World War Three 1946 Series Boxed Set: Stalin Strikes First

by Harry Kellogg

“Good! There is actually barely enough for all here in the Motherland. The real secret is that it is going to be used as a weapon. Our new allies in Poland and the Balkans do not have enough food. Stalin has ordered that our food be used as a weapon of repression. Those who go along, will be fed. Those who do not; will starve. He will make it seem as if we have plenty of food for those willing to be good Communists. There will be less food for those who are neutral and even less food for those who are not so neutral. It will not be blatant, but it will make the unwilling very weak, and concerned only with survival. Their survival will depend on their sons and how well they fight the capitalists and their sons will know this. All revolutions occur when there is a large population of starving, unemployed, young men. Our young men are fighting for the Motherland, and do not have time to think about such things.”

  “But comrade, where will the extra food come from?”

  “That is the secret part comrade. That is what may get you in trouble, if you truly want to know. Are you sure you want to know...old friend?”

  “Da.”

  “Our own peasants, the old and infirm, the useless ones, possibly even the very young. We will lose millions to feed our new satellite states. Our newly-conquered territories will also be stripped of any excess food to be shipped back to us. Stalin has never liked certain regions, nor certain ethnic groups, and this will be his excuse to get rid of them. I can assure you, there will be no extra food in France or Germany. They will be on minimal rations and the excuse will be the famine. You cannot argue with a famine, even if it is man-made and most especially, if you don't know it that it is.”

  “But what of the excess food; will it not be discovered and riots occur?”

  “That is the real evil part of this plan. There will be no excess food...just enough for good Communists and the army and their families. Everyone else will just get along while some will get nothing; mostly the ones in the country who are invisible anyway. They will bear the brunt of the famine. The ones with no voice, the ones who can't fight, the ones that are ignorant of their fate, until it is too late and they are too weak to protest; in short, the peasants. They will be told...'The shipment will come soon, just be good little peasants and die, like you always have.' It really sickens me comrade, but either we have the majority of us surviving or we will all be in trouble.”

  “Do you think that Comrade Stalin would have fought back so hard against the capitalist pigs if he had known that the drought would be so bad?”

  “Probably not comrade, but all our former weather scientists did not predict this...how could they? Yet they have all disappeared and some decidedly nervous new ones have taken their place.”

  “Ah, yes. If we could only know the past, before it becomes the past. That would help immensely.”

  ***

  Stalin fulfils one of his promises. It’s designed to weaken the British resolve but never the less a few former prisoners are now free. Possibly free to die

  but free none the less.

  ***

  Stalin Sacrifices a Rook

  This is nuts. Who ever thought that Stalin would actually come through on one of his promises? Yet, here I am, once again in command of the good ship Samthar, on my way from Gdansk to Portsmouth. My cargo is 2,000 fellow British subjects. Unbelievable! They just let us go. No conditions, no hidden cargo, no spies, at least I hope no spies. It just doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Especially when the orders come from Stalin himself, as I was told. I can’t believe that I’ll be seeing Susan again soon. What a night that will be! Bloody hell who has to wait for the night? I wonder if she’ll want to get married this time…

  “You seem lost in thought Captain.”

  “Yes I was. I can’t believe they let us go just like that.”

  “Hell of a thing sir eh? I’ll be back in Montreal in no time. I’ll get to see Emily Jeff and Donny soon enough. Why’d they do it sir?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea first mate. We’ve searched the ship from stem to stern, and there was nothing. No bombs, or hidden compartments…nothing but the old tub we came into Gdansk on. I guess we’ll have to let the politicians work this one out. Maybe someone paid for us, but I doubt that.”

  “From what I heard Stalin isn’t the sort to do many humanitarian gestures. Did you hear the rumors about all those Polish guys? You know the ones who were in the Polish underground. Rumor says that they were offered a flag of truce guaranteed by Stalin himself, and then were arrested and tortured put on trial and sent off never to be heard from again.”

  “Yeah, and how about that bunch of officers and Polish leaders that were murdered right after the Russians took over their part of Poland in 1939?”

  “Well, so far everything appears as it seems with this deal.”

  “I bet those troopers are really feeling bloody alright. Imagine, surrendering to the enemy within days of the start of World War Three and then being sent home after only four months of captivity. Not like those poor bastards who did the same thing in 1940 and spent five years under the German boot.”

  The sea was almost calm. It was especially calm for August. They could still stop us, in any number of places along the way. We're just outside of Copenhagen, and the old Samthar was still doing her job; pushing up a good bow wave. We were told to keep it under five knots, for some reason. The time is 1423 hours. I wonder if the ship's log is to be found. I’ve never seen the Baltic look so beautiful, as it does now, slipping behind in our wake. I wonder if I’ll ever come back. Not likely. I never did like the Baltic; too much to run into; too much to think about; too many countries on its shores.

  ***

  Just an ingenious invention that allowed the Soviets to repair the

  rail lines and make them usable for their rolling stock.

  ***

  Dear Nikolai,

  The rail conversion is going faster than expected due to the lack of NATO airstrikes and good weather. Using the local labor pool, either by threat of force, or by the lure of food, the Germans are eager to get on the Commissar's good side. 'Work means life' I think I read somewhere and in September 1946, in occupied Germany, this has never been truer.

  The few demolitions that did occur are nowhere near the scale of what we encountered in Poland. There the Germans had plenty of time and very often blew up a lot more of the footings than necessary. This caused us to have to fill in an additional destroyed area. The bridges and tracks that the NATO forces were able to demolish were nowhere near as hard to repair as we had in Poland and without constant air attacks that the Germans were able to bring to bear.

  The widening of the gauge has been accomplished fairly easily with the new double-screw we are using. We bore holes in the end of the existing ties and on the ends of the meter-long extensions. The double screws have a nut in the middle and as you tighten the nut it draws together the old tie and the extensions. To get the screws started, you simply put the screws in the holes and hit the end of the extension. Then you start tightening the nut. Quite an ingenious invention.

  The rails are coming from all the other parts of Germany and France, as this line takes priority over civilian rail usage. If the rail has been damaged it is cut up and we use any undamaged section that is longer than two meters. Vichy France has again been spared the horrors of war, so once we reach the old border we will not have to worry about laying new rail to reach our comrades in the Pyrenees.

  Why am I telling you all this my dear Nikolai? Because I hope that someday soon, you will be joining me here in France. I have spoken with the Commissar, and he will ask if family members can be allowed to serve together in noncombat functions. I do hope to keep you from harm.

  Love,

  Popop

  Double Screw

  ***

  Another indication of how things would be under a brutal dictatorship.

  ***

  Pure Evil

  The room was bustling with activity. Secretaries were scattered about doing the bidding of thei
r supervisors. The smell of perfume and the sight of real silk stockings on long shapely legs was an indication that things were again normal, at least on the surface. The room also smelled of cigarettes and well-oiled mahogany paneling. Because of this paneling the room was on the dark side but the cream-colored ceiling helped to disperse the light.

  Adams noticed none of this as he hurried the length of the great room dodging startled personnel, misplaced files, and furniture. “Coming through...coming through!”

  Wilkins' personal assistant was nowhere to be seen so he knocked on the door before barging right in. The papers in his left hand almost fell to the floor in his haste to open the door. The room was dark and he wondered at first, if Wilkins was in. He saw something move and as he jerked towards the movement, he did drop the files he was carrying. As he bent down to pick them up he was concentrating on collecting the strewn papers and missed seeing exactly what Wilkins and Miss Reynolds had been doing. When he did finally look up they were standing guiltily apart and breathing heavily.

  “Jesus Adams! What the hell do you want? You may take the dictation and type it up Miss Reynolds. Thank you. That is all for now. For Christ's sake! What caused you to barge in like that Jack?”

  “Can't say I'm sorry for interrupting during business hours, Fred; anyway here take a look at this. It just came in from Paris, through the usual channels.”

  Wilkins reaches over and picks up the files, and begins to read. “Holy Shit! My God, this is truly diabolical. Is there any way to prove any of this? Is there any way to leak this to the press?”

  “We have no proof; only secret sources. I mean, we knew that food was becoming a significant problem but he's using the famine to strip Western Europe clean to feed his army and loyal collaborators. The only way to get food is to follow the communist line, to play by his rules. You do that, or you die. Furthermore he's using the real famine and drought as cover. Who's going to riot for food when by all accounts and even your own observations there is no food to riot over? Their harvest was obviously a bust and any fool can see that their food warehouses are empty. They shipped everything east in secret, during the confusion of the invasion, along with thousands of 'special people.' Look at page twelve and the following memo.”

  Wilkins finds the documents Adams mentions and starts to speed-read them. “Let me get this straight...they're testing all refugees, and then selecting the most intelligent, dexterous and creative, and shipping them back to Russia? Why not just kill them on site?”

  “Read the memo.”

  “The theory is that not only are these 'special people' going to live, but they are to be used as some kind of super-workers, experts and scientists to work on the production of current and future wonder-weapons? That really is ingenious and truly evil. The strong and dumb ones will work the fields and mines. The ones left behind are chaff and will be allowed to 'expire by natural means.' Who in the hell wrote this?”

  “That jerk Hummel. You know, the one with all the connections in D.C.?”

  “What can we use from these reports, and how can we use them?”

  “You're the one with the big title and salary. I just follow your orders, and do your bidding.”

  “Don't be an ass Jack, and help me figure this out.”

  ***

  The sudden deaths of Patton and MacArthur shook the American command. We now can reveal the truth behind at least one of their deaths.

  ***

  MacArthur

  As we all know our history books tell us that General Douglas MacArthur died in May of 1946, just before the start of World War III. We've been taught that the great General died of a heart attack while hiking in northern Wisconsin. This is the myth we've all been spoon-fed by our teachers and the historians. In fact, the true story is much more surreal, and not terribly, shall we say...heroic.

  The first of May was a gorgeous spring day. The sun was out and the sky was a crystal-clear blue. It was the kind of sky that you could only get in remote areas and this was just about as a remote an area as you can get, at least east of the Mississippi. This beautiful day just happened to be occurring in northern Wisconsin on the Wolf River. It is a land of towering white pines.

  These pines made a whispering noise when the wind coursed through them. Their thin needles in bundles of five, caught the wind like no other tree can. You could almost hear the ancestors of the original inhabitants passing down their stories around the campfire, from generation to generation, in the whispers coming from these ancient giants.

  The remaining Native American populations were all on reservations by now, and the Wolf ran right through one of these reservations. The once-proud Menominee Nation now predominated in this backwater of backwaters. They welcomed the few visitors that came long distances over the mud roads with open arms. They were eager to earn good money guiding tender-feet and city slickers on whatever adventure they wished to enjoy up here in the land of the truly sky-blue waters.

  What brought the distinguished visitor from his duty post in Japan here to Gardner Dam on the Wolf River in early May, is still quite a mystery. The locals knew that you could catch some great fish with flies this time of year, but it took the right day, and the right old wily fisherman to bag some of the best-fighting, and more importantly, the best-eating Brook trout anywhere in the world. Brooks and Browns were what you wanted out of the Wolf. The Rainbows were fine but the Brooks and Browns melted in your mouth when they came out of the pristine waters near Gardner Dam.

  The Wolf River flows into Lake Winnebago and then out to Lake Michigan through the Fox River and Green Bay. Industries along the way gradually made the best water on earth into a slightly less drinkable concoction. The paper mills along the way and the farms around the shores of Lake Winnebago added funny tastes and smells to it. That water was gradually diluted by huge Lake Michigan mingling with the waters of the other Great Lakes being further diluted so that the water that eventually went over Niagara Falls and up the Saint Lawrence River and Seaway into the gigantic North Atlantic, was reasonably clean again. The Great Lakes held eighty-five percent of North America's fresh water but no one cared about that now. They were used for commercial fishing and to cool, lubricate, mix with all manner of industrial endeavors, including human excrement, then poured back into the lakes and rivers and eventually, the ocean.

  For reasons unknown General of the Army, Douglas MacArthur, along with a small entourage decided to drive up from Chicago to try their hand at fishing on the Wolf River. Mac was in Chicago as part of a good-will tour. Some say the tour was a slap on the wrist from Truman. He was dragged away from his duties in Japan and made to complete this tour while he was on his way to Washington to meet with the President. The designated route included stops in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Denver, St. Louis, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland and Pittsburgh.

  Perhaps it was because one of MacArthur's subordinates used to tell stories about Gardner Dam and the Wolf River, or perhaps it was because of some obscure article Douglas read as a boy that drew him to the rapids of Gardner Dam. All we know is that he ordered his unhappy band of not-so-very-merry men to arrange a fishing trip, and that Gardner Dam on the Wolf River was to be the destination.

  To be sure, sticking his thumb in Truman's eye was a large part of it too. He was always known for being frustratingly late, when it suited his mood and his mood was not terribly good, after having been dragged halfway around the world on the orders of an ex-artillery captain.

  The group of twelve showed up in two Packards and a Hudson. The local inhabitants were puzzled as to his appearance but were delighted to have the General's early-season business. They assured him that they would have the best guide who could not only show them how to fly-fish, but also show them where best to fish and what flies would achieve the desired results. They helped the General's aides erect some splendid looking army tents complete with all the amenities, and everyone had the best night’s sleep they've had in a longtime.

  The next day was the
day we started this story. Everyone was eager to try their hand at fly-fishing. Even the grumbling aides finally got into the spirit of things and were anxious to get into their waders and start slinging flies around.

  Ten and two, the old guide kept repeating to the group. The group made a valiant effort not to look foolish in front of their peers. MacArthur was a natural, or maybe he picked it up along his many travels around the world or when he was with his father stationed out west. He quickly grew tired of the routine and wanted to start catching fish for breakfast...or at least lunch.

  The fishing camp was set up in a beautiful area which had been cleared years ago for a Boy Scout camp. But today it looked like the headquarters of a military campaign. Come to think of it, so did the Boy Scout camp. Tall pines ringed a large clearing and eagles could be seen looking for the same fish as the fishermen.

  The General broke away from the rest of the sometimes struggling group and grabbed one of the guides and an aide. They walked towards the sound of rapids. The Wolf was flush with fresh run off from some late-spring rain storms and was running high and fast. The standing waves of the mighty Wolf rivaled any out west and the chute that was known as Gardner Dam was a slight narrowing of the river. The dam made a deep pool, where the big trout could be found. This is where the granddaddies of Brookies and Browns hung out, and the guide of course, knew this and directed Mac to stand on the bank and throw a few practice casts.

  On the third cast there was a strike, and the General calmly pulled in a good-looking twenty-six inch Brook trout. It was as beautiful a fish as you would ever see. The guide assisted with netting the fish then promptly grabbed it by the gills, and broke its back. That was the proper way to end the life of such a magnificent fish. There was no gradually drowning in a bucket for this wily trout. Its death was instantaneous and painless, one would suppose.