Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 11, November 1963

Invasion by Richard H. Wilkinson

Among the perils of war, we automatically consider that, for some, time will have a stop. Yet even among these unfortunates is the exception that proves the rule.

He awoke slowly. For a long time he lay staring up at the ceiling. Realization came at last that he was in a hospital. He turned his head slightly and saw the night stand, confirming his suspicion.

He wondered what had happened to him and how he had gotten here, but his mind seemed a blank. He scowled, trying to think. Then gradually, bit by bit, the picture began to take form.

There had been a briefing, as there always was prior to the many missions that were preceding the invasion of France. The target had been an ammunition dump near Augsberg.

Other, smaller things, began to take shape in his mind. He had nicked himself while shaving that morning. He had had eggs and little pink sausages for breakfast. He had written to Sandra as he always did before taking off on a mission. Her last letter to him was in the pocket of his uniform.

Thoughts of Sandra brought a smile to his lips. She was everything, the whole meaning of life to him. He had no family at all, no one but Sandra. They were to be married as soon as the war ended.

He put Sandra from his mind momentarily and tried to fill in the gap between the moment he had mailed the letter and right now.

He remembered the briefing vividly. It had been important. Nothing had been said definitely, but there was a strong rumor that the invasion was set for June 6th. He wanted to be part of that invading force, had been looking forward to it.

He remembered strapping himself into the pilot’s seat of the B-17. He remembered the clearance and take-off. Then things went blank again and he scowled. It was like a Picture that had faded out but was now slowly fading back in focus.

He heard again the roar of the B-17’s powerful engines. He remembered watching his own escort fighters engaging the German fighters. Then came the flak, burst upon burst of it, too close, too dangerous.

The impact, when it came, caused the whole great ship to shudder and yaw. There was another muffled explosion within the ship itself. The stick in his hand went suddenly limp. A voice was screaming into his earphones.

“Skipper! They’ve got us! We’re afire!”

He tried to keep his own voice calm, and managed, he thought, to do so. He gave the order to bail out.

He was the last to go. The ship was whirling crazily and he bumped his head. He remembered falling and yanking at the rip cord. Thereafter there was nothing. Only blankness. Nothing at all until now.

He opened his eyes wide, his body stiffening. Was this a German hospital? Was he a prisoner? The thought horrified him. He felt, unreasonably, ashamed for having been captured. If he were a prisoner he wouldn’t be able to participate in the invasion. The thought depressed him.

Abruptly, embarrassed because he hadn’t thought about it before, he wondered about his crew. He had watched them all bail out, had seen their ’chutes open. They were, he thought bitterly, probably all sweating it out in some stinking concentration camp. They would be questioned, he knew, one by one, probably tortured for scraps of information that might be of some value to the enemy.

He heard a door open and turned his head. A nurse entered, took one step toward his bed and stopped abruptly. Her eyes became as round as saucers.

“You... you’re awake!” Her voice had a trace of German accent, and the shred of hope to which he had been clinging faded.

He nodded and said simply, “Yes.”

She came toward him slowly, her eyes still wondrous, but with a smile on her lips. “Do you — remember your name?”

His tone somewhat irritable, he said, “Of course I remember my name. It’s Colonel Kent Burgess, United States Air Force.” He rattled off his serial number and asked, “Where am I?”

The nurse didn’t answer at once. She watched him for a moment, then turned away. “Excuse me. I must tell Doctor Schroeder.”

She was gone before he could protest, and he lay scowling at the closed door. There was something screwy here. This wasn’t the procedure, he had heard, accorded to allied prisoners of war.

He heard quick footsteps beyond the door. Then it burst open and a white-coated doctor rushed into the room. He had a quiet, kindly face that just now wore an expression of incredulity and wonder.

He came to the side of the bed and stood looking down at the American. He seemed to be wrestling with something in his mind and was unable to grasp it. “Incredible,” he muttered. “It is a day I had long given up hope of seeing.” His accent was no more pronounced than that of the nurse.

Burgess said, annoyed, “What is this? What’s going on?”

The doctor didn’t answer at once. He pulled down the bed covering and applied his stethoscope to Burgess’ chest. He listened for a long time, moving the instrument every few seconds. At length he stood erect, sighing deeply, shaking his head. “Remarkable. Absolutely a miracle.”

“What is? What’s all the mystery about?” Burgess was getting mad, without really knowing why. He guessed it was because of all all double talk.

There was now a look in the doctor’s eyes that Burgess could only interpret as pity. He sat down in a chair near the bed and leaned slightly forward. The nurse was standing quietly by the door, her face strained.

“Colonel Burgess,” the doctor began slowly, “do you know what day this is?”

Burgess scowled. “Of course I know what day it is,” he began, then stopped. Was this some kind of trick? What difference did it make what day it was? He pondered the matter for a moment, then shrugged. “Unless I’ve been knocked out longer than I thought, it’s May twenty-fourth.”

The doctor sighed again and the pitying look in his eyes deepened. “Colonel,” he said gently, “can you tell me the year?”

“The year?” An icy finger began tracing its way up and down Burgess’ spine. “The year?” he repeated, and wet his lips. “It’s nineteen forty-four, of course.”

The doctor smiled sadly and stood up. He paced the floor, as though preparing himself for what he had to say. He turned at last and looked, straight at Burgess. “Prepare yourself for a shock, Colonel. It is now August tenth, nineteen hundred and fifty-tour.”

A ringing began in Burgess’ ears. He closed his eyes, conscious that goose pimples were covering his entire body. He would not allow his mind to accept what he 28 had just heard. It was a lie, a trick. It was some new and heinous form of torture they had devised.

He heard the nurse say in hushed tones, “Should you have told him so soon, Doctor? The shock may be—”

“There would be no worse effects from shock now than there would be later.”

Burgess opened his eyes. The doctor, arms folded, was still standing in the same spot. The nurse had come to stand beside him. She seemed unhappy and anxious.

Burgess whispered, “It’s a lie. It’s some new form of torture.”

The doctor’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. Without unfolding his arms he turned his head, glancing about the room as if seeking something. His eyes fell on a newspaper lying on a table. He strode toward it, picked it up, folded it open to the front page and returned to the bed. Silently he handed it to Burgess.

It was a German newspaper. The colonel understood only a smattering of the language. Few of the words meant anything, but the figures were there. The figures “10” and “1954.”

Burgess put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He felt numb, paralysed. His mind became a kaleidoscope of pictures and thoughts. Ten years! Ten years taken from his life. A thousand thoughts pounded at his brain. He must regroup his thoughts, remarshall them. He must ask the questions one at a time, assimilate each answer before he asked a second.

He heard the doctor sit down on the bedside chair, and opened his eyes. He stared at the medical man a long time before speaking. The doctor’s expression was sympathetic and kindly.

Burgess said, “The war has long since ended, of course.”

Dr. Schroeder nodded, closing and opening his eyes. “In nineteen forty-five. The allies, as you can well imagine, were the victors. Germany was an exhausted nation, a foolish nation.” He paused. “Japan surrendered a few months later.” Again a pause. A faint, rueful smile touched the doctor’s lips. “The world,” he said, “is almost ready for its next war.”

Again there was a silence while Burgess assimilated this information. The doctor seemed to understand what was happening and merely waited.

Burgess said, almost reminiscently, “Then the invasion of the continent was successful after all.” He was thinking of the time, the effort, the thought, the planning — and the fears and doubts that had gone into the planning. He knew that thousands of men must have died.

“Yes, the invasion was successful. It happened...” The doctor closed his eyes and thought a moment. “The exact date escapes me. We Germans held out for nearly a year afterward. Then came the final drive on Berlin — the allies from the west, the Russians from the north.”

Burgess lay silent, tracing this over in his mind. He felt like Philip Nolan, the Man Without A Country who, in the last days of his life, was told about the events that had taken place in his beloved homeland. Unlike Nolan, Burgess was going to have a chance to pick up his life again, to adjust, and he wondered if this were possible. He said at last, “Tell me — what happened.” He closed his eyes to listen.

The doctor’s voice was kindly, considerate. “I will tell you, but please do not try to grasp it all at once. What has happened to you is a miracle in the medical world.” He paused. “Our ground gunners shot down your B-17. You were brought here on May twenty-fourth, nineteen hundred and forty-four. You were in serious condition. It was thought that you had no chance of surviving.” A pause. “I was called in to examine you. Your condition interested me. I am a specialist in nerves and nerve pressures. I asked for and received permission to have you placed under my personal care. But each examination continued to strengthen my original diagnosis that your chances of survival were practically nil. Yet I continued to hope. It would be a great contribution to medicine if I could keep you alive and eventually restore you to consciousness.”

Burgess opened his eyes. “And you succeeded.”

“I think it was as much your own subconscious will to survive as my medical ingenuity.”

Burgess lay still for a long time. It was a lot to grasp, to comprehend. Ten years. His mind still wouldn’t fully accept it. He asked at last, “After the war ended was the army notified, the United States Army?”

“Of course. We were told that you had no family. But there was a girl, a very lovely girl, named Sandra Pierce. She was here.”

“What?” Burgess struggled to sit up, but the doctor forced him gently back, nodding, closing and opening his eyes in that way he had.

“Yes. A month after the proper authorities were notified she came here, bringing with her a specialist, a Doctor Paul Avery, from your Johns Hopkins Hospital in the city of Baltimore. Doctor Avery examined you, and was forced to agree with my diagnosis: it might prove fatal to have you moved.”

“But Sandra? What did she say — and do?”

“There was little that she could say or do. She pleaded with us to let her take you home. It was no easy task to convince her that taking you home would be a risk to your life.”

“Then — she left me here?”

“You must not blame her. She had no alternative.” The doctor shook his head sadly. “She asked, but we could give her little hope that you would survive. Put yourself in her place, Colonel. What other course could she have taken?”

Burgess turned his head sideways on the pillow, an all consuming feeling of wretchedness and despair sweeping through him. In spite of himself a tear squeezed from beneath his tightly closed lids and coursed down his cheek. He brushed it aside and looked at the doctor again. “Did she ever contact you again?”

“Many times. By correspondent and cable.” The doctor paused. “Five years ago we received a letter from her addressed to you.” He opened a drawer in the night stand, rummaged around and presently pulled out a sealed letter. Sight of the familiar handwriting was a stab of pain in Burgess’ heart.

“Miss Pierce asked that the letter only be opened if you returned to consciousness,” the doctor said. “It has lain in this drawer for a little more than five years.”

Burgess took the letter eagerly, his heart pounding. The doctor rose. “I know that you will want to be alone when you read your letter. I think perhaps we have talked enough for now, in any event. I will return tomorrow.”

Alone, Burgess lay for a long time merely staring at the sealed letter. He noted that it was postmarked in New York on June 18, 1949. Fear was nudging him, fear of what the letter contained. He knew what it contained. Sandra was young and beautiful and eager. She could not be expected to wait.

At last he slit the flap and withdrew the letter. Even so, despite his preparation, the words were a shock. She had waited, hoping, always hoping. But with each passing day hope grew dimmer. And then, a year ago, (that would be 1948), she had met a man... fallen in love with him... they were to be married in a month.

Burgess closed his eyes and let the letter fall to the floor. How could he blame her? It had been as though he were dead. It would be selfish to think that she would deny herself happiness for the rest of her life on one single grain of hope. Yet theirs had been such an undying love, so deep, so tender. A lump rose in Burgess’ throat and stayed there.

In the early evening the nurse came in with a tray of food. She was smiling cheerfully.

“We have been in contact with your government. They are sending someone at once. You will be on your way home not later than the day after tomorrow.”

She saw the letter lying on the floor. She picked it up, returned it to its envelope and opened the night stand drawer. Her eyes were filled with pity and understanding. “I am sorry.” she said. “So sorry.”

Burgess shrugged imperceptibly. The nurse rolled up the head of his bed so that he was in a sitting position, and placed the tray conveniently in his lap. Her bright smile returned. “And now you must eat and rest. When your people arrive we want them to see that you have been given good care.”

Burgess didn’t answer and after a moment the nurse left the room. He was alone and the aloneness intensified the ache and pain in his heart. He would always be alone. He wished that he had never returned to reality, to feeling.

The nurse returned a half hour later, frowned reproachfully when she saw that he had barely touched his food. But, removing the tray, she smiled again. “It is a shock, know. But you will adjust. Everyone does. Time—” She broke oft, biting her lip.

Burgess turned his head. Time, yes. Time heals all wounds, but only if a person is aware of the passing of that time. Sandra had had five years of time. But he, Burgess, had had less than a day. As far as he was concerned it was ten years ago, and the knowledge that be had lost Sandra was a savage pain in his heart.

The nurse arranged his bed for the night and went out. Burgess lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t think he would sleep, but he must have because suddenly it was morning and the nurse was staring down at him. The inevitable smile was on her lips and her eyes were bright.

“I’m sorry to be so cheerful, but everyone here in the hospital is excited. We seldom have miracles in the medical profession. Doctor Schroeder is justly proud.”

Burgess said nothing and the nurse put his breakfast tray in front of him. “After you’ve eaten your barber will be in. We must start getting you ready.”

He ate as much of the eggs and ham and buttered toast as he could, then rang for the nurse. She appeared almost at once, followed by a big, rotund man whom she introduced as Herr Kiediasch, the barber who had attended the colonel for the past ten years. Herr Kiediasch couldn’t speak or understand English, and for this Burgess was grateful.

The nurse said, “Doctor Schroeder will be in later on. He will answer any further questions you might have and tell you the exact time of your departure and arrival in America.”

The barber worked swiftly and skillfully. When he had gone, Burgess rummaged in the drawer of the night stand until he found a mirror. He wanted to see what he looked like after his ten year sleep.

He couldn’t see that he had changed much, but he supposed that was due to lack of activity and worry. He rubbed his hand over his now smooth cheek, as a man will do who has just shaved himself or been shaved. There was a slight cut on his upper lip just under his left nostril, and he thought the barber hadn’t been so skillful after all. He frowned at the cut — and then suddenly he froze. His whole body stiffened and the goose pimples appeared again.

That cut wasn’t freshly made! It was at least a day old, possibly two. It was the nick that he himself had made when he shaved before the briefing!

Wild eyed, Burgess stared about the room, his thoughts in a turmoil. Gradually he calmed himself and a weird sense of understanding came. It was a trick! A hoax! He reached into the drawer again and pulled out Sandra’s letter, this time examining the handwriting closely. Forged! Skilfully executed, but nevertheless he knew it wasn’t Sandra’s writing. The postmark on the envelope glared up at him. That was a masterpiece. They must have worked like madmen to prepare it in such a short space of time.

Burgess lay back on his pillow, his heart pounding. Why? Bit by bit he went over every detail of the conversations he had had with the doctor and nurse. There leaped into his vision a picture of Schroeder closing his eyes, pretending to think, saying: “Yes, the invasion was successful... the exact date escapes me.” And Burgess knew. He knew the reason for this elaborate plan of deception. They hoped that, in conversations about the past, Burgess would tell them the exact time and place of the planned invasion.

Burgess lay perfectly still. What a fool he’d been not to have realized it had been a hoax when they’d told him he’d been unconscious for ten years. A man who has been in a coma for that length of time doesn’t suddenly wake up feeling alert, able to sit up and eat and talk rationally. The process would be much more gradual.

But they had been clever. They had gambled on their cleverness. They had counted on his rational thinking being distracted by the shocking news of what had happened to him. And they had won. Or so they thought.

Burgess’ mind was suddenly clear and alert. How much time did he have? The nurse said that the doctor would look in on him later on. That could mean any moment.

He had to plan his own strategy, his own deception. Yesterday Schroeder had said he would be returned to America the day after tomorrow. This meant that they would have to obtain the information they wanted today. Why weren’t they keeping him here any longer? The answer to that was simple. Once he returned to consciousness it would seem strange if his own government weren’t notified at once.

Suddenly he scowled. How did they know that he had no family, that Sandra was so important to him? The answer came at once. Clearly he could see the sentence in Sandra’s last letter, the one that he had with him at the beginning of the mission. It read: “Darling you have been without a family so long, I can hardly wait for your return so that we can start one of our very own...”

Where was the letter? Probably they would produce it if he demanded, but they hoped that he wouldn’t. The discrepancy in the two handwritings might become obvious if a comparison were made. So far, their strategy had perfect, brilliantly and convincingly executed.

But now he must stop thinking about their strategy and think about his own. He must compose himself. When the doctor came in to question him again there must not be the slightest indication in his manner or expression that he knew of their plan. He closed his eyes and tried to think of himself as he had an hour ago — when he believed that he had been robbed of ten years of his life.

It wasn’t easy. His heart began to pound abnormally fast. But gradually it subsided; his nerves steadied. He was actually dozing when at last he heard the door open. He didn’t open his eyes until he sensed that the doctor was standing beside the bed.

“Asleep?”

Burgess opened his eyes and stared up at the doctor in what he hoped was a listless manner.

“Dozing, I guess.”

The doctor pulled up a chair and sat down.

“Care to talk any more? Questions you want answered?”

Burgess shrugged imperceptibly. “You know, Doctor, the first reaction I had when you explained my predicament to me yesterday was one of regret.”

“Regret?”

“Regret because I hadn’t been allowed to participate in the invasion. I suppose you could hate me for that. A lot of Germans must have died.”

“That’s all behind us. Germany and America are now friends.”

“It isn’t that far behind me. You can understand that?”

“Of course.”

“It’s a date that is indelibly imprinted on my mind.” Burgess stared into space, his expression reminiscent. “The Fourth of July.” He smiled crookedly.

“The Fourth of July?”

“Independence Day. That’s a holiday in the States. The day we declared our independence from England.”

“I see.”

“No American ever forgets the Fourth. That’s why we thought it fitting.”

“I recall now that that was the date.”

Burgess closed his eyes again and murmured as though he were speaking to no one in particular. He opened his eyes, his expression apologetic, but the doctor’s face had changed. A certain cold and shrewd cunning had come into his eyes. There was an air of excitement about him. He stood up abruptly, only now there was a military bearing about his every move. He stood stiffly erect.

“Herr Colonel, I thank you. You have provided the information we have been wanting.” A wry smile touched his lips. “You will probably be happy to know, Colonel, that you fell easy prey to a rather cleverly concealed hoax. Other ‘methods’ of obtaining information from you American flyers having failed, we decided upon a new approach. It seems to have worked.”

Burgess stared at him, contriving to make his expression one of blank astonishment and bewilderment. He wet his lips.

“You mean—”

“I mean, Herr Colonel, that it is still May, nineteen hundred and forty-four and that you are a stupid pig.”

The doctor clicked his heels together, bowed stiffly, did an about face and went out of the room.

The moment the door closed Burgess scrambled out of bed, moved swiftly across the room and put his ear against the panel. He could hear the doctor’s footsteps retreating down the hall. Abruptly they came to a halt. There was the sound of a knock, a door opening, and then a guttural voice asked: “The American has talked?”

“Ja,” came Schroeder’s reply.

There was the sound of footsteps, and the door closing. Burgess could hear no more. He returned to the bed and sat on its edge. He felt more alive than he had ever felt in his life. There was a glow inside of him, a sense of complete satisfaction and elation.

He lay down and stared up at the ceiling. He knew that would not be the end of the questioning. They’d be back. They’d probably question him around the clock. There would be no pretense now. They’d employ the “methods” they had tried on others.

He wondered if the rumors he’d heard about the June 6th landing on the Normandy beaches were accurate. He hoped so. If they were, the invasion was less than two weeks away. He wondered if he could hold out that long. He thought he could.