My Troubles With Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

to recall my high school French. “I am a friend,” I said in French, “An American.”
    The two militiamen facing me began laughing and lowered their rifles. I twisted around to look at the man who had held me. He was a redheaded giant. Laughing even louder than the other two, he released his grasp on me so suddenly that I almost fell. I realized that I had used the feminine version of the word. My embarrassment gave way to relief that my explanation had worked.
    I began to explain that I had come to Paris by mistake and that I would appreciate their assistance in moving the apparatus to a safer spot when the firing increased. I turned and saw the French militia retreating, turning to fire as they ran.
    Clearly, the German troops had gained the upper hand.
    My erstwhile captors ignored my pleas for help and joined their comrades in withdrawing. I saw the German officer point toward me and his troops turn their rifles in my direction. I guessed that they had observed my friendly conversation with the French militiamen and concluded that I was an enemy.
    Frantically I tried to move the time machine to a safe place. After a few seconds I stopped. The apparatus was clearly too heavy for me to pull by myself.
    Several bullets whistled past my head. The Germans had turned to me as their nearest target now that the last of the French militia had retreated past me. Reluctantly, I turned to join them in flight. I had no doubts that the Germans would capture or destroy the time machine, leaving me unalterably marooned in 1870 Paris.
    The phrase, rather a live jackal than a dead lion came to mind. I hoped that I would be able to support myself teaching physics to Frenchmen. Possibly, if I saved every cent, I might one day find a way to travel back to the United States.
    Suddenly, I recalled the stirring lyrics of the French national anthem, the Marseillaise. My teacher had required the class to learn it in my second year of high school French. Possibly, I thought, its patriotic words might inspire the French troops to rally.
    I drew out my sword and pointed it in the direction of the advancing Germans. “Allons enfants de la patrie,” I sang, “Le jour de gloire est arrive.”
    Behind me, I heard cheers. Turning, I saw the French militia, inspired by my desperate appeal to their patriotism, had stopped their retreat and were advancing once again against the Germans.
    The ragged line of French militia passed me and moved on toward the Germans, firing furiously. I was under no illusions that this attack would be any more successful against the German troops than the first one and started to run for safety to one of the buildings on the side of the square.
    I had gone only a few yards when my arm was seized. I turned to find the same giant militiaman who had grabbed me before. I was about to kick him in the groin in an attempt to escape when he kissed me on first one cheek and then the other. Linking his arm in mine, he proceeded to walk briskly toward the German troops. His pace was so rapid and his stride so large that I had to run to avoid being dragged.
    Seeing no alternative, I drew my sword out of its saber again and pointed it at the Germans in what I hoped was an appropriate manner. To my surprise, the fury of the French attack was sufficient to demoralize the Germans. By the time we reached the site of the heaviest fighting, the battle was over and the French militiamen were joyously picking up the equipment the Germans had left behind in their retreat.
    My giant companion released my arm, uttered a shout of pure glee, and patted me on the back with such vigor that I almost was knocked to the ground. Several of the other militiamen approached us, variously shaking my hand, kissing me on the cheek or saluting me. They spoke to me so rapidly in French that it was difficult for me to do more than catch their drift, but I gathered that they credited me with leading the successful charge that broke the resistance of the