World War Three 1946 Series Boxed Set: Stalin Strikes First

by Harry Kellogg

  Stalin hangs up and turns on the hapless secretary, “You were supposed to leave the room. His words are dripping with malice. Now, get me Molotov! And hurry, before I make you a eunuch!”

  “Hhhere…sssir…”

  “Molotov, contact the British. We are sending all of their prisoners back to them. They are doing us no good but eating our food. Tell Attlee that it is a gift...a token to show sincerity for our former allies...you will know how to say it. We want them thinking about our proposal. Use the carrot and the stick, and that will drive a wedge between the English and the Yankees. If it does not work all we’ve lost is a few more mouths to feed. Yes, yes, Beria has assured me that they were well-taken care of as have been the American prisoners; no, just the British for now.”

  Stalin hangs up the phone and walks slowly back to his desk. The aide can see that he is deep in thought and tries to slink out of the office. A creaking board seals his fate. Stalin slowly turns his head and eyes his prey, with all the humanity of a shark. The hapless man urinates in his pants. He has no future.

  ***

  Another glimpse of a German Secret Weapon that comes to fruition under Sergo’s ministrations and the life a common soldier.

  ***

  Talk on the Black Sea

  Sure, the Black Sea was a nice posting but it meant that he was far from his home and hearth, far from the arms of his true love and his reason for living...and he would live no matter what it took. No matter how many Americans he would have to kill...he would live to see his wife and son again. Five years of hell had not killed him yet and he was not going to let his guard down, not for a second.

  The sea smelled of dead fish, but no matter. It was better than the rendering plant near his home; and yet, the memory of that smell meant home; it meant safety and happiness. Interesting how the smell of death could remind him of life.

  “Hey Lavrenti. I heard we are to move soon to Albania.”

  “And why would that be Nikolai?”

  “Something about some torpedo ships or subs. We have to protect them on the way to the coast and make sure the little things get in the water. Pretty sophisticated little machines they say. The Germans used them near the end of the war and from what I was told they are pretty hard to detect; almost impossible, in fact. Most of them were lost at sea in the bad storms of the Atlantic. They should do quite well off the coast of Italy. Not too much foul weather there I am led to believe.”

  “What would you know Nikolai? You're from Tula and had never even seen salt-water until just a few months ago. What do you know about toy boats and torpedoes?”

  “If you don't want the latest news then close your ears. Hand me the knife. These potatoes are not going to peel themselves. We have to save the skins now and use them in soup.”

  “My mother always did that anyway. It adds to the flavor. You need a little dirt mixed in with your soup to give you that 'back-to-the-earth' feeling. I heard they would kill for these potatoes back home. The last I heard food was getting harder to find. Rumor is that they are letting the peasants starve in order to feed the loyal comrades in the city.”

  “Yes. Vasily told me he just got back from Poland, where they shipped much needed wheat in order to deceive the Poles that there was plenty of food coming from Mother Russia. Just to keep them still I suspect. He also said there was plenty of food and equipment coming back from France and even Germany. It seems that the German steel mills were still producing even though the Americans and British had bombed them day and night. The lucky bastards in the party leadership are even getting captured American food and goods. They try to change the packaging but you can still tell where they had originally come from.”

  “Hell, I don't care where it comes from just as long as it is here which it isn't. Those capitalists are good at producing tasty foods and fine little gadgets. Once this war is over we'll just have to teach them what is paramount and what is just foolishness.”

  “We are lucky to be here Lavrenti, away from all the fighting and where it is warm. I do not miss winter in Tula. If I ever see snow again, it will be too soon. Give me white sand instead, eh Nikolai? Yes, white sand, and fresh fish that is not frozen and pulled from a hole in the ice.”

  “Have you noticed all the planes leaving from the base? I wonder where they are going in such a hurry? It seems to be mostly the small, single-engine ones.”

  “How could I not notice them? They start before dawn and keep leaving all day. We seem to be a kind of transit station. A few leave heading west and just as many land coming in from the west. It really takes time away from my nap time.”

  “You do too much of that already Nikolai.”

  ***

  Preparations are underway for another fight for the skies over Britain.

  ***

  Bulldozer

  Yuri was depressed. It had been six months since he had last seen his wife and child. The tracks of the dozer dug deep into the ground. They had to in order for the blade of the massive bulldozer to dig even deeper. Like some kind of giant insect, the bulldozer flattened uneven ground. This uneven ground was in Holland, but it was hard to believe that there was any unleveled ground in all of Holland, but there it was.

  The ground he was evening out was needed in order to launch a massive number of aviation regiments' worth of Soviet planes. These planes were destined to fly to Great Britain and one hoped, back again. Well, one side hoped they made it back, anyway. The other side definitely did not.

  There should have been plenty of airfields left over from the last war but there weren’t. Four times the number of planes that took off from these fields in 1940 were scheduled to do the same now. They were going to attempt to clear the skies above the British Isles. They were expected to prevent any RAF aircraft from ever reaching for the skies again. They called it air-superiority.

  Though the bulldozers were a vital part of that plan there were also thousands of German prisoners of war toiling in the early autumn sun. A handful of them might have been involved in the last attempt to defeat the Royal Air Force. The overall objective for one side was the same...survive the coming onslaught. The other side had learned from the defeat of the Germans in 1940 and was sure to have developed alternative tactics that they would attempt to use.

  The end result for the Soviets was intended to be not invasion. It was to clear the skies above Great Britain, and prevent them from ever again attacking Europe; forever safeguarding the Motherland. It was intended to prevent the Americans from ever again using Britain as an unsinkable aircraft carrier or as a springboard for invasion. It was to defeat utterly, the RAF, and to prevent it from rising to the defense of the skies above Great Britain ever again.

  The Soviets had spent six months modifying their fighters for longer range, higher altitudes and now thousands of them could extend their reach over 600 miles out, from the coast of the English Channel. They could now reach for the skies, like the Americans. Virtually all of the United Kingdom was within range of the fighter force of the Red Army Air Forces.

  The Soviets watched, as the Luftwaffe failed because their fighters could not stay long enough over their targets. How they could not reach many parts of Britain. How the Battle of Britain was lost when the Germans diverted their attention from Fighter Command to bombing the cities. How the Luftwaffe ran out of trained pilots, before the RAF did.

  Soon it would be time to see if the RAF had adapted as well; new radars, new jet fighters, new AA guns, new AA shells, with proximity fuses. Would this be enough to overcome five-to-one odds? In the first Battle of Britain the RAF managed to shoot down just over one and a half planes, for each of their losses. In the end they actually lost more fighters than the Germans

  In the next Battle of Britain this will be a recipe for their defeat. Where are the Americans? Will they come in time?

  ***

  All of the following was not known at the time but it has been pieced together and demonstrates another form of deception that men can against each
other. No other animal uses propaganda or tell lies in their wars for territorial domination, only men use such tactics.

  ***

  Recovered: One Atomic Bomb

  Off Kotlin Island,

  Near Leningrad

  August 24th, 1946

  A massive crane strains at the cable and gradually the fishing net and its cargo break the surface. The small group involuntarily flinches as the shape of the contents becomes apparent. Although dented and broken in three places, its shape is unmistakable: a bomb; a huge, life-destroying, bomb.

  “It is incredible that we found it in shallow water, on board the third B-29 wreckage we examined. It appears that the pilot deliberately wanted to crush his plane as much as possible but the plane was so damaged that he didn’t have much control. He was a brave man. I believe he could have escaped with his life and his crews if they didn’t try so hard to destroy their cargo.”

  “Very lucky indeed comrade. Lucky for us, and unlucky for the capitalist pigs. Do you really think we can gain anything from that mess?”

  “I personally don’t think we can. We already have all the plans so this is just merely physical proof of what we already know and it’s so damaged. I really don’t see how much it can help. Comrade Stalin likely wants to use it as a bargaining chip or for propaganda purposes. Maybe he’ll use it to scare the NATO generals into doing something stupid or threaten to use it on England and make them sue for peace.”

  “But...it’s damaged beyond repair!”

  “Yes, but the NATO pigs don’t know that. We can use it to mask some of the activities of our spies. It will be hard to tell if the knowledge we gained comes from them or this wreck and they will realize soon that we have gained a significant amount of knowledge.”

  “Well, I just hope it comes in time.”

  ***

  Crenshaw is an interesting loose cannon. The kinds that sometimes are a pain in the ass; yet can at other times divine incredible solutions to ones challenges. The real task is which of the hundreds of Crenshaws do you listen to and give credence.

  ***

  Crenshaw

  The harsh light of the office was hard on his tired eyes. The smell of the basement office hadn’t changed in years. He had been passed up for promotion a dozen times, and it was time to think about retirement. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to. Too many mysteries to solve; too many unanswered questions.

  It was lunch time and all his colleagues were heading out to the lunch room. He didn’t have to eat much anymore. He didn’t exercise or perform manual labor, so his food intake was minimal. He hated to exercise anyway. That was for insecure muscle-men who were afraid of getting sand kicked in their faces. You know, the kind that of guy that answered those ads in the back of magazines. They always seemed to be short guys anyway.

  At six feet and two inches he was not short. However he was decidedly out of shape. Of course in 1946 there was no emphasis on fitness. Most people still worked manual labor jobs, and the thought of exercise was not a priority. The new phenomenon of the couch potato was poised to invade the modern psyche but not quite yet. Kids still played outside and people still worked with their hands. A suntan meant that you were a manual laborer and was not a sign of what some might consider a high social status. Everyone smoked and drank to varying degrees.

  Many homes even had little bars in them, where friends would gather after a good meal, in each other’s homes. People delighted in taking turns being host and hostess, having their peers over for dinner and drinks. That was what weekends were custom-made for.

  Not for Crenshaw though. He had remained unmarried and was quite frankly, uninterested at this point in his life. His work was his life. He had no hobbies and no distractions; just his paper-pushing job, and the Soviet missiles...which, by the way, was not his job. His boss had made that abundantly clear. He made him give back all the blackboards he had setup, and ordered him to not work on the Soviet missile issue.

  How had he put it? “Forget about Stalin’s goddamned missiles and concentrate on your own goddamned job!”

  He worked on the problem in his spare time. How were they doing it? What was the guidance system? He’d figure it out, if it took him the rest of his life; which was, as it happened, only another twelve months.

  Lung cancer, undetected and untreated, was in the early stages of forming. A lifelong smoker Crenshaw had been unknowingly doomed since he was 36. If he had only known had stopped then, the damage could have been reversed...but he didn't, and it won't. He was a dead man walking thanks to Pall Mall cigarettes, the only brand he ever smoked. After all Santa smoked Pall Mall and “puff by puff...you’re always ahead;” which of course, he was.

  He was going to die a full fifteen years ahead of his non-smoking identical twin brother.

  ***

  This interesting German Wonder Weapon did not reach maturity before the World War Two ended. In combination with the U-boat Type XXI Electro boat, they may have stopped all shipping in and out of Britain and may yet succeed

  in the hands of the Red Fleet.

  ***

  Seehund the German Mini Submarine

  Not a Sausage

  “CAREFUL YOU OAF! MORE TO THE BACK...THAT’S IT...A LITTLE MORE...”

  “Oh, Yuri! Look! That’s a full Maior loading that truck. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one outside of headquarters.”

  “Since when do Maiors do this kind of work?”

  “You dunce...look at the load.”

  “Looks like some kind of little boat to me.”

  “It’s a small submarine and it does not like to be out of the water.”

  “What can that little thing do to those capitalist monsters that roam all over the world’s oceans? They are so small and they have no guns.”

  “You dolt, they have torpedoes and those torpedoes can sink a battleship.”

  The huge lifter strains under the load but successfully delivers its load onto the special trailer. The trailer groans under the strain but takes the weight easily. The load handlers crawl over the midget submarine like ants on a captured giant caterpillar; slinging ropes and cables, using winches to tie down their deadly-looking cargo. Hundreds of loads have already left the shipyards and ports in Poland and eastern Germany, on their way to the coasts of France, and the Low Countries.

  Hundreds more will be making their way from shipyards in Yugoslavia and Albania. Soon, submerged killing machines will be prowling from their coastal bases, ranging out to 300 miles. Virtually undetectable, these copies of the German Type XXVII 'Seehund' midget submarine will create a formidable challenge to the antisubmarine forces of NATO. At 39 feet, and with only a crew of two, these midgets are too small to generate an Asdic echo. Their two G7es/TV GNAT acoustical torpedoes give these midgets a heavy weight punch.

  Everywhere that the sea can be reached by heavy truck was a potential launching site for these lethal midgets. They will come as a very unpleasant surprise for the ships of NATO. Their first use would be the English Channel.

  “Careful comrade; watch that line in back! It’s not supposed to bend! This is not a sausage!”

  The creaks and groans subside, as the elegantly lethal load finally settles down from its short lift by crane from the dry-dock to the transport. A light rain starts to fall as the big motor of the transport truck strains to move its load. Within minutes, Midget Submarine 219 is on its way to a launching site near IJmuiden. Others are either on site, or on their way, spread out for hundreds of miles along the English Channel coast.

  The coastal shipping lanes of the Southern British Isles are about to receive a rude awakening. No longer will the grey monsters of the NATO navies cruise at will up and down the coasts of Europe with impunity.

  A 300-mile wide killing zone is about to be created, wherever Red Army forces touch the sea.

  ***

  This revelation comes to us from a number of unrelated diaries. It’s remarkable to us that anyone would put this in writing much less not think<
br />
  to destroy it at first opportunity. Luckily for us they did not.

  ***

  Famine Secrets

  Park Bench #4371

  Gorky Park

  Moscow

  “What's on your mind comrade?”

  “Just the possible famine, that's all. What are we going to do; so many mouths to feed and just barely enough to go around. I think that even I will lose a few pounds.”

  Josef looks into the street without actually focusing. He is deep in thought about Georgi's question and is torn between confiding in his old friend and possibly putting his life in jeopardy. It doesn't help that a cold wind gust sweeps down from the north, and swirls away. Just yesterday it had been a gorgeous fall day, but not today. The weather matched his mood perfectly. A trash cart, pulled by a sway-backed nag and horribly stinking of garbage, plodded past them and woke him from his reverie.

  “Comrade I'm going to tell you something to ease your mind. You cannot repeat this to anyone. If you do, I will deny it and kill your family...do you understand old friend?”

  “I understand, old friend, but I am not sure I want to know under such circumstances...'old friend'.”

  “I am close to joking; comrade, but you must take my caution seriously. Is that understood?”

  “Da, Josef...it is understood.”