Doctor Marcel Junod ran quickly down the hall. Once again, he trusted in God, fulfilled his destiny and further cemented his legacy.
Figure 12 - Doctor Marcel Junod at work for the Red Cross
Figure 13 - One of the Clocks of Hiroshima
Chapter Four:
cy.
The Red Cross
Dr. Marcel Junod, a renowned Red Cross humanitarian, had just arrived in Ankara, Turkey on 26 May 1946, the very start of World War Three and had been there ever since. He had come straight from Hiroshima, Japan where the American and International Red Cross were attempting to bring relief to the citizens of that devastated area.
He was one of the first physicians to reach the region. He had received some photos that he sent back to the ICRC. They were the first pictures to reach the west of what we had done in Japan. Once the true understanding of what had occurred there reached the American public, donations had poured in to the International Red Cross and through the American Red Cross as well. [xciv]
Junod had been involved in distributing the thousands of tons of food and supplies to the survivors of the atomic bomb attacks on Japan until May. He had come a long way from his roots in a small Swiss town to the world traveler he was today. He had seen a lot, and was beginning to think he had seen too much. Too many burned bodies and stinking piles of flesh at concentration s camps. Too many radiation burns on small children. Too many sightless eyes. He was going home to Geneva to see his son, who was born almost a year ago, for the first time.
His last duty was to inspect the operation in Ankara. He had been caught up in the waves of war, like many an international traveler, in May, 1946 ever since. Civilian travelers took a back seat to military transport needs in the initial stages of war and it extended to long after for “do-gooders” stranded in Turkey.
He had no way of entering Switzerland anyway for t he Soviets did not recognize the International Red Cross. He was doomed to spend even more time away from his young family. Now, much to his concern, he was being surrounded by armies of Soviet troops. The troops were moving in on Ankara from the west, as another force swept in from the North, and then East. They would eventually meet and cut off his route home.
In the meantime, he went about his duties as he saw them. He distributed relief supplies, organized hospitals, and tended to the sick and wounded himself. As usual, he had confronted the local authorities who wanted to summarily execute the Soviet wounded they found in some of his hospitals. And as usual, they eventually backed down when persuaded by the good doctor and the pedigree of his supporters. His list was formidable and included many well-respected Turkish businessmen and Turkish leaders.
It never ceased to amaze the doctor how there were so many bent on revenge and how easy it was to make them back down even in the remotest part of the world. Maybe this was a sign that man was not really so terrible and that a good communicator could convince most ordinary humans to do the right thing. He believed that God was on his side. Maybe he was right about his belief, and this was why it was so easy for him to do what he did. Someday he might not be able to accomplish this outcome. He might just end up dead or severely wounded, defending all who needed medical attention in his facilities. So far luck was on his side and he was still in one piece.
Junod thought, Why did he do this? Why was he willing to work saving other families, while abandoning his own? Why did he try and save people from others who wanted to kill them? Over the years, he had considered these questions. He never did come to any other conclusion than to confirm that he was doing God’s work. So far, God’s work, had been enough to justify the choices he had made.
If he hadn’t been caught up in this new war, he just might have gone back home, made love to his wife, held his son, and started to look for a new way to fulfill his destiny. Destiny, legacy, was that why he did it? Seems rather self-ingratiating if you really thought about it.
Did a truly altruistic person exist or did everyone look to some higher purpose like serving their God, legacy or was it their destiny? Junod didn’t like questioning his beliefs. To date, his beliefs had saved thousands of souls and brought relief to the suffering of millions.
He was snapped out of his reverie by another crisis du jour. In the hospital he was visiting, the wounded Turks were attempting to kill the Soviet patients. In addition, the Armenians down the hall were making threats against the Turks. All this acrimony was expected. What was not expected, was the security detachment assigned by the local commander, suddenly deserting their posts. Their departure left the doctors and nurses at the mercy of the warring patients. As it stood now, all that was preventing a massacre inside the International Red Cross hospital, was the female Red Cross staff. The women were struggling to separate the fighting patients. Doctor Marcel Junod ran quickly down the hall. Once again, he trusted in God, fulfilled his destiny and further cemented his legacy.
Figure 12 - Doctor Marcel Junod at work for the Red Cross
Figure 13 - One of the Clocks of Hiroshima
Chapter Four:
Unsung Heroes
Figure 14 - Spencer Crenshaw 1946
The Red Cross
Dr. Marcel Junod, a renowned Red Cross humanitarian, had just arrived in Ankara, Turkey on 26 May 1946, the very start of World War Three and had been there ever since. He had come straight from Hiroshima, Japan where the American and International Red Cross were attempting to bring relief to the citizens of that devastated area. He was one of the first physicians to reach the area. He had received some photos that he sent back to the ICRC. They were the first pictures to reach the west of what we had done in Japan. Once the true understanding of what had occurred there reached the American public, donations had poured in to the International Red Cross and through the American Red Cross as well. [xcv]
Junod had been involved in distributing the thousands of tons of food and supplies to the survivors of the atomic bomb attacks on Japan until May. He had come a long way from his roots in a small Swiss town to the world traveler he was today. He had seen a lot, and was beginning to think he had seen too much. Too many burned bodies and stinking piles of flesh at concentrations camps. Too many radiation burns on small children. Too many sightless eyes. He was going home to Geneva to see his son, who was born almost a year ago, for the first time.
His last duty was to inspect the operation in Ankara. He had been caught up in the waves of war, like many an international traveler, in May, 1946 ever since. Civilian travelers took a back seat to military transport needs in the initial stages of war and it extended to long after for “do gooders” stranded in Turkey.
He had no way of entering Switzerland anyway for the Soviets did not recognize the International Red Cross. He was doomed to spend even more time away from his young family. Now, much to his concern, he was being surrounded by armies of Soviet troops. The troops were moving in on Ankara from the west, as another force swept in from the North, and then East. They would eventually meet and cut off his route home.
In the meantime, he went about his duties as he saw them. He distributed relief supplies, organized hospitals, and tended to the sick and wounded himself. As usual, he had confronted the local authorities who wanted to summarily execute the Soviet wounded they found in some of his hospitals. And as usual, they eventually backed down when persuaded by the good doctor and the pedigree of his supporters. His list was formidable and included many well respected Turkish businessmen and Turkish leaders.
It never ceased to amaze the doctor how there were so many bent on revenge and how easy it was to make them back down even in the remotest part of the world. Maybe this was a sign that man was not really so terrible and that a good communicator could convince most ordinary humans to do the right thing. He believed that God was on his side. Maybe he was right about his belief, and this was why it was so easy for him to do what he did. Someday he might not be able to accomplish this outcome. He might just end up dead or severely wounded, defending all who needed medical attention
in his facilities. So far luck was on his side and he was still in one piece.
Junod thought, Why did he do this? Why was he willing to work saving other families, while abandoning his own? Why did he try and save people from others who wanted to kill them? Over the years, he had considered these questions. He never did come to any other conclusion than to confirm that he was doing God’s work. So far, God’s work, had been enough to justify the choices he had made.
If he hadn’t been caught up in this new war, he just might have gone back home, made love to his wife, held his son, and started to look for a new way to fulfill his destiny. Destiny, legacy, was that why he did it? Seems rather self-ingratiating if you really thought about it.
Did a truly altruistic person exist or did everyone look to some higher purpose like serving their God, legacy or was it their destiny? Junod didn’t like questioning his beliefs. To date, his beliefs had saved thousands of souls and brought relief to the suffering of millions.
He was snapped out of his reverie by another crisis du jour. In the hospital he was visiting, the wounded Turks were attempting to kill the Soviet patients. In addition, the Armenians down the hall were making threats against the Turks. All this acrimony was expected. What was not expected, was the security detachment, assigned by the local commander, suddenly deserted their posts. They’re departure left the doctors and nurses at the mercy of the warring patients. As it stood now, all that was preventing a massacre inside the International Red Cross hospital, was the female Red Cross staff. The women were struggling to separate the fighting patients.
Doctor Marcel Junod ran quickly down the hall. Once again, he trusted in God, fulfilled his destiny and further cemented his legacy.
The guard looked in and found him on the floor in a pile of his own bloody vomit. He was dead. Dead at the age of 47. Dead after smoking precisely 383,478 Chesterfield cigarettes. Dead, just after he had solved his last puzzle. Dead, before he could tell anyone the solution.
Jim wondered what all the commotion was about when he pulled into the visitors parking to pick up his uncle. He genuinely loved his uncle. He didn’t beat him like his dad. It was amazing how identical twins could be so different. Maybe it was the war for his dad. It made no matter. He was still beat with regularity until he put a stop to it when he became big enough to fight back. He was probably the only person who did love his uncle. To everyone else he was a recluse and very rude. It was a nightmare to go out to lunch with him. He was so harsh to the poor waitresses. He very often slipped them an extra dollar above and beyond what his uncle would tip just to make up for the extra were and tear on their egos once his uncle got through with them.
His uncle was dying and everyone knew that. His uncle had asked him for one more favor and that was to take him once more back to his office. He was on the verge of solving a very important problem and felt that being down in his office one more time could lead to the memory that was eluding him. He confided in Jim that he was close to remembering many times. If someone interrupted him or his mind wandered, the memory scrap would quickly fade away. He was so frustrated it made his nephew wish he could help in some way.
His uncle was so sure he could prevent the US from losing the war. Just this one memory locked in his dying body was all that was preventing him from liberating the world from the godless communists. Yes, his uncle had found religion and found it big time. With nightly bible readings and prayers for this and that so much so that it was quite frankly annoying.
Jim Crenshaw’s Epiphany
Shit, he was going fast! This old German motorcycle could really get going once it hit its stride. God how he loved riding this machine with the wind ripping at your clothes, and even the bugs bouncing off his goggles. The tires weren’t so good and he couldn’t get replacements for the damn things being metric and all. He’d have to figure out a way to put new wheels that would take American sized tires on this beauty if he wanted to get another few years out of it. And, man did he want to.
His baby was a BMW R71 and it was so good that the Army had Harley-Davison copy it near the middle of the war. This monster hummed. Whoa! A little slip of the back tire on some gravel brought him back to earth, and almost back to being under the earth. Then, a fucking pigeon almost hit him in the face and that really made him think about his mortality.
Alright, enough dare-devil stuff for one day. He throttled back to a relatively sedate 60 mph. Time to go home. He didn’t like going home anymore because his father reminded him that his favorite uncle was dead. What a crappy way to go, too. Coughing up your own lungs, and lying in your own pool of piss and who knows what else they found coming from his body. It gave him shivers just thinking about it. He hated his father who was a fucking bully. But, Jim had always loved his uncle and spent as much time as he could with the hard drinking chain smoking son of a gun. He was more than upset that his haven was gone. After next week, he would not have his uncle or his uncle’s home to retreat too when his home life got to rough. He supposed that at age 16, he could run off like so many others have.
Jim was big for his age, like his father and uncle. So, he could probably lie about his age and join the army. With the new war and all, the military were looking for young meat. He was on his way to his uncle’s house once more to check on a few things. Also, he wanted to solve the riddle his uncle had left him. He was sure the last message was meant for him.
What the hell did that mean? What was his uncle trying to tell him?
He pulled into the drive of his uncle’s old two bedroom home in a comfortable neighborhood. Man, he was going to miss this place. He found the key under the pot and was about to enter when the neighbor, Mrs. Bode, shouted for him to come over. He did, being the good boy he was and was glad he did. She consoled him and put a big piece of pie in front of him. Then, she proceeded to lecture him on the evils of drinking and smoking.
“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Bode, I don’t like either of those things.”
“Good Boy!”
“Now, I really have to go Mrs. Bode.”
“Okay my boy…okay. I suppose I won’t be seeing much of you?’
“I suppose not Mrs. Bode.”
“Take care my boy, Take care.”
“I will and thanks for the pie.”
He quickly left and finally got inside the house. He stood in the small dingy hallway thinking of the word …
Well it started with a capital so it was probably a name of something. He decided to systematically look though his uncle’s pile of papers starting with the oldest looking first. He figured with this method he might come across what it was sooner. He reasoned that if his uncle had been trying to remember something, it would have to be something from a long time ago. Otherwise, the clue would be on top of the piles and he would have seen it by now. He figured his strategy was a wild ass guess, but at least it gave him a place to start. He knew his uncle was working on what the enemy was using to guide their missiles so that really narrowed the search down.
He wasn’t sure that his uncle should have some of these papers in his house. Several were marked Top Secret. That can’t be good, he thought. He continued on in the innocence of youth anyway. Stack after stack. Boring papers on radar and radio waves, and counter effects, and who knows what, but nothing with Skinne in it. A folder with contracts from General Mills, a letter from some guy named Tolman, and another guy named Spencer, Bush. The folder contents were all in order and kind of packed together. He put them aside, when a promising stack caught his attention. Two hours later he was starved and raided his uncle’s icebox. Yes, he still had an icebox and probably the last iceman in the city coming every other day to fill it.
On his way back to the table where he was staring bleary eyed at the latest stack of endless papers, he knocked over the pile he has set aside before. Cursing he started to put them back in order and the figure of $25,000 on a contract jumped out. That was a lot of money in this day and age. Who could be doing something for General Mills that his uncle
might be interested in for 25 grand. He glanced at the contents, and saw the title “Organic Homing Device.” What the hell was that? The contract ran for almost a whole year for whatever it was for.
The next stapled group read Description for Directing a Bomb at a Target. Well, that might be something. The next down in the pile was “The Present Status of the “Bird’s Eye Bomb.” Now, that made him laugh out loud, and then, he saw it…THE GUY”S NAME… THE GUY’s FUCKING NAME![xcvi]
Skinner…Butt Fucking Skinner. This was it! This was IT! That was the SKINNE he was trying to tell us. This is what his uncle was trying to remember. This was FUCKING IT. Some guy named Skinner had been working on directing a bomb and here it was. But now what? What the fuck do you do with something like this that has “Top Secret” stamped on everything? He guessed a good thing might be to read it first.
He folded back the first page and almost started to laugh out loud. The idea was so ridiculous that he almost put the document down and continue his search. However, the more he read, the more his confidence increased. This was really it.
Good job, Unc! You nailed it. But now what? How do you deliver this information so someone reads it and understands the significance of what he held in his hands? How do you walk up to someone and say, I think this might win the war, hand them some Top Secret papers, and walk away without getting shot or laughed out of the room?
Why… you hand it back to the guy who wrote it in the first place. Surely, the author would see the significance of what his uncle discovered. Surely, Skinner would be the person Jim needed to track down. Now, how does a 16 year old find a guy named Skinner in a country as big as the United States with a motorcycle that has bad tires and $10 in your pocket?
World War Three 1946 Series Boxed Set: Stalin Strikes First Page 94
