THE LOST VIKING SAGA

They were a mere four kilometers from the coast, close enough to smell the tang of the sea air, when they came upon an unexpected outpost. Two Nazi vehicles were parked nose to nose across the road, a force of ten soldiers stood guard. Eight of them were positioned behind the vehicles resting their rifles on the metal surface, their aim zeroed in on the lorries. The two remaining soldiers stood on the road, one holding his hand up for them to stop, the other holding a weapon at waste level, pointed in their direction menacingly. Olaf called to the men in the back of the lorry to be ready with their weapons and to signal the order on to the other vehicles. Instinctively, Penbrooke began to stop his vehicle fifty feet before the road block so that there was a considerable distance between them and the Nazis guarding the road. Olaf climbed down from the cab and approached the soldiers with their papers.

“What is the meaning of this?” Olaf bellowed, inflecting his voice with what he hoped was the proper amount of annoyance and authority.

The Nazi who had halted them, saw Olaf’s rank and, bringing his heels together, thrust his arm upward in salute crying, “Heil, Hitler.” The other soldiers followed suit slightly behind the first but in perfect unison. Olaf returned the salute casually, simply bending his arm at the elbow and repeating the Nazi salutation.

“I asked you why we were stopped so abruptly, Leutnant. I have urgent business and will not be kept waiting by bureaucratic nonsense.”

“My apologies, Oberst. We have our orders as well. I must ask to see your papers please.”

“Very well,” Olaf answered handing the papers over, “I see that this is not an official checkpoint. What has warranted such diligence?”

The soldier replied, not looking up from the papers in his hands, “There was some sort of disturbance in Paris. There are rumors there were saboteurs who were plotting to kill the Fuhrer; though how they expected to do so, I am at a loss as he is in Berlin. It was probably some drunken faction of resistance fighters looking for glory.”

The Nazi officer’s lack of knowledge of Hitler’s movements was a good sign. This meant that they were merely checking everyone as a precaution, not because they had discovered the switch. With any good fortune at all, the Hitler doppelganger had properly fooled the men at the opera house and was indeed on his way back to Germany to implement the fall of the oppressive government.

“Oberst, I am sorry to delay you,” the Leutnant said handing the papers back to Olaf. “You do have urgent business and I am sorry we had to detain you. We were instructed to search every vehicle.”

Olaf stiffened, ready to pull his sidearm and dispatch as many of the ten men as he could before falling himself.

“But I see no need to conduct that search, seeing as your orders are signed by both Herr Himmler and the Fuhrer. It would be demeaning of man of your rank and commitment to our Fuhrer. I will have my men pull our cars out of your way so that you may proceed.”

“I am grateful, Leutnant. Keep up the good work. Heil, Hitler.”

On cue, all ten men returned the salute mindlessly, each seeming to desire to be heard above the soldier nearest him. Olaf turned rigidly, exhaling quietly and strolled in as relaxed a manner as he could pretend back to the lorry. Both men in the cab looked at him with desperate questioning as he took his seat.

“There is nothing to worry about, my friends. It is just a routinely paranoid Nazi impromptu checkpoint. They are making way for us.”

As if hearing Olaf speak, the two vehicles backed away quickly, opening up the road before them. It was at this time that Hitler decided to awake from his stupor. The fiery, German dictator began thrashing about between Einar and Eovind, trying his best to scream through the gag that had been tied over his mouth. Penbrooke had already put the lorry into gear and was driving past the first of the Nazi soldiers. Though the Fuhrer was not likely to overcome the strong grips of the Norsemen who flanked him, the noise of the struggle was certain to rouse curiosity. Bjorn the Giant, seated across from the flailing Hitler, leaned forward and hit the despot squarely between the eyes. The man slumped, sinking once again into unconsciousness.

Bjorn looked at Einar and Eovind, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I have put more force behind swatting a fly. I did not hit him that hard.”

“He is a delicate man, Bjorn,” quipped Einar. “You should be more careful next time; the slightest breeze might wilt this one.”

As the lorry rolled past the Nazi soldiers, all they heard was laughter instead of the struggle Bjorn’s paltry blow had averted. Penbrooke watched the rear view mirrors anxiously, holding his breath, and not exhaling until he saw the third lorry clear the roadblock. His heart didn’t slow down until they were at least two kilometers down the road.

Avoiding the village where they had appropriated the vehicles, the convoy drove a short distance away from the beach, looping around before coming back west of the village. They then approached the beach from the opposite direction from which they left. As they rolled onto the sand, Olaf could clearly make out the dark mass where the Sea Prowler was hidden in the lee of a dune. The sun had already set, but the twilight gave them enough light to cross the beach with the headlights off. The lorries stopped about ten feet from the ship’s blind. The men were almost instantly out of the vehicles and engaged in stripping the camouflage from the Sea Prowler. A handful of men, led by Einar and Eovald meanwhile attended to the task of preparing their cargo for transport back across the channel.

The sky had been overcast all day long, and many times had threatened rain. This worked to their advantage now. Darkness was their close ally, the lack of stars making their work all the more concealed. The black painted Sea Prowler would be but another dark spot on an even darker sea. While the men worked together combining their great strength to carry the ship to the water, Olaf stood scanning the horizon of inland France. Not once was there a headlight seen that would give him pause or cause him to anticipate a battalion of angry Nazis rushing the beach to exact vengeance. He had no idea what changes would take place in this time as a result of what they had accomplished this day. The outcome was not his to ponder; his hope ever being on the door between times swinging open to allow them to return where they belonged. A shout from Ebbn, alerted him they were ready to put to sea. The waves buffeted and sucked at Olaf’s boots as he pushed through the surf. Ebbn held out a hand to him and Olaf swung himself over the side to land on a rower’s bench.

“Take to your oars, men,” he shouted, stepping his way to his customary perch near the prow of the Sea Prowler. “Swing the ship around and get us back to England.”

The men wasted no time obeying their leader’s orders. Their strong arms pulled enthusiastically at the oars, putting distance between them and the coast of France. When Olaf looked back toward the rear of the ship, the coastline was a mere dark strip on the horizon of the darker profile of the heaving sea. A familiar rhythm was soon achieved and were it not for the clothing they now wore they felt for a moment that they were back in their proper time. For that short span as they rowed across the channel, there existed no world war, no evil power bent to assert its will over all men, and no threat of preposterous weapons wielded by dishonorable cowards. There was simply the wind, the waves, and the sound of creaking oars propelling the Sea Prowler forward.

They rowed through the night. This time they could not make use of the sail. As a result they were still at sea as the sun rose to the east. The darkened coastline of England was discernable in the distance, but it took a full two hours after the sun appeared for them to row into the small bay that serviced the town of Hastings. The Englanders must have had someone keeping watch for them, for as the Sea Prowler slid onto the beach, a group of soldiers plodded across the sand to greet them. At their head was the over-bearing Mr. Rὺin, ready to take custody of his anticipated prisoner. Olaf at first ignored his demands for information, pretending to not hear as they situated the ship on the beach. When he could no longer keep up the pretense, he gave in and walked toward the Intelligence agent.

“Well? Were you successful? Do you have him? Is Mr. Smith safely in place?”

“Which of your questions do you desire I answer first?”

“Just give me some answers, Olaf!” demanded Mr. Rὺin.

“Your doppelganger was successfully substituted for the real man. You will find your pitiful, little German trussed up onboard my ship. I can have my men unload him for you or you can use your own, I care not. Whether Mr. Smith is safe or is effectively fooling the Nazis into thinking he is their Fuhrer, I know not. I would suspect you have better ways than I in finding out the truth of that.”

Mr. Rὺin did not bother responding but quickly barked orders to a group of five soldiers who had been holding back and started walking toward the Sea Prowler. Two soldiers climbed somewhat clumsily over the side of the ship, reappearing a few moments later with Mr. Rὺin’s prize. Olaf found it comical to watch them as they struggled to maneuver the man off the Sea Prowler. At one point the men trying to hand him down to the three others lost their grip. There was a mad scramble to try and recover that failed miserably as Hitler landed with a jarring thud onto the sand at their feet. Mr. Rὺin erupted into a tirade that referred to their ineptitude and a few comments about their general intelligence. The soldiers in a hurry to finish their task and perhaps end their superior’s angry diatribe lifted the wrapped human bundle off of the ground. Distributing the weight evenly amongst them they started to tread purposely off of the beach toward the path that led into town with Mr. Rὺin on their heels the entire way continuing to make his dissatisfaction known.