Chapter 1

They teach us in school that wandering alone at night isn't a smart idea for many good reasons. They hadn't mentioned this one.

Standing in the dark at midnight in front of wrought iron cemetery gates probably wasn't a common event for the young tourist in Dundee. The old-world cemetery was like many others in Scotland; a high stone wall separated graves and tombs from the noise and activities of the living.

During the daytime, the view between the black bars of the street gate into the graveyard was pleasant, even picturesque. Aging trees threw a canopy of brown over the uneven rows of worn headstones. Green moss climbed the old stones, imparting its own touch of living beauty in death. Humanity could find, under the sun and inside the walled cemetery, a peaceful refuge. Yet coming back at night, the flowerless cemetery felt cold and disturbing. The arched, columned gate entrance that looked splendid and full of character during the afternoon now felt strangely foreboding.

Stamping my feet on the cobblestone street to ward off the April cold, I wondered why I'd returned to visit the dead in the middle of the night. It was my mother who loved genealogy, going through old records and visiting churches in a treasure hunt to check baptismal and marriage records to further her research on relatives. Where was this Needham or that Green buried? She loved gathering information, the hunt, the adventure into the past. We had visited this church during the day to follow up on one of her leads, and now I am back. The broad street was without light, and the double gates of iron could not hold back the pitch blackness of the cemetery. Only the full moon and the three aligned planets in the sky offered illumination.

I had been restless in an unfamiliar bed, and had left the inn to take in the night air. The Daily Mail had reported that Venus, Jupiter and Mars, in a rare grouping, could be seen together in the sky this week. A compelling impulse had called me to view the planetary conjunction from the cemetery away from the town's lights. We were vacationing with no real time constraints--a carefree feeling leading me to something impetuous. It struck my fancy to be able to say that I saw the unusual celestial event in Scotland, and then use it as a pick-up line with attractive women.

A feminine voice called my name in a seductive whisper from among the dark trees. "William, come to me."

I laughed out loud, mumbling, "It's only the wind. My mind is playing tricks."

With some effort accompanied by much groaning from the old hinges, I pushed one of the gates open and entered the cemetery. The short cobblestone driveway lacked any protective covering. A break among the trees opened a view of the sky, granting me the vista I'd come to see. At the other end of the graveyard, something reflected a wisp of a flame, perhaps a lighter. "Another mind trick," I said aloud to boost my sagging confidence.

As I walked along the driveway a few paces, a freshened breeze swayed the tree canopy. My eyes wandered over the cold sky, fascinated by the clear view of the full moon and bright planets. The loveliness of the heavens stilled my wandering for a few minutes. Unconsciously, I tried to stamp the cold out of my tennis shoes and then rubbed warmth into my hands.

"This is worth a midnight walk," I announced, noticing the vapor of my breath was thicker than it should be.

Suddenly a sense of wrongness fell upon me like a smothering blanket.

The stone church and surrounding walls stood guard over the hallowed ground, but my new awareness of the peculiar scene increased my discomfort. Tingling goose bumps caused a shivering, and the hairs at the base of my neck flickered up to my skull. A wisp of light danced in the blackness like a firefly, not twenty feet from me. A shimmering fog froze me in place. The thickening air made it harder to breathe. Before I fully processed more of the unnatural whispers of the wind trapped in the branches, I was driven to my knees. The distant sky exploded in brilliant colors.

"Soul mate, come to me," the trees called. I felt faint.

"What is happening to me?" I groaned out, shuddering in the intense cold.

My arms went limp while I swayed upright.

"Who's there?"

An apparition of a beautiful, naked woman shimmered in front of me, painting a smile on my face and igniting a myriad of sensual wishes. Time seemed to stop as her softness merged with me.

"What a way to go," I thought, falling forward.

The light shadows of the world went dark.

The clanking of an engine and the smell of oil woke me to a confusing sight. Wisps of clouds close enough to touch and the intense, low morning sun stung my eyes. I sat perpendicular to the world in an open cockpit with a man screaming into my leather helmet.

"Bloody hell, wake up, Jack! Your fits are going to kill us."

"Bloody hell, wake up, Jack! Your fits are going to kill us."

My bewilderment was complete. With an engine struggling for more power, I realized my plane was in a stall and I was the pilot. The immediate needs for improvisation and self-preservation had compelled my hands to grab the stick between my knees. The biplane continued its a left turning spin with its nose down to the ground. Hundreds of hours of training doused any rising panic. I guided the stick to a full opposite-rudder to the right, against the direction of the spin; we recovered into a straight dive. The early morning rays of light cast cloud shadows below us on a lush green landscape.

"A ghastly experience, but smart flying," a male voice with an educated accent shouted into my headphones. "Few survive a spin; we should be dead. What a frisky adventure. The captain might even forgive you if you tell him how you did it. Although, I dare say my wife doesn't need to hear of it."

Cold air whipped across my bare cheeks as I straightened us out of the unintended dive. A strange, wool scarf flapped around my neck. Nothing about my attire was familiar. The ancient altimeter said we were at 8,000 feet. Three planets were aligned, low on the horizon.

"Who's there?" I asked in the old fashioned microphone dangling in front of my face. "This is a dream, right?"

"What? Have you cracked up, Jack? It's Alfred, I am sitting directly behind you."

The sting of the cool air and the smell of the machine persuaded me it was no dream. My cockpit was tight-fitting and the equipment gauges antiquated. A spinning, wooden propeller, and an unpainted engine cowling of dull metal with a single, Vickers machine gun on it, convinced me this was a World War One airplane. Our yellow wings were made of canvas, and baling wire supported and connected the bi-wings. I cranked my neck around, and sure enough, a man waved at me from an observation seat, which had a Lewis gun pointed up in the air, facing backward. The fuselage was green and the tail had the familiar red, white and blue insignia of England. Yet, the headset didn't fit with the technology of the times.

"Alfred?" I asked, feeling confused and wiping my goggles.

"2nd Lieutenant, Alfred Radford, Royal Flying Corps," he answered, clearly upset. "I am not covering for your fits and chest pains anymore. This high altitude does your constitution no good. One minute you pass out and almost kill us, and the next you don't remember who your best friend is! Jack Green, I have to think of Mavis, she is too young to become a widow."

"Calm down, I'm fine. Just give me a minute to get my bearings."

"Look, catch up with the rest of the flight. The captain will probably ground you when we return to the aerodrome from the reconnaissance and dirigible exercise, anyway," Alfred responded in my headset.

Sure enough, above and behind us was a formation of five similar biplanes with fixed, wheeled undercarriages, perhaps a thousand feet above us. The other planes were green with yellow noses. I started to climb our craft at 86 m.p.h. without further comment. Alfred held his tongue, so I took stock of my plight.

I felt like I was a bold and adventurous man, but flying in a flimsy structure of wood, bracing wires and canvas is crazy. During this period, cataclysmic failures were known to happen to blameless pilots, because airplanes were fragile and inevitably had mechanical issues. It didn't help that pioneering aviators knew little of the fundamentals of flying. For novices it was the seat-of-the-pants approach. Flying a cloth-covered fuselage against machine guns isn't what flying is about to me.

Thinking things through, I vigilantly surveyed the sky around us for enemy aircraft. "Who knows where we are? Flying over France near the trenches?" I thought, fearfully. "The Fokker and Albatross are a deadly foe against two-seaters."

"What am I flying in? It's not as if there's an identifying label on this plane." I mumbled to myself.

"What, Jack?" Alfred asked.

"Thought, I saw something in the sun," I lied.

"Right." I looked over my shoulder and watched him check over his weapon, and then take it in hand. The Lewis swung around and Alfred began scanning the skies for opponents.

I felt bad about making things up, but I didn't dare ask my observer what year it was or where we were. He would make sure I was committed to an asylum. He was already going to ask an assortment of questions I couldn't answer when we landed. No, I couldn't tell him "My name is William Needham, not Jack Green; and by the way, I come from Iowa. You see I am a crop dusting pilot on vacation. A bolt of light in the form of a woman took me back in time and I am now in a stranger's body."

I am a terrible liar. It's best to keep my mouth shut.

Our plane was underpowered and it took an eternity to reunite with the rest of the flight. Having played hundreds of hours online in a multiplayer environment with World War One aircraft helped me appreciate differences in the airplanes. I hated flying a two-seater in games; they were slower than single-seater fighters and less maneuverable. Sure, the rear gunner was useful in certain situations, but the plane wasn't very sexy. Given time I'd remember the make and model of our plane.

We slid in to place at the end of the "V" formation at 9,100 feet. In the nearest biplane a man with a mustache shook his fist at me. His observer smiled at me, his Lewis gun hung on its mount unattended. I shrugged my shoulders, ignoring the pilot, going back to scanning the sky for potential German aircraft. It pleased me to see the ground had no trenches, nor anti-aircraft bursts of black smoke. My nerves were tight enough, not having to worry about flying over enemy territory was a bit of a relief. Since Alfred took my sun threat seriously, I decide to stay focused on scanning below and above us as something continued to worry him. Over the next twenty minutes our flight slowly lost altitude, and I felt more comfortable flying our aircraft.

I could see the coast ahead of us and a seaside town, which cheered me up. We were nowhere near the trench fighting of western Europe. Our flight leader started to descend. We followed him, maintaining our separation as we entered a small group of clouds. It was rather odd to see a bunch of two-seaters bounce around together in close formation. In my time, this sort of thing only happened at airshows because of federal regulations.

Below us, rolling farms and green trees showed an abundance of beauty, with sheep roaming the hillsides. Occasionally, we saw smoke drifting up out of chimneys as we flew over tiny hamlets. It was early morning and the farmers were in their fields, some in contraptions I didn't recognize, others were working with horses. As the flight approached a coastal town of some size, I noted a large cigar-shaped balloon was near the harbor about a mile ahead. A low cloud bank hung over the sea, blowing inland.