World War Three 1946 Series Boxed Set: Stalin Strikes First

by Harry Kellogg

  He spoke the code word for the day and waited for the proper response. He got it, but with an obvious accent. Then, he knew who it was. It was the American assigned to his company. The one who trained them and made them fight until he was wounded. Here he was back from the dead. He shouted out the American’s name so he would know they were friendly and sure enough and Mankowitz popped his head up for a second. They all heard firing close by and ducked. Mankowitz hobbled his way towards them. He was still bleeding from a leg wound. Someone had bound it up pretty well and he appeared to be in good shape considering. When Nazik last saw him, Mankowitz was unconscious. The same rocket had hit them both but the Yank’s wound was much worse.

  Concussion Equals Confusion

  The sergeant was still reeling from a concussion. All he knew for sure was that he was in mortal danger, surrounded by people who spoke a different language. Strangely, they were wearing the same uniform as he. Oh and one more thing, they were panicking. For that reason, he decided to make his escape or possibly he was going AWOL, He didn’t care.

  He knew he was a sergeant, but could not recall his name, or what he was doing here, or even where he was. But he did not panic when he saw his chance. It was time to react! Fight or flight was a basic reaction and he was down to basics. He grabbed his 45 Colt and M1 Garand rifle when they were not looking and slipped out.

  The majority of the noise and explosions were coming from the west, so he went east. Most of the men in uniform seemed to be going southeast. He decided to head for the sunrise. He did hear and understand the word “paratroops.” Then, he remembered those were the soldiers who jumped out of perfectly good airplanes to land behind enemy lines. He couldn’t remember if he was one of them or the enemy. He decided that despite the fact that all those around him didn’t speak his language (whatever that was), he would not shoot them. That course of action seemed to be the correct decision as they basically left him alone.

  He had to use a crutch because of a huge bandage on his right leg. He hadn’t had time to examine the wound. He must be on some powerful medication because even though blood was seeping through the wrapping, he felt only a slight discomfort. He had a feeling that his pain level would change dramatically in a few hours.

  He was stumbling along, almost dragging his rifle, suffering from a concussion, missing a big chunk of his calf muscle, and loopy from some drug. Suddenly, some guy comes out of nowhere and shouts a word he recognizes. And Without thinking he shouts another word back. Some kind of greeting he assumed. Anyway, it worked. A man he vaguely recognized poked his head around a piece of wall and didn’t shoot at him. The fellow didn’t seem too pleased to have found him, whoever him was, or was it whom he was.

  As the man approached him, he recognized every third word. While, not all of it was completely clear as to its meaning, it was enough to trust the guy. Another 12 or so sullen individuals appeared from behind various hiding places. They seemed to know him. But again, were not very happy to see him. He felt kind of like a bad penny showing up. He couldn’t worry about that now as a big, ugly plane with red stars flew over them at very low level. He was going to take a shot at it, but the others warned him not too. The bullets would just bounce off and it would only warn the pilot that something unfriendly needed killing in his target area.

  The plane flew straight and level over a particular section of the city. Liquid flame started to pour out of the tanks on its wings. That was enough to get the small group running to the east at a very fast pace with him trying to keep up, bad leg and all. He felt something squishy in his boot and stopped for a second to check it out. Every time he took a step a squirt of blood oozed from his boot lace holes. Not good.

  The leader of the group doubled back and added another rag to his bandage, and tying it very tight. The bleeding seemed to stop for the time being. When he stood up, he was very unsteady. Once again, his companion came to his aide. Luckily the man was on the large size and almost as big as he was. They made a good pair and soon caught up with the others.

  Just as the others had disappeared around one of the seemingly endless corners, a man with their back towards them shouted something to someone else out of sight. Mankowitz shrugged off his human crutch and as he was dropping to the ground he unslung his rifle and shot the man just as he was about to shoot one of the other men in his group. Well, it was very nice to know he knew how to use the rifle he was lugging around. The move he just made, even impress him, and he had no basis for being impressed. Hell, he couldn’t even remember his name.

  His companion helped him to his feet, and once again, they hobbled east. The attack by the plane spewing fire made them go beyond exhaustion. It was two hours later. He was feeling the pain and lots of it. He jerked away from the grip of his rescuer and fell towards a set of steps. He just barely caught himself before his head hit the ground. He lay there and waved on his companions, motioning that he was too tired and too much in pain to continue.

  Out of nowhere, one of the squad pulled out a syrette…now, why did he remember that word and not his own name…and jammed it into his leg. Then, the soldier squeezed the tube and administered the medicine. He didn’t think that was how it was supposed to be done, but within seconds he didn’t care. They pulled him up and two others half carried and dragged him for another couple of hours. They stay just ahead of the massive explosions and the ominous sounds of those flame throwing planes.

  He finally learned that Nazir was the name of the leader and that his name was Sargent Mankowitz. He really didn’t think that was his name but he was assured by all in the group that it was. He also learned that he was American, they were Turkish, and the enemy were Russians. None of it made no any sense to him what so ever. He remembered another war where the Russians were his friends, and he had even gotten drunk with a bunch somewhere. No matter, things memories were starting to return and now, he could start to really think about the long-term survival of this little band of men who had saved each other’s lives. And that’s what it’s all about in the end he was sure. It didn’t matter if you were enemies one day and fighting side by side the next it seemed. Today was what mattered and today meant he would survive until tomorrow.

  In the North, the story was similar to that on the banks of the Black Sea. What was left of the Soviet Black Sea Fleet bombarded areas 100 km from the Dandelies along with massive attacks by the Soviet version of the Marines. Many of the troops were veterans of the Moonsund Landing Operation in the Baltic. They were better trained this time, thanks once again to the Americans. The Soviets had even more of the amphibious vehicles called DUKWs or more commonly Ducks. Over 5000 had been left behind in Germany and France and were now being used in the Black Sea.

  The Turks opposing the landings had never seen anything like the DUKWs. For the most part, the Turks didn’t even try to shoot at the vehicles with small arms fire believing them to be more heavily armored than they were. In hindsight, a good 50 cal would cut through their hulls like a buzz saw. But, that was hindsight for you.

  The end result was that 10,000 Soviet troops were on dry land north and east of Istanbul in a matter of hours. Also, the DUKWs could be used to transport supplies and troops on land like any other truck. These odd looking, possibly heavily armored, vehicles were quickly dispersing Soviet troops throughout the area around Sile. Soon, they were on their way to Izmit to in an attempt to cut off 3 divisions of Turkey’s finest soldiers.

  The old Russian battle cruiser Parizhskaya Kommuna took part in the bombardment along with the remainder of the Black Sea Fleet including the cruisers Molotov, Voroshilov, Krasnyi Krym and Krasnyi Kavkaz. These ships proved devastating to the shore defenses once the VVS and IL-10 Beasts had napalmed the shore batteries that could have posed a danger to the old ships. Unfettered from their fears of retaliation, they drove in close to shore and used their guns to silence all opposition worth note around the beaches of Sile. Shutting down the resistance gave the DUKWs an almost leisurely cruise and got the troops well
on their way towards their respective objectives.

  Things were going so well that something had to go wrong and it finally did. Finally, the Turks discovered that the DUKWs were just floating trucks and very vulnerable to small arms fire. They were not the fearsome armored beasts they had expected. That would come later. For now however, the DUKWs and the troops in them started to die.

  The Turkish military was very good at small unit tactics and their soldiers some of the bravest in the world. When their generals did not place them in hopeless situations, they could more than hold their own. The invasion of the DUKWs ended at Tiki or about 19 km from Sile on the way to Izmit. A combination of rugged terrain and even more rugged Turkish soldiers started to devastate the flock. Even the shells of the old battle cruiser could not reach out and assist them now. The VVS did not have the range to make use of its ground attack arsenal as well. The IL-10 had a formidable collection of weapons, but it also had a relatively short range without drop tanks. It was the Soviet soldier with his small unit tactics and heroism against the Turkish soldier on even terms. The fighting became up close and personal as both sides preferred.

  Scenes straight out of Stalingrad and Berlin started to unfold with meaningless buildings suddenly taking on life or death significance. One such building was the local mosque in Teke. Without artillery or anything larger than a grenade, this holy building changed hands over and over again for two days. 239 men died within its walls by ones and twos, while killing other men in ones and twos. Every grenade thrown, after the first few attacks and counter attacks, was muffled by the already dead bodies lying around. After the first day most who entered would shoot anybody that didn’t have a bullet hole in its forehead just to make sure it wasn’t someone playing dead. It was a house of horrors with recognizable body parts lying all around from previous attacks. Large artillery and bombs tends to vaporize most human remains whereas grenades just chop them up.

  How could you keep entering a building filled with such gore with the intent of creating more? Yet, they did, squad after squad went in with the goal of winning the view from the minaret or preventing the enemy from gaining that view as well. Then, squad after squad followed them in and carnage continued.

  These types of assaults were was repeated all along the lines until the VVS finally was able to move it bases closer to the front and started to end the Turks’ hold on these small strong points.

  Figure 9 - Soviet Lend Lease DUKW

  Border Patrol

  A number of the riders on truck were veterans of rough roads. Many of them were from California where driving off road on the beaches was commonplace. Someone even made special vehicles that were designed to drive on the sand dunes near the beach and also in the desert. Nothing in their wildest imagination prepared them for what they were experiencing now in the duce and a half. The ride was the roughest imaginable. The road had ceased to exist days ago or when they were now just following a donkey trail. The guide seemed to know where they were going but he couldn't drive. So each of the passengers took turns. Half of the truck was filled with fuel as there were no filling stations within 100 miles.

  They were on their way to the border of Russia and Turkey, and what is called Armenia. The men were all volunteers from United States army. Some were of Turkish heritage that most were not. They were here to train the Turkish army of the north. The north being this god forsaken expanse country. The terrain is nothing but sand and rocks with the occasional goat herd and human companion.

  The men were on a mission to train some of the best individual fighting man in the world to become a cohesive fighting unit. The mission to train the army of the west was well underway. An invasion from north coming from between the Caspian and Black sea seemed like a very remote possibility two months ago. But with reports of Russian forces moving into the area, the possibility is quickly becoming a reality.

  In the truck were six men and the guide. They had been on the road for four days and would reach their destination tonight. Two other divisions on their way to the same spot they were heading towards. These 15,000 men did not have trucks to ride in and were marching towards the border. One hell of a way to wage modern war thought the captain.

  The situation reminded him of The War to End All Wars where everyone walked, including into machine gun fire. He didn’t know what was worse, the American Civil War, where you marched up to the enemy standing straight up. Then, took a few volleys before you either ran from or charged at the enemy. Or, as in World War One where you marched into fire and hoped they ran out of bullets before they got to you. Imagine being in that first wave.

  On the border were just under 15,000 soldiers of the Turkish army. Their commanders had just started to take the threat of the Soviet seriously. Reports were that they were facing 15 divisions under one of the best Soviet leaders. The Turks were feverishly digging trenches, placing antitank mines, and praying. The men on the truck were “advisors” to the Turkish Army. They were supposed to explain how to stop modern armored equipment and survive the proven tactics of the Soviet Deep Battle. Oh, they had plenty of equipment to work with. The only problem was that it was 30 years old and left over, for the most part, from World War One and about twenty percent from early 1940s. Five years makes a hell of a lot of difference in times of war.

  Captain Marsh didn’t even make an effort to learn his men’s last names. If he had time later he would make an attempt. But it didn’t look or sound like they had much time left or even that much time together before the shit hit the fan. From the report this morning it was really going to be a lot of shit to deal with and fairly soon as well.

  Sargent Bill was supposed to be an expert in mines and tank traps. Sargent Clem was supposed to be an antitank wizard who could kill a Tiger with a spoon. Corporal Jim was an artillery magician. Corporal Frank was an expert in small group tactics. Corporal Mike specialized in heavy weapons and he was scared shitless and an expert in strong point defense. All he knew for sure was that they were there for show and not much else.

  What could they do with no supplies and heavy weapons or trained troopers to man them anyway? From the short conversations he had with “his” men he ascertained that many and possibly all of them were screw-ups. Perfect for this job. Corporal Jim had taken swings at a few of his Sergeants in his career. Sargent Bill was frequently drunk. Corporal Mike might have murdered a fellow soldier over a card game but he could not confirm that before he shipped out. Corporal Frank was rumored to be a homo. Captain Marsh had no idea about Sargent Clem. He looked completely benign yet he must have done something to be put on this operation.

  Captain Marsh, was a general’s wife fucker. He was caught twice and busted twice. Not the thing to do for an officer and a gentleman, but hey they wanted it more than he did. Was it his fault that their husbands couldn’t get it up any more? He was just providing and long overdue service to keep up the moral of the women behind the men. Besides, General Cooper’s wife had a mighty fine behind as well.

  His dalliances were what had landed him here. Here, was exactly nowhere and nowhere was where it looked like he was going to die.

  Not Enough and Too Late

  The barrage started at 0330 hours and continued until 0456. By that time most of the frontline Turkish troops facing the Soviet Union’s forces on the Armenian border were dead, maimed or running to the south. Zhukov had gotten all the toys in the west to force the Turkish Straights and Bagramian got more artillery batteries and Kartushka rocket units.

  The Turkish soldiers sent to the Armenia border, were poor quality even by Turkish standards. They were to be sacrificed and the Turkish commanders did not want their best units to be wasted. Even their unit names have been erased from history. They were just 15,000 poor souls, who were soon ground into the earth by over a thousand tanks that quickly raced to the South. Some of the better Turkish units turned them the Reds away during their initial assault when the Soviet commanders got too aggressive and ran into some well laid traps and amb
ushes.

  The Turkish Colonel could tell that the tanks being thrown at him were the older but faster T34-85. He knew that these tanks were more than a match for the few old tanks he had gotten recently from the Americans. The Soviet tanks were just as fast as and maybe even faster than his more lightly armored Sherman’s with the 76 mm gun. His problems were many. He had very few tanks, his tankers had not seen combat, and they had no air cover. They held their own, however, in the first brush with the T-34s. His unit gave as good as they got.

  The T-34s withdrew a few kilometers and then came the flying tanks of the Red Air Force. The Il-10 Sturmovik Beast had a large number of ways to kill a tank and they used their repertoire very quickly on his dozen tanks. The one Bofers unit, he had been given, actually did a good job and took down two Beasts before being destroyed by 23 mm cannon fire.

  The Turkish Colonel’s own tanks died to more exotic weapons such as floating bomblets and liquid flame. One by one the tanks died and back came the Soviet T-34s.

  This time, the Turks special antitank groups did their job using Molotov cocktails and, once again stopped the Red’s advance. A quick Soviet artillery and rocket barrage put a stop to these Turkish tactics as well as killing much of the supporting infantry. Again, the few men the Turkish colonel had alive performed extremely well. If they would have had some support, they might have even staged an effective counter attack. But, they had had no further support. His commanding General had decided that discretion is the better part of valor and had run to fight another day.