lit cigarette and it's like the Union Jack or the Red Ensign waving, ‘Here, come and get me!' Don't you know anything, Junior?”

Taylor shoved the pack away and muttered, “You're right. My thinking is still a little mired.”

“If you mean mixed-up, yeah, it still is. You talk pretty good for a Highlander, Junior.”

Taylor pointed the butt of her rifle in Whitey's direction. “Don't mess with us Highlanders, boy,” she said, grinning.

Whitey laughed, “Okay, Junior, I surrender. I'm sure you can show this platoon a thing or two.”

I hope you're right.

“We should reach the Gustav Line sometime tomorrow afternoon, men,” said the sergeant as he backtracked to Taylor and Whitey. Sarge cuffed Taylor's shoulder patch in recognition. “Why didn't I see that before?” he mumbled as he passed.

The Liri Valley. Good. What do I remember Pops saying about this area?

“Dig in,” said the Sarge. The ground was strewn with rubble and rocks. Taylor unhooked her shovel and looked up at the sky, still night-black with a paintbrush stroke of yellow light peeking in the east through the fog.

“These tank ruts could make a start at a trench,” Taylor muttered to herself and started digging.

“Good thinking, Junior,” Sarge smiled at Taylor for the first time.

“Why would anyone want to live in this gawd-forsaken country?” Whitey grumbled as his shovel clanged against a boulder.

“That lousy little slit in the ground will probably save your life, soldier,” Sarge said.

“Yes, Sarge.” Whitey bent to the task after mock saluting Sarge's turning back.

A mortar whizzed over their heads just as Whitey was straightening up to stretch his back. Taylor flung herself at Whitey, shovel and all, throwing them both into the shallow indentation. The bomb exploded, spreading shrapnel around the perimeter but missing them.

“Positions!” yelled Sarge.

No one needed to be told. Whitey, smothered under Taylor, whispered, “You can get off me now. Thanks, I owe you.”

Taylor rolled off Whitey and onto her stomach, panting, embarrassed at her fast reaction. She slid her hand over her ammo, loaded a clip into her rifle.
If I'm going to war, I'd better be ready.
Taylor whispered, “I'm glad they're bad shots.”

The peach-fuzz-faced soldier on her left spoke up. “Don't count on them missing all the time. With enough tries they got to hit somethin', sometime.”

Red grunted. “I hope I find someone to write my letter home before they find me,” he said.

“I can do that for you,” said Taylor, wondering why Red couldn't write his own. “Where you from, Red?”

“Alberta. I'm just a simple cowpoke. All I ever wanted was to ride horses and tend cattle. What about you, Junior? Where you rest your saddle?”

“Toronto. The big bad city.”
Did they say that about Toronto back in the past?

“Never liked them big cities. Too noisy and too crowded for me. I like them wide-open spaces, 'specially down by the crick where I live.”

Sporadic machine-gun firing shattered their conversation. The boys and Taylor fell into their trenches and fired back at the flash of light giving the gunner's position away on a small rocky hill. Now exposed, despite the fog, they fired intermittently and then waited in quiet. Taylor had acted instinctively, firing as if trained. She didn't even think about it; just acted.
My gawd, I just shot at another human being.

Sarge crawled over to them. “Junior and Red, take a circuitous route to their position and get the buggers from behind. We'll keep 'em busy out here in front.”

Red looked shocked that he'd been chosen. “But, Sarge — ”

“No buts. Get going before they take us out, one at a time.”

“Let's go, Red,” said Taylor, with more bravery than she felt, as she belly-crawled away, bug-like, grasping her gun ahead of her in shaking hands.
I have to try or die trying.
Red followed her.

Away from the platoon, Taylor felt exposed.
I hope the dark covers us. How much longer before the sun lights the sky completely and burns off this fog?
The two soldiers slowly dragged their way toward the back of the gunnery position.

Taylor reached the rock rim first. She signalled with a hand to stop Red. Just then, light suffused the sky through the fog. Behind the short, rocky wall Taylor couldn't see the sun peek above the horizon in front of them but knew it must be in the Germans' eyes. She rushed up, ran full tilt (not even sure if Red was behind her), crashed over the wall, stumbled, but kept her balance — and came face to face with two startled German soldiers!

“
Frieren!
Freeze!” Taylor yelled in German, surprised that she knew the words. Having a German friend back home was coming in handy.

One of the Germans tried to swing the unwieldy machine gun toward Taylor, but a shot rang out, hitting the man in the hand. He yowled in pain. The other German raised his hands in surrender. Taylor kept her semi-automatic pointed at this man while Red rushed around to the wounded soldier and removed his weapons.

“
Rousse.
Move.” Taylor gestured with her gun, and the German obediently went in the direction she indicated. After wrapping his hand in his handkerchief, the other German moved forward. With their weapons pointed at the prisoners, Taylor and Red marched back to their platoon.

In the early morning light, Taylor could see the surprise on Whitey's face as she and Red arrived with their catch as if they'd just been out fishing. Even the Sarge looked astounded as he ordered others to relieve them of their prisoners and pass them down the line. Sarge slapped Taylor on the back, nearly knocking her over, all one hundred and twenty pounds of her. He clipped Red on the chin lightly. “How the hell did you boys pull it off?” Sarge grinned.

“It was Junior. He led the assault, Sarge.” Red smiled back.

“We surprised them, Sarge, just as the sun hit them in the eyes. But it was Red who wounded the German who went for his gun.”

“And Junior, here, speaks Kraut,” Red said. “He got them to come with us. What did you say, Junior?”

The Sarge's eyes squinted as he took a long look at Taylor. “You speak German?”

“Yeah, back in Toronto there's a German family I know. Their kid taught me a few words.” Taylor looked at the ground.
Have I blown it? What will they think?

“Imagine — Krauts living in Canada. Who knew? I suppose they're in a detention camp now?” Sarge looked at Taylor with an impassive face.

“Yeah, they were sent away, to Gravenhurst, I think, just as I shipped over.”
Where did I get that information from?

“Well, good job, soldiers. Good job. We've just heard from Charlie Company on our left flank, and the area seems clear; so we can take a well-earned rest, men.”

With slaps to their backs, like they were football heroes, Taylor and Red headed back to their slit trench for a smoke. Taylor realized she was hungry, too. Capturing the enemy and winning the praise of Sarge was hungry work.
Pops is starting to trust me. Gawd, if Red hadn't of shot that German would I have been able to? Will I be in that position again?