12. ST MARY’S INSTITUTE OF HISTORICAL RESEARCH INCIDENT REPORT
Competition entry by Dorothy Plumb
REPORT OF INCIDENT
FROM: Historian Trainee Dolores Ferngulley
TO: Head of Training Samantha McGillicutty
REF: Training Mission 12171950
TARGET: Stonehenge
CREW: Trainee 1st Class Dolores Ferngulley – Team Leader
Trainee 2nd Class Emily Birdwiggle – Pod Commander
Trainee 2nd Class Fred Matthews – Observer
Trainee 2nd Class Daphne Swint – Observer
Trainee 3rd Class Elvis Smithers – Observer
First of all, I would like to stress that this was not my fault. I did everything I could to prevent the consequences from becoming worse than they already were.
As you know, this was my first unsupervised Jump as Team Leader. I chose Stonehenge, a mission I thought would be both educational and simple enough for some of our less-advanced Historian Trainees to handle safely. I hesitate to name names here but, honesty compels me to put forth Trainee Smithers as one of our least-advanced. Dare I say, not advanced at all.
On the day of the Jump I gathered our Team and gave a very uplifting and inspiring pre-briefing. I stressed we were to observe only. We were to stay in the pod if contemporaries were present. I kept an eye on Smithers for the reasons I have stated above. Coordinates would take us to the site in 1776 BC.
Trainee Birdwiggle was the intended “driver” for our Jump. She checked and double-checked her input very efficiently. We all took a moment to reflect on the “one small step” we were about to take for ourselves and the future of – well, the future and the past.
I gave Birdwiggle the command to go. As Birdwiggle touched the control, Smithers sneezed. A gigantic HONK that blasted him across the two feet between him and the control panel and into Birdwiggle’s lap. Smithers is not a tiny person and his hygiene leaves a bit to be desired even on his best days. Birdwiggle tried to shove Smithers away, and, in doing so – ever so slightly – altered the coordinates. The world went white.
Our “landing” was smooth. Smithers was still wiping his nose on his jumpsuit sleeve. Everyone else breathed a sigh of relief. Outside cameras revealed blue skies, green grass, a large bramble bush beside a dusty road, and, a startled horse in the process of removing a man in a blue campaign jacket and a tricorn hat from its back. The horse proceeded to take itself far away leaving the erstwhile rider struggling to extricate himself from the bramble.
I concluded we were not at Stonehenge. We were in 1776, yes, but not 1776 BC. Despite all protocols prohibiting us from being there, we were in 1776 North America – New York, to be exact. My heart sank as I realised the bramble victim might very well be George Washington, future President of the United States. There the great man stood, hat askew, horse disappearing in the distance, a look of mild confusion on his face, staring at a small gray building that had appeared from nowhere.
I told Birdwiggle to reset the coordinates, planning to “disappear” the pod as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, Birdwiggle had to wipe away Smither’s detritus before she could begin. I watched as the man who must be Washington righted his hat, dusted his pants, and marched up to the door of the pod. I grabbed Birdwiggle’s hand before she could send us and the future President off into the ether.
The furious pounding on the pod door left me with a dilemma – ignore Washington and hope he went away? Open the door and try to bluff my way through? Kill Smithers and toss body out into the arms of the Father of the American country? The pounding continued.
I made a command decision. Bluff it was. A frenzied search of the pod lockers produced a couple of blankets and a barbecue apron bearing a grinning pig. I wrapped one blanket around my shoulders, the other around my waist, and secured the outfit with the apron. I had no idea how I would explain the pig but needs must.
I opened the pod door and peered out.“ Good sir, what can I do for you on this Jul…(I just caught Birdwiggle’s whispered, “August”) …”August day?”
“Your hut almost killed me. You can’t be dropping out of the sky on unsuspecting people!” Washington stopped mid-sentence as he realised what he was saying.
“Dropping from the sky? No! We saw your animal take fright at a swan. Yes, a swan. We did see a giant swan dive toward you menacingly.” Washington must have had prior experience with swans. His face paled, and he glanced around quickly. “A swan, you say? Where?” then.. “How do you know my name?”
I assured him the swan was gone, avoiding addressing the more dangerous question. Behind me Smithers sneezed. “You have the swan in your hut! You are British spies!” “No sir. Of course not! We are loyal colonists supporting the very righteous cause of American independence. Semper Fi. Damn the torpedoes!” My knowledge of ancient American history was exhausted.
“That sound you heard was my brother, Elvis. We are the Smithers of just across the Michigan River from Las Vegas.” “I have never heard of a Smithers or a Michigan River or a Las Vegas. You are spies! Step out from that hut, all of you!”
I stepped out, intending to close the door before Washington could get a glimpse inside. Smithers stepped out behind me. “Sorry. It’s stuffy in that pod and it’s making my sinuses act up something awful. ‘Sup your Presidency? Nice day but lots of pollen.” Another magnificent HONK followed, leaving no doubt of its origin.
“Your brother, you say?” Smithers draped an arm across my shoulders and beamed. “Yep. She’s my older sister. Raised me from a baby after our poor mother died of the pox. Me and my brothers and sister back in the p..” I stomped firmly on Smither’s boot, bringing his monologue to a halt.
Washington took in Smither’s none-to-clean face, his dirty black jumpsuit, and scuffed loafers. He looked at my blanket-draped “Kiss the Cook” pig. “It must be the herring I had last evening. I knew there was something off about it.”
“Yes, yes,” I gabbled, “ Uh, pickled herring and guests smell after three days.” I took Washington by the arm and gently led him toward the bramble bush. “Let’s get you to a nice shady spot where you can rest.” Washington, who was becoming an alarming shade of white, did not argue. I sat him down near the bramble, patted his shoulder, and zapped him with a light dose of taser.
Smithers gaped. “You just zapped the Father of Our Country. You can’t do that.” “He’s not the Father of your country! Shut up and go for the pod, NOW!” was my only answer.
We reset the coordinates and returned to base without further incident. I have checked historical records and can find no mention of George Washington claiming to have been attacked by a swan. I did find that he developed a sudden aversion to pickled herring.
Respectfully submitted for your review.
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