V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History

LAST TRAIN TO WORCESTER

FEBRUARY 9, 1942

J. Jackson Jackson awoke to the screech of railcar brakes, the swaying vibration of the train slowing down. Opening his eyes, he looked out the frost-rimmed window beside him to see the lights of a small city coming into view. The night was overcast, the moon hidden by dark clouds, but in the glow of streetlamps he caught a glimpse of narrow streets blanketed by fresh snow.

“Worcester!” The conductor walked down the aisle, calling out the place where the train was making its next stop. “Worcester, Massachusetts!” He pronounced the name in a nasal Yankee brogue that silenced the “ch” and dragged out the “er.” Woostah, not Wore-chester, the way Jackson had been pronouncing it all along; he made a mental note of this.

Jackson’s fellow passengers stirred from the uncomfortable naps they’d been taking since the previous stop in Hartford. Everyone here was black, including the conductor. Their car was just behind the locomotive, with the baggage car separating it from the rest of the coaches; it was an antique, the seats’ upholstery old and faded, the windows grimed with engine smoke. Since Washington, D.C., where Jackson had transferred from the train that carried him from Alabama, the aisles had steadily collected discarded sandwich wrappers and pop bottles, the refuse of the only meals they’d been able to eat en route; the dining car was off-limits to coloreds. At least the baby girl making the trip in her mother’s arms had finally stopped crying although a lingering fecal stench told him the reason why: With no washrooms in this car, her mother had had to change the child’s diapers in public.

The train lurched again, and Jackson returned his gaze to the window. Union Station was just ahead, its twin towers looming above a Gothic edifice of white limestone. As the train clattered the rest of the way into the station, Jackson reached beneath his seat to pull out the battered cardboard suitcase that held all his clothes. It appeared that nearly everyone in the colored car was traveling on to Boston because only a couple of other people stood up.

The train finally came to a halt, and Jackson joined the disembarking passengers as they shuffled down the aisle to the door. The night was cold, a stiff wind from the northeast spitting fat snowflakes into his face as he stepped out onto the platform. This was the first time J. Jackson Jackson had been anywhere above the Mason-Dixon Line; in that frigid moment of first contact with New England, he imagined that he was somewhere just south of the Arctic Circle. He paused to put down his suitcase, pull up the lapels of his wool overcoat and clamp his fedora more firmly to his head, then he picked up the suitcase again and followed the signs to the station entrance. Someone was supposed to be meeting him there…

“Lieutenant Jackson?”

A young white man stood just inside the door, a snapshot photo in his gloved hands. Jackson nodded and the other man put away the picture. “Hillman… Corporal Max Hillman,” he said quietly. “Glad to see you made it, sir. How was the trip?”

“All right, I suppose.” Jackson wasn’t surprised to see that Hillman wasn’t in uniform or that he hadn’t saluted him. Apparently he’d received the same orders to dress and behave as a civilian; Jackson had left his uniform in Alabama and instead worn his best suit on the train. He looked around at the handful of other passengers. “Am I the only person you’re picking up?”

“Uh-huh… I mean, yes, sir. You’re the last guy in. Everyone else is already here. This way, Lieutenant… the car’s out front.”

They walked down a circular staircase to the ticket foyer and passed through another pair of doors leading to the station’s main hall. The Washington train must have been the last one in for the evening; the wooden benches were nearly vacant, the luncheonette and newsstand closed. Jackson took a few moments to find the COLOREDS ONLY restroom; Hillman was waiting for him in the lobby when he came out. Just outside the front door, a Plymouth sedan was parked at the curb. Jackson tossed his suitcase in the backseat while Hillman slid in behind the wheel. The corporal cranked up the cold engine and turned on the windshield wiper, and the Plymouth rumbled away from the station, its tires crunching through the slush in the street.

“We’ve got you staying with the rest of the group, sir,” Hillman said as he switched on the heater. “You’ll be sharing a boardinghouse just a few blocks from the Clark campus.” A quick smile. “I’ll be there, too. My job is to act as your military liaison… sort of a go-between for you and…”

“I know what a liaison is.” Even on a dark winter night, Jackson could tell that Worcester wasn’t much larger than Memphis, his hometown. The tallest buildings were the clock tower of what he assumed to be City Hall and a couple of church steeples; all the others were low redbrick buildings no more than six stories tall, sparsely illuminated by cast-iron streetlamps. Not a pretty city. “Where’s the colonel?”

“Colonel Bliss? We’ll see him only every so often. He’ll be dividing his time between here and Alamogordo, with occasional visits down to Washington to report in.” A wry chuckle. “If I were him, I’d stay in New Mexico as much as I could. A little warmer down there.”

Jackson nodded, preferring to say as little as he could get away with. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t have been here either, and not just because of the climate. He had been just a few weeks away from earning his wings and joining the 332nd Fighter Group when Colonel Bliss had come to see him at the Tuskegee Army Air Field, along with a nameless FBI agent who’d spoken little but had regarded him with the skeptical eyes of a man who couldn’t believe that a Negro would be interviewed by a member of the War Department’s command staff. Bliss wanted to know about Jackson’s engineering degree and the interest he’d shown in rocket research; he’d said little concerning what this was about except that it involved a classified project being undertaken by Robert H. Goddard. The subsequent offer to join the project wasn’t entirely voluntary; although the colonel didn’t come right out and say so, he had given the young lieutenant the distinct impression that, if he didn’t agree to go on detached duty, he’d spend the rest of the war sweeping hangar floors, not in the cockpit of a P-51 Warhawk.

Working on a military project with Dr. Goddard intrigued Jackson. All things considered, though, he’d rather be flying.

Hillman drove past the town commons, then turned left at City Hall onto Main Street. The stores were all closed; only a few restaurants and bars were open. Almost no traffic except for a trolley making its way up the street, its bars sparking as they touched the electric lines overhead. Leaving the town center, they entered a leafy urban neighborhood of apartment buildings and small houses, until they came upon a collection of ivy-decked buildings clustered along the right-hand side of the street.

“Here’s the Clark campus,” Hillman said, as if it could be anything else. Turning right onto Maywood Street, he slowed down as they came upon a four-story redbrick building close to the sidewalk. “That’s the Science Building, where you’ll be working.”

Jackson noticed that its windows were dark. “I take it we’re not going there right away.”

“No, sir. We’re going straight to the boardinghouse. That’s where everyone else is… except Dr. Goddard, of course. I think he and his wife are staying home tonight to unpack.” Hillman gave him a sidelong glance. “Have you ever met either of them? Dr. and Mrs. Goddard, I mean.”

“I haven’t met anyone except the colonel,” Jackson said.

“That so? Well, you’ll meet them soon. Incidentally, you’ll be the only people staying there. We’ve rented the whole place for your group, just to make sure that you’re left alone.”

The Plymouth continued up Maywood, leaving the Clark University campus and entering a residential neighborhood of narrow streets shaded by oak and maple trees. The snow had lessened by then, yet the streets hadn’t been plowed; Hillman drove slowly to avoid skidding out. A left turn onto Birch Street, then, three blocks down, he pulled up to the sidewalk across from a wood-frame apartment house, three stories tall with a small front porch, indistinguishable from any other New England three-decker they’d already passed.

“Here we are, sir.” Shutting off the motor, Hillman climbed out. “C’mon in… I’ll introduce you to the rest of the boys.”

Jackson darted a look at him, but there was no trace of condescension on Hillman’s face; apparently, the kid didn’t know what “boy” meant to a black man. Jackson decided to let it slide as he retrieved his suitcase from the backseat and followed Hillman across the street and up the front steps. The corporal didn’t knock or ring the doorbell but instead walked straight in, holding the door open for Jackson.

They found themselves in a darkened foyer with a row of metal mailboxes on the wall across from a stairway. Straight ahead was a hallway; light gleamed from a half-open door at the end. “Hey, there!” Hillman called out as he stamped his feet on the doormat, shaking off the snow. “Anyone home?”

“Back here,” a voice from the door responded. “C’mon back.”

Still carrying his suitcase, Jackson let Hillman lead him down the hall. “Hey, guys,” the corporal said as he pushed open the door. “Here’s the last member of your group… Lieutenant J. Jackson Jackson, U.S. Army Air Corps.”

Jackson walked into a small but cozy parlor. Six men were seated in armchairs, with two sharing a couch near a window; most were reading books or magazines, but a couple were hunched over a checkerboard. A radio in the corner quietly played dance-hall jazz; the room was filled with cigarette and pipe smoke. Through a door on the other side of the room, Jackson spotted the kitchen. Two more men were in there, washing dishes; Jackson guessed that they were cleaning up from dinner.

Everyone stared at him. Jackson knew that look; he’d been getting it his entire life, from high school to college to the Army. What the hell is a Negro doing here? Even the Asian fellow—Chinese, he guessed; couldn’t be a Jap, not on a classified military project—seemed incredulous. The only sound in the room was the Benny Goodman Orchestra.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Jackson put down the suitcase, took off his hat. “Pleasure to meet you.” He gave them a measured smile, friendly but not ingratiating.

The silence lasted for another second or two, then a tall, slender man pushed himself to his feet. “Glad to meet you, too, Lieutenant. Name’s Morse… Henry Morse.”

“Hello, Henry.” Jackson offered his hand. When Morse shook it without hesitation, he knew he had at least one guy on his side. “And don’t bother with the rank… my friends call me Jack.”

“Jack?” Another guy, a wiry little fellow with glasses and a mustache, lowered the Life he was reading. “Did I hear Max correctly when he said your last name was Jackson?”

“Yes, you did.”

“And your middle name is…?”

“That’s Jackson, too.”

“Jackson Two?” A wide grin as the others chuckled. “Then I take it your first initial stands for…”

Jackson felt his face growing warm. He hated this part of introducing himself to anyone, especially white folks. “I think that’s obvious.”

“Jackson Jackson Jackson?” This from an overweight, balding man who appeared to be the oldest person in the room. “No wonder you want to be called Jack.”

“No, no, no… you don’t get it.” The little guy shook his head. “If his middle and last names makes him Jackson Two, then the first name makes him Jackson Three. That’s Jackson Cube… Jack Cube!”

That broke everyone up, and for an instant Jackson felt anger surge within. Then he realized that this was a joke only well-educated men would appreciate, a mathematical pun that would’ve gone right over the head of a cracker back home. These men weren’t laughing at him, really; they were laughing at a joke spawned years ago when his parents decided to give their baby boy the most unforgettable name possible.

“Yeah, well… that’s cool,” he replied, managing to keep a straight face. His remark was greeted by a long and heartfelt groan: a pun answered by another pun.

All of a sudden, the room was just a few degrees warmer. One by one, the men got up and came over to introduce themselves. Names accompanied handshakes; the wiry guy was Lloyd Kapman, the plump one was Taylor Brickell, and the Chinese-American fellow was Harry Chung. They were followed by Hamilton “just call me Ham” Ballou, who looked like a stand-in for Clark Gable except for the postadolescent acne that covered his face. Michael “I’m Mike” Ferris was the only person with whom Jackson had had any previous contact, from letters exchanged through addresses gleaned from the American Rocket Society newsletter. Mike obviously hadn’t been aware that his pen pal was black, because Jackson hadn’t believed it necessary to tell him, but he didn’t say anything about it. For Jack’s part, he was surprised that Ferris was apparently his own age; he’d always assumed that Mike was a bit older.

Indeed, everyone was unexpectedly young. Harry, Lloyd, and Taylor were the oldest members of the group, and none of them had yet reached his thirties. Jackson had pegged everyone as being in his twenties when the two men who’d been in the kitchen came in, and he discovered that this estimate was wrong. Gerry Mander—yes, that was his real name, he’d later learn—wasn’t even old enough to drink or vote; a skinny, awkward-looking kid with a bad haircut, he was also the one who appeared most surprised to discover that J. Jackson Jackson was black.

“Where’re you from?” Gerry looked Jack up and down, not immediately accepting Jack’s offered handshake. His Southern accent was unmistakable, a drawl that could only have come from somewhere deep in the heart of Dixie.

“Memphis,” Jack said. “You?”

“Muscle Shoals.” Gerry hesitated. “I hear we’re gonna be roommates.”

The room fell quiet again. From the corner of his eye, Jack could see that everyone was nervously watching this exchange. “I suppose we are…”

The other man from the kitchen coughed in his hand, interrupting him. In his midthirties, he was taller and more muscular than anyone else, but what set him apart wasn’t his size but the Smith & Wesson .45 tucked into the shoulder holster he wore over a starched Arrow shirt. Jack instantly recognized him for what he was: a federal agent, probably a G-man.

“We weren’t aware of any… uh, personal differences… when we made the room assignments,” he said, his gaze shifting between Gerry and Jack. “Is there going to be a problem here?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned.” Jack looked Gerry straight in the eye. “Do you have a problem?”

Again, Gerry Mander hesitated. Then a grin slowly spread across his face, exposing a pair of crooked front teeth. “Well, hell, why not? Half the guys in the workhouse were colored.” He stuck out his hand. “Put it there, boy!”

Jackson bit his lip as he shook Gerry’s hand. For now, he’d have to settle for acceptance and work on respect later. “And you are…?” he asked the G-man.

“Frank O’Connor, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” His handshake was firm enough to crack walnuts. “I’ve been assigned to be your security detail while you’re here. Where you go, I go.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Lloyd said. “He’s really our valet. Cooks a mean roast chicken.”

The others laughed again, and Agent O’Connor managed a shrug. “Got some leftovers in the icebox if you’re hungry.”

“Man, I’m not hungry… I’m starving.” Even as he said this, Jack Cube felt his stomach rumbling. The last time he’d had anything to eat was the egg-salad sandwich in Washington between trains. “Take me to it.”

He started to head for the kitchen, but O’Connor raised a hand. “Don’t worry about a thing, Lieutenant. I’ll set you a place at the table. Just make yourself comfortable and get to know everyone.”

He returned to the kitchen, and Jackson looked around to see Gerry staring at him in astonishment. “Lieutenant?” Gerry asked; apparently he hadn’t overheard Corporal Hillman’s initial introduction. “You’re a lieutenant?”

“Army Air Force, 332nd Fighter Group.” Jackson ignored his expression as he turned to the others. “Anyone got a smoke? I used up my last cigarette somewhere around Philadelphia.” Henry produced a pack of Camels and shook one out. “Thanks. So what’s the story here? When do we see Dr. Goddard?”

“First meeting is tomorrow morning, at the college.” Henry struck a match, held it out to him. The rest of the men were already going back to what they’d been doing when he arrived. “That’s when you’ll get the details.”

Something in the way he said this got Jack’s attention. “You know what’s going on?” he asked, letting Henry light his cigarette.

“Uh-huh… but I think it’d be better if Bob explains it himself.” Henry’s face was solemn. “Believe me when I tell you,” he quietly added, “we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Esther Goddard was unpacking yet another carton of books—it seemed as if books accounted for half the stuff shipped back from Roswell—when there was a knock at the front door. “I’ll get it,” she called out to Robert as she made her way through the cardboard boxes that had transformed the living room into a maze. The knock was repeated by the time she reached the front door; its impatience gave her a clue as to who their late visitor was even before she opened the door.

“Hello, Wallace,” she said, managing a smile that she didn’t feel. “Nice to see you again.”

“Good evening, Esther.” Wallace Atwood, the president of Clark University, stood on the front porch, hat pulled low and overcoat lapels turned up against the snow that was still falling. “Is Robert in?”

“Of course. Please come in.” She stepped aside and waited for Atwood to stamp the snow from his rubber overshoes. It had been many years since she’d last seen him, and as he walked into the house and took off his hat, she noted that time hadn’t treated him well. Now that he was in his seventies, time seemed to have caught up with him; a big man in past years, his shoulders had become stooped and his frame a little less ursine, and his hair had gone white and had almost completely receded from his forehead. It was remarkable that President Atwood hadn’t retired, and perhaps he would soon, but not before he confronted his old nemesis one more time.

“I’m sorry that I can’t offer you any coffee,” Esther said as she took his hat and coat, “but I haven’t unpacked the percolator yet.” A lie; it was one of the first things she’d pulled out of a box when the moving van showed up a couple of days ago. But coffee was tightly rationed and not to be splurged; besides, she didn’t want dear old Wallace to stay any longer than necessary.

“That’s quite all right. It’s only a quick visit.” Atwood gave the stacked boxes a disdainful glance. “Still getting settled in? I would’ve thought…”

“We’ve been gone almost twelve years, and we stopped renting out the house after the last tenant made a mess of the place. It takes a while to move back in, you know.”

Wallace gave her a stiff-necked nod, still not looking at her. This was the house where Bob had been born and raised; it had been in his family for two generations, perched atop Maple Hill in one of Worcester’s more pleasant neighborhoods. Even after he and Esther moved to New Mexico, he decided to keep the place, for reasons both sentimental and practical. Had he put the house on the market, it would have signaled that he never intended to return to Massachusetts… and Wallace Atwood would have taken advantage of that.

“Yes, well…” Atwood noisily cleared his throat, and Esther tried not to laugh. No one could harrumph as well as Clark University’s president. “If you could tell your husband that I’m here…”

“And so you are!” Bob exclaimed as he strode into the living room, arms open as if to give their caller a hearty embrace. “Good evening, Wallace! How wonderful to see you again!”

Esther couldn’t keep from grinning. In baggy old pants and a wool shirt filthy with dust brought all the way from New Mexico, the smoldering butt of a cigar clenched between his teeth, Bob looked like a desert rat magically transported to Massachusetts. Atwood was dressed in the same tweed suit he’d probably worn to church for the last twenty years, and he recoiled from Bob as if afraid he might be carrying a virus.

“Ah… um… pleased to see you, too.” Atwood nervously extended a hand and visibly winced as Bob clasped it with both of his own. “Your lovely wife was just telling me…”

“We’re still unpacking, yes, yes. May take us a while to get squared away.” Bob took the cigar from his mouth and waved it at the living room furniture, some of which was still covered by canvas sheets. “If you’re dropping by to give us a hand, that would be terrific. We could use all the help we can get. You can start in here by…”

“Well, no, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not. Actually, the reason why I’ve stopped by is to discuss the nature of your return. That is, I’d like to know why you’ve…”

“Come back after so many years?” Noticing that his cigar had gone out, Bob searched for a place to dispose of it. “Why, to teach, of course. And to pursue a research project, as you’ve no doubt heard already.”

“That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about. You haven’t…”

Atwood was interrupted by footsteps clumping across the upstairs hallway. He glanced upward, surprised to find that there was someone else in the house. “You have a guest?”

“Oh, yes.” Bob dropped the cigar butt in the small ceramic candy dish he’d been using until Esther could dig out a proper ashtray. “In fact, I believe you’ve already met.” He turned to the stairs and raised his voice. “Colonel? President Atwood is here.”

Colonel Bliss descended the staircase, the evening edition of the Worcester Telegraph in hand. Although his tie was missing and his sleeves were rolled up, he might just as well have been wearing a full dress uniform; Bliss had the sort of military bearing that didn’t disappear even when he was in civilian clothes. “Good evening, Dr. Atwood,” he said. “I thought I’d heard you come in.”

“Hello, Colonel.” Once again, Atwood was startled. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

“Omar is visiting for a few days while Bob gets his project started.” Esther picked up a rag to dust off her hands. “I imagine you’ll see him from time to time.”

“Probably not very often. Just when I need to make sure that everything is going well with Dr. Goddard’s work.” The colonel reached the bottom of the steps but didn’t offer a handshake. “Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but overhear you from the guest room… you have a question about his schedule?”

“Yes, well…” Atwood shifted from one foot to another as he turned to Bob again. “I’ve been told that you’ve requested that you teach only one class, a seminar in advanced physics. Furthermore, you’re reserving approval over any students who sign up for this.”

“That’s right,” Bob said. “Physics 390 will be the one course I’ll teach this semester, and the only students who take it will be the ones whom I personally approve. And I’ve already picked my students.”

“Not even the Introduction to Physics or Introductory Calculus classes you’ve normally taught?” Atwood asked, and Bob shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not satisfactory.”

“As chairman of the physics and math departments, it’s my privilege to teach as few classes as I choose, and every professor at Clark has the option of selecting the students he wants for his graduate-level courses.”

“And that’s not satisfactory either,” Atwood said.

Bob shrugged. “Well, I’m sorry, Wallace, but you’ll just have to be satisfied.”

And there it was, the source of the long-standing feud between the two men. Atwood became the university president in 1920; three years later, he promoted Goddard to the chairmanship of the physics department following the suicide of his predecessor. They had gotten along well at first, with Atwood securing the university grants that Goddard used to jump-start his rocket research, and Goddard in turn becoming one of the university’s crown jewels. It wasn’t long, though, before Goddard began to outgrow Clark University; once he acquired new funding sources, first from the Carnegie Institute and the Smithsonian, and later from Charles Lindbergh and the Guggenheim family, he no longer needed the university’s meager financial support. When this happened, Goddard committed less effort to his job at the college, preferring to spend more time with his rocket experiments.

Yet Atwood couldn’t afford to fire him. By then, Dr. Robert H. Goddard was one of the most famous scientists in America, while Clark University remained in the shadows of Harvard and Boston College to the east and Amherst, Smith, and Mount Holyoke to the west. Clark needed Goddard more than Goddard needed Clark, and Atwood knew it.

Bob’s marriage to Esther hadn’t helped either. Esther Kisk had been a recent high-school graduate working as a typist in Atwood’s office when she met Doctor G, and the puritanical and churchgoing university president had disapproved of the romance between the teenage girl and the middle-aged professor. To make matters worse, Esther had taken charge of Bob’s personal affairs once they were married; she’d become a formidable defender of her husband’s private life, and Atwood soon discovered that he couldn’t easily intimidate her.

The final break had occurred when the Goddards moved to Roswell. Bob had told the university that it would only be a short sabbatical, yet as time went on, and his visits to Worcester became increasingly infrequent, it became apparent that he was gone for good. Yet he’d refused to relinquish his chairmanship of the physics and math departments, even after Atwood had eliminated most of the graduate programs, and when the president requested that Goddard give up his chair and take a pay cut, Goddard had retaliated by tendering his resignation. Atwood had no choice but to let Goddard retain his chairmanship and salary even though he was an invisible man on campus. Like it or not, losing Goddard would have been a major blow to the university’s prestige.

All this must have been in the back of Wallace Atwood’s mind because his face reddened and his eyes narrowed. “Just who do you think you are?” he snapped, glaring at Goddard as if he were a freshman caught soaping Atwood’s office windows. “You’re gone twelve years, then you come back thinking you can just waltz in and…”

“Dr. Atwood, may I remind you that the War Department has specifically requested Dr. Goddard’s reinstatement?” Leaning against the banister, Colonel Bliss remained calm in the face of the president’s bluster. “We’ve already discussed our arrangements. The reasons why he’s here are none of your concern, nor are the conditions he’s requested. You’re to give him everything he wants and leave him alone, and that’s all you need to know.”

Atwood’s angry gaze swung toward Bliss. “And if I don’t?”

“You tell me… how much federal aid does your school receive each year? And while you’re at it, you might also wonder how many of your teachers and students have requested and received draft deferrals.” A cunning smile. “Uncle Sam can be very generous in his support of higher education, Dr. Atwood, but his generosity has its limits.”

Before Esther’s very eyes, it seemed as if Wallace Atwood actually shrank a few inches. His haughty demeanor vanished like snowflakes on a hot frying pan as he gaped at the colonel, his mouth opening as if to object, then closing without another word. Bob said nothing, but when Atwood turned to Esther, she simply held out his hat and coat.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Wallace,” she murmured. “Do come again, will you?”

“Perhaps we could have lunch some afternoon,” Bob added.

Atwood silently took his hat and coat, then walked out the door. Esther caught it before it slammed shut and watched as he stormed down the front walk, the snow muffling his footsteps as he headed for the car parked at the front curb. Its headlights had barely vanished when Bob let out a sigh.

“Well,” he murmured, “that was… unpleasant.”

“Really?” Esther smiled. “I don’t think so. Remind me to bake him some cookies, will you?”

And then she went back to unpacking books, humming a happy song as she ignored the stares from both her husband and their houseguest.