Then, for the next hour there was nothing. The guide tried everything in the way of flies that would bring another rise out of the hole. The hole is very big and the General, for all his skill and vigor, could not reach even halfway across. He decided to wade into the water just before the rapids where the river was running fast but not too deep. In this way he believed that he could reach another portion of the pool. With his waders up to his chest, it was a comfortable endeavor even in the cold waters.
This met with instant success, and in quick succession he caught three more beautiful trout, two Brook and one Brown. These were destined to feed the fishing camp. The General was feeling his oats, as the old saying goes.
Just then, a red squirrel was trying to jump from one branch to another. It missed its mark when a gust of wind blew its body and the intended landing area, further apart. It had not anticipated this event and its effort fell short. The intended target for the squirrel's abortive leap was a good fifteen feet past the pool where the General was fishing. This resulted in the squirrel promptly falling about thirty feet away into the Wolf River and started swimming in the wrong direction.
The other fishermen noticed the commotion and started cheering and jeering, at the unfortunate squirrel. Someone threw a rock in its direction which caused the creature to veer again and he was headed downstream towards the General.
MacArthur decided to use the squirrel as target practice and possibly somehow assist the now-desperate swimmer. He cast his line at the moving target and missed by a good ten feet. This raised muted hoots from the onlookers. One does not hoot out loud, at a five-star general.
Two more tries, then the fly actually hit the back of the squirrel sliding down and impaling itself in the flesh of the bony part of the twitching, furry, bushy tail. To be sure the General was more than upset by actually hooking the squirrel. He was just taking target practice and got a thousand-to-one shot that hit home.
A bit irritated and more than a little embarrassed, without much thought to the consequences, he reeled in the now-drowning squirrel. The squirrel was on its last legs and was desperate for any kind of solid object to climb on to. General Douglas MacArthur's leg turned out to be that object.
Before he could react or think, MacArthur found the little red squirrel with fishing line attached, climbing up his wader-leg in panic running circles up the General's leg dodging the grasp of the by now, exceedingly alarmed MacArthur. The line stretched tighter and tighter over his torso, face and head. The trailing fishing line was high test and the more the General struggled the tighter the line became and eventually, pinning his right arm and was around his neck as well.
The muted mirth of the gathering crowd suddenly vanished as MacArthur lost his balance and fell into the shallow, but fast-rushing waters. His struggling body tumbled like a log with the current, rolling faster and faster until, to the horror of all, it hit the boiling, frothing, white water known as the Gardner Dam rapids, which was a solid three-rated rapids after the latest storm. In panicked desperation three of the General’s aides jumped in after the now fast-disappearing MacArthur, in an attempt to reach him.
The attempt was in vain and two of his aides lost their lives as well. The third managed to stay alive and was found the next day, in a daze three miles downstream. The General's body was found three days later, thirty miles from Gardner Dam with the red squirrel still attached.
You know the official story of course, the one about the General vigorously hiking and then being felled by a heart attack. The true tale that was just imparted upon you, detailing the General's ignominious end, was not one befitting such as MacArthur. A five-star general of the United States of America, the architect of the Island-Hopping campaign, the Savior of the Philippines and a true American hero, and it was thought that he deserved a better epitaph than being drowned by a red squirrel. The fictitious “official” story was presented to the world.
Even his last recorded words, “I shall return,” were some PR man’s brilliant idea.
In truth, General Douglas MacArthur had indeed returned to the earth, as will we all, eventually. [xxxiv]
***
At this early stage in the war Crenshaw might have made quite a discovery. If only he could recall just the right piece of information that would jog his memory just enough, he might have gotten the answer he was searching for.
***
So Close
Crenshaw was deep in thought. According to these reports we are certainly picking up their radar signals and they are primitive. Then why can't we deflect those missiles? Smith reports here that they are obviously using old 1945 German technology. We pick up the signals and match them with the jammer signal and yet, nothing happens. The missiles just keep coming. Why are the jamming techniques not working? What have they done to change the signals?
He gets up walks around his cluttered desk and writes something on the wall behind the map that is hanging precariously from a couple of nails. The map is actually his real job. He is supposed to be keeping track of all the Red Army squadrons and their locations. All he has to do is read the intelligence reports and place pins into the map with little flags on them. Any mindless monkey could do that. His consuming passion was what was behind the map.
The Soviet ground control is trying to mark our bombers from the ground but all of our technicians are positive that the signal is jammed almost immediately. Yet the dang missiles keep coming, like a moth drawn to a flame, or a falcon closing in on an unsuspecting duck. What are they using to control those missiles from the ground? I have to write that down...
Something about those missile reports had briefly jogged his memory, but then he lost it when he started to cough. Too many cigarettes, he guessed. I have to cut back. If I think about it too much it will never come back. But how do you do that…count sheep? No, that was to go to sleep. He was so engrossed in thought that he failed to realize it was well-past quitting time. The guard knocked on the door asking if everything was alright.
Damn, it was almost there again! If this buffoon had not interrupted my chain of thought… “Yes, everything is just fine Chuck; just contemplating my navel. I’ll be out of here and upstairs in no time. I’ll see you up there.”
Damn! What was it? Radar that shouldn’t work, but yet is working...or is it?
Could the jammers be getting jammed? No, that’s ridiculous; some kind of optical system? But how would they fit it in and get a signal back to the operator? One sheep, two sheep, three sheep... Time to go home. Wait what if they were using...
Just then the phone rang. “Hello, Crenshaw here. Yes sir, I’ll have the map updated by 1000 hours. Don’t worry sir, it'll be done. Yes sir. Good night sir.”
He hangs up, and drops back into this chair, wracked by a coughing fit. As he slowly recovers, all he can think about is the deep-down pain in his chest. I'd better get this checked out. It could be pneumonia or bronchitis, and I’m sure these Pall Malls aren’t helping. Maybe I should try and quit again. Yeah right, maybe I should forget to breathe again. Now, where was I? Something about radar? Or was it wire-guided? Damn, it's time to call it a day...
***
This is just a little piece of whimsy; thrown in to break up the dry dissertation of history. Don’t worry it will not be included in the historical treatise that will follow. It was found in a hand bound book at the location of a fierce battle near a stream in the Pyrenees. Perhaps it was just a way of forgetting the horror of what the author just experienced. It does give us a sense of what kinds of men were sent to die needlessly far from home.
***
Dashed Hopes
All his little pea-brain could do was respond. Somehow, his hiding place had been discovered, and he was caught out in the open. The sun was blinding. The ground would suddenly burst in showers of dirt every few seconds, and all he could do was react. All he could do was to run away from one eruption until the next one happened and then run from that. His brain could not comprehend what was causing
these unnatural splatters of dirt, nor did it matter. They scared him, and that's all it needed to know.
His reactions had been passed down through millions of years countless generations, of evolution, and this gave him no choice but to run and hide, and run again, when the noise and violent movement of the earth got too close to him again. Jumping seemed not to help and neither did baring his teeth, but again there was no thought behind his actions; just evolution testing out different strategies for the survival of his species.
Up till now his survival was a miracle of nature and of natural selection. He seemed to be able to smell certain smells that his nest mates could not and he sensed just when he needed to be extra cautious when about foraging for food. He could not communicate any of this to his companions and they would go out while he stayed behind. One by one, they never come back.
He was the last one left in his nest, and even though food was plentiful here, he has sensed that it was time to seek other territory. But of course he could not bring himself to move during the daytime. His very genetic makeup made that quite impossible. Only the smell and the violent eruption of the earth surrounding his nest, could have made him attempt this mad dash to...just somewhere else...somewhere not in the daylight...somewhere dark.
Dodging and weaving he scampered and jumped, and tumbled, from obstacle to obstacle his brain-stem making him dash from place to place...his beady eyes unable to see any kind of permanent hiding place or safe refuge.
All of a sudden he was thrown in the air and his back legs would no longer work. He struggled to move and dragged himself a little further and then felt extremely tired and fainted...then it closed its beady little rat eyes, never to wake again.
“Ha! I hit it! Did you see that shot?”
“I think the American shot it.”
“No! It was me I tell you. See? Even the American is giving me credit with that little salute. I WOULD RATHER HAVE A CAN OF SPAM, YOU CAPITALIST PIG!”
“He cannot understand you Yuri. Be quiet, before a commissar comes over to see what all the shouting and shooting was about. He will not understand our little game with the Americans and the rat. He will point out the fact that we are supposed to be shooting at each other and not some filthy rat. Then we shall all find ourselves in Siberia, or worse.”
“Pah! What could be worse than these cursed mountains and this war comrade?”
“Death, or torture, my friend. Just salute the American back and let’s get on with living. Tomorrow we may have to try and kill each other again, but for today, the rat was our mutual target. It will be different tomorrow and both sides know it. Today, the rat dies. Tomorrow, some of us will die.”
Chapter Twenty-Six:
The Little Ones
Seehund in an Emergency Crash Dive
***
Winston Churchill was quoted as saying ‘... the only thing that ever really frightened me during the war was the U-boat peril.’ Perhaps this will become a recurring nightmare for the British Empire and perhaps America itself.
***
September 5th, 1946
05:00 hours
Report submitted by Clayton Brisbane,
Sub-Lieutenant,
HMS Craysforth, Destroyer, Royal Navy
Interdicted French fishing vessel, a 35-foot trawler named 'Jeune Fille de la Mer,' off Dunkirk.
Crew of three, Two French and one Italian male, interrogated.
Two days out of home-port of Brest, with their fish hold a quarter of the way full.
Transcription of the interrogation as follows:
The Captain of the trawler reported the following:
“We were sixteen kilometers from shore on a pleasant, sunny, day. The Channel was calm and we were on the lookout for sea birds, hoping they would guide us to our prize. The wind was from the English side and was about five knots. We could see forever. Pretty rare for September...no?”
“We were keeping our eyes on a flock of seagulls that were on were on the surface, hoping that they would take flight and guide us to a catch. Fish are hard to find in the Channel this time of year, but with the food shortage we can get good money for our catch even if it is small. It is definitely worth the risk of a sudden storm. Such is the life of a fisherman, no?”
“All of the sudden, the birds took off, as if something had startled them. They were flying in every direction, with no organization. I have never seen this before, except in warmer waters when a shark passes by. The time for big fish in the Channel was over, so we were exceedingly curious. Curiosity killed the cat, eh? We moved closer to investigate. I did not see the thing but Mario did. Tell them what you saw Mario.”
The Italian crewman begins his part of the narrative:
“Of course Capitan. It wassa shaped likeada whale. A little darker thena the water, it was. It did not have a tail anda glided pass anda underneathada boat without a ripple. It was just abouta the size of our boat and was going at about 4 knots but again without any wake or ripples. It looka to be going deeper as it passed almost underneath our boat. It wassa pregnant whale because it was fatter then the whales I have seen offa da Spain. The really strange thing to me, signores, was that it did nota...how you say...swish backa anda fortha. It did nota wiggle and I could nota see a tail of any akind.”
When pressed for more information none of the crew could add any new details of the event. They were rewarded, and sent on their way.
Report filed at 0623 hours.
Sea Dog 243
The back of his head was bathed in condensation. They had just missed colliding with a fishing trawler. “Close call eh Matvey? Another meter, and we would have been in serious trouble.”
“It was a close call Luka. Not a heroic way to die, all tangled up in fishing gear. I'm glad he was not trawling when we slid by him. I wonder what they saw and what stories they will tell?”
“Perhaps we are the lucky ones comrade. Perhaps we shall be the ones who will sink some British battleship and return home to tell tall tales about it. That would be agreeable with me my friend. I suppose all it will reward us with is another mission at sea though. Damn, this boat is cold! Are the heaters working?” He reaches for a valve and checks to make sure it is closed as the little submarine glides effortlessly beneath the churning water above.
They are two days out headed for unfriendly waters filled with targets. Nice fat targets. Their midget submarine is the most sophisticated model ever built and the design was well-tested by the Germans in the English Channel, just six months ago. A little confusion was normal as the gauges were still in German and tape with new labels had been positioned at strategic locations.
Now the dripping condensation was seriously starting to irritate him. Each drop slowly dribbling down his back bringing the cold of the surrounding ocean close to his warm body. His little boat was remarkably agile and pretty easy to use. The German builders had done quite well for themselves. He had heard that the newly-built models did not fare so well as the earlier ones. Parts were not fitting well, and the tolerances were off. In a submarine that was the difference between life and death between submerging and reaching the surface again, or ending up in a watery grave.
“Damn this dripping! Time to take a look. I'm raising the periscope. Keep your fingers crossed.” The periscope slid up in its oily tube until the eye-piece reached a comfortable level.
“Well? What do you see?”
“Keep quiet and let me concentrate”
Scanning 360 degrees, he almost missed the smudge on the horizon. “We have a target Comrade, and it is heading our way. If we hold this course, and they hold theirs, we should be in position in less than an hour.”
“That is excellent news comrade." He reaches out and slaps his partner on the back making a wet squishing sound. "My God! Do we have a leak Luka?”
“No, it’s just condensation you twit.”
“Do we have time to surface and air-out our steel coffin comrade?”
“Yes, let's do just that Matvey a
nd get rid of some of this stale air while we're at it. The dripping is getting on my nerves and we will make better time on the surface and meet our quarry sooner.”
“The sooner, the better; once we shoot these torpedoes the sooner we can return home as the heroes that we are sure to be hailed as...eh comrade?”
“Prepare to surface. You can practice your hero's welcoming wave when we open the hatch. Careful, the sea is running a little rough and we do not have much time to waste.”
“Shifting the weights now; prepare to surface...valve three closed...vents open.”
Valves and levers are turned and pulled in a complicated dance that will take midget sub 243 on its rendezvous with the smudge on the horizon. The little bow cuts easily through the three-foot waves and the two torpedoes look as deadly as they are in the afternoon sun.
Morskoy Volk 243 will go on to make history. Not many of the Seehunds will; almost impossible to detect, yet large enough to weather the ocean currents. The little boats are a deadly surprise just waiting to use their two torpedoes to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting passing ship. Accidents, incompetence, poor workmanship and bad luck will claim many of the Seehunds but some will fulfill their missions and many tons of precious cargo will never make their intended destinations.
Sea Dog 243 will rendezvous with that smudge on the horizon. It will alter the course of the war in an unexpected way.[xxxv]
Conning Tower
Former Kriegsmarine Type XXI U-Boat U-3041
Renamed Soviet Naval Vessel B-30
North Sea
At 100 Meters Depth
September 5th, 1946
“I can’t believe they’ve turned this beautiful killing machine into an oil tanker and supply ship. How stupid can they be back at headquarters? We carry many more torpedoes than those little midgets. We could do so much more damage than those two fish the midget carries.”
World War Three 1946 Series Boxed Set: Stalin Strikes First Page 27
