Hitler's Time Machine: Everybody's question

I'm often asked if the bad guys win in "HITLER'S TIME MACHINE," my alternate history available for Kindle here. I started to post the answer and changed my mind.

Time Travel and Pacific Southwest Airlines (PSA)

I graduated high school in 1957, age seventeen.

From 1957 to 1960, I was in the Air Force, in Korea. I finished before my twenty-first birthday (on September 11, 1960).

Beginning in the new decade, I lived in San Francisco, held odd jobs, and wrote for the men's adventure magazines. They were pulps with names like Stag, Male and Argosy.

In 1963, with little money and no job, I traveled in Korea, Japan, Taiwan and Hong Kong trying to get down to South Vietnam to write about the small and romantic war flickering there. But I ran out of money and had only a return ticket.

I stepped off the plane in San Francisco in March 1963 to be greeted by Bill R., who'd been in Korea with me and was now a station agent for Pacific Southwest Airlines, or PSA.

Bill was one of my half-dozen best friends throughout my life. With his help, I was hired as a station agent with PSA. I wore their heavy gabardine uniform replete with half-wings for non-flying employees, and mostly worked the ticket counter. Salary was $360 per month.

In those days, every departure was announced throughout the airport. At 8:45 a.m., the stern-voiced woman on SFO's public address system said, "Pan American World Airways Flight One for 'around the world' is departing from Gate 17. Passengers should be at the gate." I'd taken the iconic Flight One going out and Flight Two coming back from Hong Kong. In that British colony, I never found Suzie Wong but I talked about a job with the producers of "The Seventh Dawn," then filming in Malaya with William Holden and Susannah York.

Oh, those glory days. People dressed to the nines to fly on the seven-oh-seven. Less than ten percent of adult Americans had seen the inside of an airplane but passengers on Pan Am, PSA and other carriers were pampered to the hilt. It was a grand time when the nation had heavy industry, exported petroleum, had 98% literacy and enjoyed respect around the world. Even our enemies wanted to send their children to our universities even if I never found my way to one.

We had a vigorous young president. We'd stood up to the Soviet Union. We were at our height of prosperity and confidence. It was the period James Lee Burke calls the heyday of the Great American Empire.

If I had a time machine like the one in my new alternate history novel—see my book here—I would like to go back. For most of us but not all of us, it was the best time to be on this planet. More station agents were needed and a smartly-attired, very presentable young man appeared at the counter to fill out an employment application. While the applicant was walking away but still within eyesight, our boss Don B. ripped his application to shreds because the prospective employee was black. The airlines did not welcome Negroes, to use a word from that era, but were a haven to Americans who lived on the wrong side of a taboo: the word was not yet part of the lexicon but among men employed by PSA it seemed only Bill and I were straight. PSA was widely known to have the best-looking stewardesses in the industry and they were, indeed, walking wet dreams, but they must not have owned wristwatches. A few consorted with pilots. There were rumors of steamy "R.O.N. Parties" because aircrews often had to remain-over-night. But none of the stews would give us station agents the time of day.

Forty years later, Bill told me he had amyotropic lateral sclerosis. Of my half-dozen best friends, all but one are gone now, gone along with the Great American Empire, the factories, the literacy (fallen, now, to 76%), a society where people wore clothing to go out-of-doors and fine clothing as a requisite for an airline seat. Not long ago, actor Val Kilmer seated himself next to me in first-class bulkhead on United, slipped off his flip-flops, and placed his bare feet up in front of my face. By then, not even first class was first class.

Give me my time machine—more details here—and let me return to that grand period.

With tax, air fare between SFO and Los Angeles was $14.18. The plane was the Lockheed 188 Electra turboprop. Flying was a luxury. Credit cards were a new concept and in the airlines' climate of elitism, you knew you had arrived if you had an Air Travel Card. The red Air Travel Card for domestic travel was a sign you were in the top tier of society. The green Air Travel Card for international travel put you at the very top in a very class conscious world. One day, elbows on ticket counter, I looked up at an argumentative passenger and told him to shove his green Air Travel Card up his ass and, then and there, in September 1963, my career in the airlines ended.

Flake? Here's my take

Wondering what to do about people who annoy you?

In "PEOPLE WHO NEED TO DIE," author Victor Rook has the answer.

The year is 2021. Folks are fed up. Thirty percent of the population must go. Having already exterminated murderers, terrorists and rapists, the authorities now permit selective homicides of everyday people in order to reestablish a tranquil society. Apply for official sanction and you can whack somebody who annoys you.

Preferably by using some ghastly method.

Kindhearted and diabolical at the same time, Rook uses fiction to devise clever ways to exterminate bad drivers, Internet trolls, litterbugs, and (an especially deserving target) Black Friday shoppers here.

Rook combines humor and horror in conjuring up imaginative ways to rid the world of these people who need to die.

Perhaps without intending to, Rook also opens up a world of possibilities. Almost everybody knows some category of person who deserves to be stomped.

But one category is missing from Rook's treatise.

The flake.

In his fantasy/horror tales, Rook unfortunately provides no fictional way to wipe out people who are flakey. And it needs to be done. The world is being taken over by flakes.

To find one definition of a flake, click here.

I knew you'd look it up. You had to. You're not a flake. After all, you're reading this and supporting my work so you couldn't be flakey.

Could you?

Here are some examples of flakiness:

1. "Guess where I am."

Yeah, I know everybody does this but...

Why would anyone ever send an e-mail message that doesn't include his name, address, phone number, and e-mail address? People who would never omit this information from a business letter send messages asking me to call but providing no phone number, or asking me to ship but offering no address.

This is not the place to deal the privacy card. Anyone can find out where you are. Your contact information doesn't need to be secret.

My estimate is that this costs me about 300 hours of work time very year, or about 20 percent of every work day. I don't want anybody to mandate what ought to go into an e-mail message. I just want a little common sense and courtesy. Otherwise, you may find yourself in Volume Two.

2. Distracted walking.

A recent Washington Post article only touched on this colossal irritant. The article is here.

I don't get the thing with hand-held devices. With my own eyes, I watched a guy walk into a tree because he was looking down and texting. Think you're in control of that device? It's in control of you. There is no communication so urgent that it cannot wait until you're sitting down. I don't mean you, of course, but you know who I mean. Yes, it can wait.

3. "Track me down."

If somebody owes you money, whether it's for work performed, or purchasing your product, or whatever, your chances of collecting are directly proportional to the amount (the smaller it is, the less likely you're ever going to see it) and inversely proportional to the size and prestige of the debtor (one of the nation's largest publishers has owed me fifty bucks for two years).


Don't make me chase after you to collect a few dollars. Oh, I don't mean you, of course. I mean the flake. Honor your commitments. That way, you can stay out of Rook's sequel, if there is one.

4. Hands in pockets

This is mostly a guy thing, not applicable to women. The lowest level of The Inferno, and the harshest punishment fiction can mete out, must be reserved for men who stand or walk with their hands in their pockets.

I've actually seen a prominent person stand at a podium and put hands in pockets while addressing an audience. This is a way of signaling that you don't count. Get those hands out of those pockets. Or become one of the deserving.

The bottom line:

We all make mistakes. But let's do better. We may not succeed but we can strive for integrity, dignity and common sense. Well, maybe not common sense. And I know this doesn't apply to you, but:

Don't be a flake. Thank you very much. Oh, and click here.

The right priorities? My books, now and in the future

I'm thankful every day for so many wonderful friends who support my books. I cherish you. Because of you, I get to sit here and write. Nothing could be better.

I'd like to bring you up to date on the status of my books.

Current books:

"HITLER'S TIME MACHINE," my alternate history/science fiction "take" on World War II, is the only book I'm actively promoting. It's my very first title in the new world of self-publishing. It's getting excellent reviews and shows promise of developing legs and reaching new audiences. I'm especially  thankful for your help in getting the word out, especially to Kindle users. It's available here or get it directly from me.

"365 AIRCRAFT YOU MUST FLY THIS YEAR," my guidebook to the world's important planes and helicopters, is due this month. It's my very last title in the old world of commercial publishing. It's a fun book intended as a gift for the casual aviation buff, richly illustrated in color. This is a fun look at flying, in Kindle and hard copy and can be pre-ordered here.

Future books:

"CRIME SCENE FAIRFAX COUNTY" is a murder story set in my locality in 1947. Watch for news about this crime novel.

"FEGELEIN'S TIME MACHINE," the sequel to "HITLER," will be along at the end of the year.

"AIR POWER ABANDONED" is the history of how Defense Secretary Robert Gates, who served from 2006 to 2011, decapitated the Air Force, canceled the F-22 Raptor fighter, and betrayed America's airmen. I have a superb cover design from Victor Rook but am still writing the book. I need to hear from those who can help and am trying to make a list of those who might be interested in getting the book when it comes out.

Books that are going away:

"AIR FORCE ONE" (2002), about presidential aircraft, is now out of print. I still have a few mint copies in the basement. When they're gone, it's over. It had a great run.

"HELL HAWKS!" (2008), co-authored with Thomas D. Jones about a fighter group in Europe, is nearing the end. It won't be possible to get copies signed by both Tom and me after May 31.

"MISSION TO BERLIN" (2011), about B-17 Flying Fortress crews in Europe, is the title in this category I want most to save and to keep in print. I need your help to keep it from going completely out of print.

"MISSION TO TOKYO" (2012) about B-29 Superfortress crews bombing Japan will be out of print soon. I have a few copies available here as of now.

"FIGHTING HITLER'S JETS" (2013), a history of the development of jet aircraft on both sides in World War II, is a great narrative but has a very limited future. I have a few copies available as of now.

Oh, and as for the other seventy-some books I've published over the years, they're all out of print. Used copies are available on the Internet.

That's the status of my books, my dear friends. Tell me if you think I have my priorities right. And as always I want to hear from you whenever you get the urge to talk. Again, thank you so very, very much.

Where were you that day?

The first-ever Armed Forces Day event, at Bolling Air Force Base, D.C. on May 20, 1950. That's me, age ten, on the right. It's a month before the Korean War.

Adverbs, Writing Well, and "Hitler's Time Machine"

Lose the adverbs.

Really.

Good writing should be lean.

This November, I'll mark 60 years of being paid to write by publishers of books, magazines and newspapers. When seeking to write well, the challenge is not what to put on paper. It's what to leave out.

Until joining a writers' group a year ago, I spent little time talking or reading about writing. I'd read a book by Edwin Newman but didn't know the work of William Zinsser.

My main influence was eighth grade English teacher Miss Bingaman, to whom I owe a lifelong debt. Another influence was Foreign Service supervisor Donald L. Ranard, famous in events in Washington in the 1970s and the best boss I ever had.

Zinsser, author of the book "On Writing Well," put it this way:

"The secret of good writing," Zinsser wrote, "is to strip every sentence to its cleanest components."

Sentences needn't always be short but short is good. One of the most effective sentences in the English language contains two words:

Jesus wept.

The sentence provides no description. Yet when we read it, we see it. The picture is clear in our minds. No adjective or adverb would help. The sentence would not be improved by adding profusely, or any other adverb.

Elmore Leonard asked:

"In Ernest Hemingway's 'Hills Like White Elephants,' what do the 'American and the girl with him' look like? 'She had taken off her hat and put in on the table.' That's the only reference to a physical description in the story, and yet we see the couple and know them by their tones of voice, with not one adverb in sight."

I'd like to claim that my writing improved between my debut in the November 1955 issue of Air Force magazine and efforts in May 2015 to publicize my new novel, "Hitler's Time Machine."

The truth is, in most respects I probably peaked in the 1960s when writing for the men's adventure magazines or in the 1970s when writing about North Korea for Don in the State Department.

I had more to learn. I didn't know style manuals existed until 1990. Writing a newspaper column for Air Force Times, owned by Gannett, for twenty years from 1993 to 2013, taught me that newspaper work is different from magazine writing.

Like Leonard, like Zinsser, like so many others, my model is Hemingway. I worship John D. MacDonald and James Lee Burke. I'll never be able to write a sentence like Hemingway, MacDonald or Burke.

Never.

Except for myself, of the people I've named here only Burke is alive today. No one can write a sentence like Burke.

No one.

Don't even try.

Pore through "Hitler's Time Machine" and you'll see some good writing. You'll also see writing that's not so good. In the book, I occasionally lost sight of Rule Number One, which is:

Lose the adverbs.

The First Decade: To Fly and Fight

During the Air Force's first decade, from 1947 to 1957, I was a child and teenager growing up in Washington, D. C.

No one remembers why, but since I was old enough to talk, I was interested in only two things---airplanes and the Air Force.

A congenital hearing defect kept me from applying to become an Air Force pilot or a cadet at the new school they were building in Colorado. I was the right age to be in the Air Force Academy's third class.

A 1957 recruiting song, "Air Force Blue," sung by Ed Herlihy, struck a chord then. Today, in its original form and as revised, it sounds corny---just like the simple beliefs we held about defending freedom during the Cold War.

The song began with a reference to "the men" who wear "the blue from the skies, and a pretty girl's eyes, and a touch of Old Glory's hue." You can find the original version on the Internet at:

http://www.archive.org/details/1957-12-09_Air_Force_Gets_A_New_Theme_Song

In today's world where gender is taboo, the song, rarely performed any longer, has revisionist lyrics that no longer mention "the men" of the Air Force. That change needed to be made. But the revisionists got rid of something else, too. In my America, no one found anything wrong with admiring "a pretty girl's eyes."

I'd like to live in that America again.

My father believed that government, including the Air Force, had a great story to tell citizens.

In December 1945, he took me to Bolling Field in Washington to see the XB-42 Mixmaster, a most peculiar experimental bomber with a pusher propeller situated behind a cruciform tail.

Leaving aside the fact that the XB-42 crashed the next day with all three aboard parachuting to safety, I remember running my hands over the distinctive glass nose of the bomber and being impressed that people in uniform talked openly about it. There were guards, but their only job was to keep order. Anyone could visit Bolling, any time.

I'd like to live in that America again.

In 1947, Dad took me to the other base in our area, Andrews Field, Md., to see a visit by three Lincoln bombers of Britain's Royal Air Force. It was a festive event. We merely slowed down at the main gate. Dad's driver's license---like mine, a few years later---was simply a piece of paper. Military people had identity cards but among citizens the concept of a "photo ID" did not exist.

I'd like to live in that America again.

Just months before the Air Force's 10th anniversary, at age 17, I raised my right hand and became a wearer of---well, not blue, but sage-green fatigues, the most practical attire the Air Force ever had.

Many months later, I stepped off a transport plane in South Korea and was greeted by this sign: "WELCOME TO OSAN AIR BASE. YOU ARE AT FREEDOM'S FRONTIER."

Those words still give me a chill. In the 1950s we faced a clear choice between freedom and tyranny. Today, no militant group or rogue nation can realistically plot to destroy the United States. In the 1950s, men in Moscow did.

It is easy to forget, today, that in our time of greatest danger, it was the Air Force that kept us free.

It was a time when Americans had clear goals and shared purpose.

I'd like to like in that America again, too.