The Foresight War: An Alternative History of World War 2

What if - you went to sleep as usual in 2004 - and woke up in 1934? What if - you had vital knowledge about the forthcoming Second World War, and could prove that you came from the future? What could you do to affect British policy, strategy, tactics and equipment? How might the course of the conflict be changed? And what if there was another throwback from the future - and he was working for the enemy? The novel follows the story of these two 'throwbacks' as they pit their wits against each other. A very different Second World War rages across Europe, the Mediterranean, Russia, the North Atlantic and the Pacific, until its shocking conclusion.

He woke, and instantly wished that he hadn't. The throbbing
headache which consumed him seemed to extend beyond his head into every
part of his body. He began to moan, but stopped abruptly as the ache
intensified. He lay unmoving, gritting his teeth, enduring in silent
desperation.
After an indeterminate period, the pain subsided enough to risk an attempt
at coherent thought. What on earth had he done last night? He was not a
heavy drinker, and besides, the worst hangover he could recall was a pale
shadow of this suffering. Had he been in an accident? Fallen ill? He
gingerly searched his memory, but could find nothing to account for such
appalling agony. The pain gradually dimmed further. Slowly, he opened his
eyes to the dull light of early morning.

He was lying on his back, staring at a ceiling. The ceiling was plain,
with an old-fashioned frilly lampshade surrounding the single bulb. The
lampshade stayed steady and his head remained intact. Adventurously, he
turned his head sideways and immediately shut his eyes to ward off the
surge of nausea. Time passed. Slowly, he opened his eyes again. No
reaction. He took stock of what he could see.

The wallpaper was dull and also old-fashioned. So was the varnished wooden
door and the brown Bakelite light switch next to it. Puzzlement began to
grow. He was certainly not in his bedroom, nor in anyone else's that he
recognised. Curiosity overcoming the gradually receding pain, he raised
his head. A thin, brass curtain rail, suspending thin, drab curtains,
framed a sash window. A further effort brought a pair of discoloured brass
taps into view, followed by a porcelain washbasin on a metal stand, framed
and partly obscured by the foot of a brass bedstead. A pair of brown
leather shoes completed his field of view. He wiggled his feet and the
shoes moved in sympathy. Turning his head to the other side, he saw a
large wardrobe in dark wood. There was nothing else in the room, apart
from a wooden chair on which sat his holdall.

Experimentally he tried moving his legs. They obeyed orders promptly. The
pain was fading rapidly now, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed
with more confidence. Slowly sitting upright, he took stock.
He appeared to be uninjured, and although weak and shaky, did not feel ill.
He was fully dressed, still possessed a full wallet and his keys, and he
confirmed (after a careful stretch to the chair) that his holdall retained
its usual contents. Not a robbery, then. A careful shuffle to the end of
the bed gave him a limited view of rooftops with a larger structure some
distance beyond. At first, the rooftops caught his attention. There was
something odd about them. The wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys was
an unusual sight, but he suddenly realised that what puzzled him wasn't
anything he could see, but something he couldn't see: there were no
aerials; not a satellite dish, not even the most humble antenna.

Something else nagged at him. He looked at the structure in the distance.
It appeared to be an enormous, barrel-roofed greenhouse with towers at each
end. He stared at it blankly, until he gradually realised that his memory
was telling him what it was, but his mind was refusing to accept the data.
He was looking at the Crystal Palace.
For a long time he sat unmoving, his mind jammed by the utter impossibility
of the evidence of his eyes. Slowly, his thoughts unfroze. He could not
deny what he was seeing: the pride of the Great Exhibition of 1851, moved
from Hyde Park to a permanent home at Sydenham Hill, destroyed by fire in
the 1930s.

Destroyed by fire in the 1930s - nearly seventy years ago! His mind locked
again and he fought desperately to regain some equilibrium. He tried to
think logically, to build on small steps. How did he know this was the
Crystal Palace? Because he had seen pictures a hundred times, there was
nothing of this size remotely like it. How did he know when it was
destroyed? Because he was a historian, it was his business to know. So
which year did he think he was in? 2004, at the end of the summer. How
did he know that? Because he was a lecturer at London University,
preparing for the next academic year. Knowledge flooded back into him as
if a dam had burst.
His name was Don, Dr Don Erlang. He repeated this out loud, to make sure
it sounded right. The sound of his own voice in the quiet room startled
him. He was forty years old, divorced five years ago, living alone in a
flat in Kennington. He couldn't possibly be seeing the view out of the
window, and as he never took hallucinogens he must be experiencing an
extremely vivid dream. Feeling very self-conscious, he pinched himself
hard. It hurt. The Crystal Palace floated serene and unperturbed in the
distance. He tottered to the washbasin, poured some cold water, splashed
it into his face, then looked up. Still there. This close to the window,
he could see more.
The street was cobbled; near by was a junction with a larger road. Ancient
cars crossed the narrow field of view. A couple pushed a pram across the
junction, the woman in a long dress and coat, the man wearing a trilby.
The pram had huge overlapping wheels. His mind dived for cover again and
he forced it to work with an effort of will. There had to be a rational
explanation.