World War Three 1946 Series Boxed Set: Stalin Strikes First

by Harry Kellogg

  “Did you look at the condition of those crewmen after they crawled out of that little sausage? I don’t think they will ever walk properly again. What a joke to expect them to ever get back into those death-traps again. They are not meant to be out there so far from home.”

  “Be quiet, Comrade First Officer. We only have six B-subs and there are hundreds of those midgets. If we can extend their range by giving relief to their crews and resupply them to double their range, that is a mission worth running. The Brits will never know what hit them; so many attacks, from so many places, yet no subs to sink.”

  “I guess your correct Comrade Captain. Imagine their consternation when they finally catch one of those midgets and they are way past their normal cruising range. They will panic and for an extremely good reason. Are we actually expected to relieve those crews on the midgets?”

  “The commissar has said we should call them 'The Little Ones.'”

  “Well, Capitan...Midgets or Little Ones, it makes no difference. They will not fare well in this kind of sea.”

  “The joint attacks are set for tomorrow First Officer, and The Little Ones will create quite a splash, especially way out there where the NATO fools will never expect them.” Imagine their surprise when they finally get a hold of one and try and figure out how they went so far on their limited fuel. As for an incentive...the crews get to go home as heroes if they complete their mission. Heroes with money in their pockets, and from what I hear some of them will gain not only their hero’s welcome, but also a reprieve from going back to prison or even from execution. A successful mission means a lot to these men and their families, who are closely tied to their valor. No First Officer, I do not envy them but I do understand their motivation.”

  “Tomorrow they should all be in position far out in areas never imagined by the NATO sub-hunters. Then whoever is left will meet with us, and our sister ships, to receive new supplies, trade crews and get a well-deserved welcome back home. Meanwhile, new Little Ones are making their way to meeting areas far away from the prying eyes of NATO”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Will The Wonders Never Cease?

  German FuG 280 Kiel Night Vision

  ***

  More and more German inspired wonder weapons make it to the frontlines. Many are due to the industrial genius of one Sergo Peskov. This one is particularly intriguing as it will take back the night from radar and change the balance of power when the blackness of night falls.

  ***

  Night Eyes

  The missiles glinted in the sun, each waiting for its time to fire into the sky. It was just a few hours until sundown and these special missiles were even more deadly than the previous generation. They were made for the night. Their guidance systems had been given night vision based on the German FuG 280 Kiel. These missiles are able to see the heat signatures of the British bombers.

  The basic missile was the Wasserfal but the night vision was something totally different; painting ghostly images in lead sulfide on a glass plate once the missile was within four kilometers of its target. The night was no longer safe from predators. The night no longer guaranteed success over a once-blind foe. The night would now become a killing ground for both sides.

  After the missiles are fired in the general direction of the sound of the bombers, the guidance system became active as soon as the maximum range was reached then ghostly images appeared to guide them on an intersecting path; a path that would end in perhaps as many as two or more bombers dropping like a flaming torch towards the earth below.

  Thanks to the German scientists that the Soviets now had in their custody, they finally had a defensive weapon that could counter the RAF's night-bombers and fighters. All they needed was time to produce the weapons, but production was slow. Once they had these night missiles in numbers the RAF would have to alter their assumptions about night bombing. It would become as deadly as daylight bombing.

  The era of the untouchable bomber was coming to an end. The ground-to-sky missile was about to alter the course of history in favor of the Soviets. Another way had to be found. Another way had to be tried. Maybe the old ways were best in times of ever-shifting wonder weapons. Maybe it was time to re-read Clausewitz and Sun-Tzu. Maybe technology was not the answer.

  “How many do we have for tonight’s raid Ivan?”

  “An even dozen comrade.”

  “Not enough to take the sting out of the expected raid, but enough to make the Limeys wonder just what the night holds. Maybe enough to make them think twice, before they strike at night again.”

  “It should strike fear in their hearts. Imagine seeing missiles coming from the ground streaking unerringly towards your plane, or the plane next to you. Even if it does not hit just the fact that it knows where you are in the pitch darkness will give them nightmares.”

  “The testing went well I assume.”

  “Well enough for what is intended. Again, the British will be met with heavy opposition which will lead them to believe that we have overwhelming resources, resources enough to cover even such a strategically-insignificant target as Cologne. Imagine being their bomber command thinking this target will be lightly-defended only to have missiles that can see in the blackness, reaching up and striking their bombers, no matter what kind of countermeasures they try.”

  “As an added bonus seeing that their jamming attempts are ineffective against our missiles, they might abandon some of their more primitive measures in order to concentrate on more sophisticated methods. Ironically, this will allow our currently useless night-fighters a chance to do their job. They will be up there as a bluff. Maybe the RAF night-fighters will think that they have something to do with the missiles and that they would be wasting their efforts in trying to interdict them.”

  “Comrade, you know as well as I do that those missiles are easily led astray if you know how they are guided.”

  “I'm sure that Comrade Beria is making sure that particular secret never sees English eyes. Hopefully by that time, we will have more tricks up our sleeve for them to ponder over.”

  “We can only hope so, comrade.”

  Catch a Falling Star

  Finally the bombers could be heard coming from the south. A clever direction if the Soviets did not already have advanced knowledge of their target and scheduled route. The dozen missiles were ready for launch as soon as the direction was confirmed, and it was determined that the timing was right. If launched too soon, the missiles would be out in front of the bombers when the guidance system was activated and they would never find the bombers. If they were launched too late, the guidance system would never "see" the bombers' exhaust as the angle would be wrong.

  Without foreknowledge of where and when the bombers were going to attack, the system would not work. Unfortunately for the RAF that was not the case and the Soviets knew exactly where, and when, the raid was to occur.

  The sound of the bombers started to become loud enough to be heard with the unaided ear. The acoustical range-finder had picked them up long ago, and the listening posts estimated their altitude and the type of bombers, which were Lincolns, by the sound of them. This made sense, as this model had become the replacement for the venerable Lancasters. It was time to launch, and one by one the missiles ignited and streaked towards the ink-black sky in the direction of the incoming bombers.

  The bombers droned on toward their targets confident that they could see in the night and that the enemy was blind. They believed that their enemy to be blinded by their jamming, and the bombers were aided by their radar. The first sight of missiles reaching up for them, riding along tongues of flame, must have come as something of a shock. Regardless of what they saw they remained supremely confident in their electronic wizards who were jamming and spoofing the systems of any Soviet night-fighters foolish enough to be in the air. Their own escorting night-fighters were beginning to have a field day, against the primitive attempts at night-interception that the Soviets had been reduced to. Just the same they released chaff a
s extra insurance in the hopes that the enemy had not learned any new tricks.

  At first, to their amazement, and then to their horror, the missiles stopped their random assent and seemed to be guided to their formations. What kind of invisible hand could be behind such behavior? How could these backward peasants design something that their technicians could not counter? They had no idea that invisible hot gases venting from their exhaust systems spelled doom for some of their number.

  They continued to fly on towards their target even when the first missile streaked through their formation without hitting a bomber. Then all hell broke loose as the second missile exploded near Red Flight One, and instantly destroyed two Lincolns, sending them spiraling towards the earth flaming like torches. Two more bombers were hit by debris and fell out of formation. The next two missiles seemed to veer towards the explosions and appeared to malfunction.

  Meanwhile, the Soviet night-fighters now had an excellent idea of where their targets were and by using the mark-one eyeball started to score hits on some of the other bombers which had become visible due to the pyrotechnics emanating from the exploding bombers. Each flaming bomber that tried to hold formation illuminated his neighbors. Each flaming bomber drew Soviet night-fighters, like moths to a flame.

  Panicked gunners started to fire at phantoms in the night and at the demonic missiles. This added to the panic, and in turn gave even more targets for the mark-one eyeball to zero in on. More bombers started to fall. Not necessarily due to any more missile strikes, but to old-fashioned cannon fire aided by more and more flaming Lincolns, and the muzzle flashes from their own defensive machine guns. Once the convoy was located a number of Soviet Pe-3's fired missiles into the formations. Missiles designed to illuminate the target rich environment further. Missiles designed to light up the night and spell the doom of more RAF bombers.

  The ground-to-sky missiles had been sighted along the expected path of the bomber stream and were launched at intervals so as to locate the bomber stream as it ponderously flew to its intended target. They were used as a kind of pathfinder for the more conventional night-fighters of the Red Army Air Force. The missiles only actually shot down six bombers with only three of the twelve fired working as designed. These three missiles effectively marked the targets for the hordes of night-fighters prowling the skies. These night-fighters did the real damage, aided by all the old forms of night-fighting. Countermeasures such as searchlights, illumination shells, the human eye, and so on. All designed to light up the sky around the bomber flights and to help detect their location just long enough for the cannon shell to find its mark.

  Antiaircraft guns were much more accurate when the exact altitude of their targets was known. Searchlights are able to pick up targets much easier when one of the neighboring bombers is a flaming torch directing your aim. A night-fighter pilot's aim is much better when his target is visible. All in all, the more conventional means of the night-fighters and antiaircraft ground fire shot down the vast majority of the bombers.

  The final tally was thirteen percent of the bomber force destroyed. This was not an acceptable loss rate. The Soviet night-fighters also lost many of their numbers, but they were used to such losses. This was to be considered a major victory over night-bombing in World War Three. This shocked RAF Bomber Command. This also shocked NATO. This delayed the RAF bombing campaign for months. A handful of missiles may have altered the course of the entire war.

  ***

  The object of this diary told tale, actually died fairly soon after he reached combat in the Pyrenees. His tale is typical of the first veterans to rejoin the fight. They were not concerned about the foe or the cause they just knew that war was what they lived for.

  ***

  Fall In Connecticut

  Fall was coming early to Connecticut. The temperature dropped overnight into the 40's and it was only September 6th. The leaves were starting to feel the brush of autumn colors, and the angle of the sun made the shadows longer earlier. He liked the fall and his three years in the Pacific made him miss it even more. He wondered how fall looked in the Mediterranean.

  He had done his time but civilian life just wasn’t working out for him. His two semesters at the University of Connecticut had been a welcome distraction but not inspiring. He was having trouble sleeping and the dreams about Tarawa made him dread the night. He fully intended to go to school and get a degree but with the Reds taking over Europe, it just didn’t seem right for him to sit on his hands and let it happen.

  Yeah, all the arguments about letting others do their part kept rattling in his brain but he was good at being a soldier. He liked the simplicity of military life. You knew what to expect and if you kept your nose clean and did your job you got rewarded. Three square meals a day, and everything else was taken care of. No insurance or mortgage problems and you met girls; and then you shipped out, with no attachments.

  College girls were always looking to get married. They wanted to tie you down. The kind of girls that hung out in the bars near the base weren’t like that. They lived like you did: one day at a time. No plans for tomorrow; just do your job and have some fun while you can. The rest will fall into place. He hated to plan ahead. He guessed that’s why he was still a corporal when he got out, despite a fistful of medals and commendations.

  Luckily he didn’t get the Medal of Honor. Those poor schmucks had to put on a show and lived in a fish bowl every time they were stateside. Everyone watched their every move. Not many of them made very good civilians. The Silver Star was just fine; prestigious enough to get you a good job and a drink or two but not overwhelming, like the Medal of Honor was.

  He wondered if you can turn it down. Well, hopefully he won’t ever have to worry about that. He was going to join up again; not only for his country, and all that other patriotic stuff, but for himself. He loved being in combat. The rush some called it. Something to do with adrenaline he read somewhere. He didn’t care what it was; he just knew he needed it. He craved it, and nothing like fighting for your life and hunting other human beings provided it. He was a natural-born killer he guessed. He had been thinking about the French Foreign Legion, when the Reds attacked. Now he had an excuse to do what he loved.

  The Japs were easy to kill. Being so different and all. He wondered how it would feel the first time he looked into a white man’s face as he shoved a knife in his chest. Would he have regrets or feel sorry for the guy since he looked like him? He doubted it, but who knew for sure until it happened?

  He like using a knife, close in. He was very lucky that there was another war to fight, otherwise he might have done something stupid in some bar fight or something. Better to fight for your country and get medals, than to kill some drunk in a bar.

  What a thing to be good at; killing another man. Maybe he should have gone into the boxing game. It was similar to combat. Oh well too late now. He’d go see the recruiter tomorrow. He was actually looking forward to going to sleep tonight. Maybe the demons that plagued his dreams would be slain by his decision to join up again. Then again maybe he would just create some more.

  ***

  A goodly number of GIs decided to come back or stayed in Western Europe. Many are now trapped both by love and by war.

  ***

  16-Hour Days

  He didn’t know how many more sixteen-hour days he could take. They had been at it for three long weeks and they were all running on empty. Just yesterday Collins had slipped and fallen under the wheels of that grader. Crushed his left foot and messed up his back badly. You just can’t work these long hours and not expect to have some major accidents.

  The Soviet attacks weren’t expected until October. At least that was their stated deadline. That overflight last month was a wake-up call as to how this battle was going to be different from 1940. The Soviet planes were faster and had the range to reach all of the British Isles. A huge change in strategy by the RAF was in order. Yes, they would know ahead of time when and where the Soviets would show up but what
did it matter when they could blanket the whole country; a blanket bristling with guns and bombs.

  Thank God they had no equivalent to the Boeing B-29, or the Avro Lincoln. The Reds were masters of low-level combat and no matter what the papers said about the Spitfires and Meteors advantage in speed and height the battle would be at low to medium altitudes. The Spit pilots were going to have to learn how to 'boom and zoom' in a Spit. That was something they, and the plane, were not meant to do. You get into a turning fight at low-level when you're outnumbered and you will not last long. Not according to his brother-in-law the pilot.

  He was saying that the Reds were a different kind of animal than the Krauts. He mentioned something about a special antiaircraft round that would take care of many a Red pilot. The Brit fighters were supposed to lay off the initial attacks and let the AA gunners do their job because of the possibility of friendly-fire problems. The plan was to catch them before they hit land and then mess with them as they 'egress.' That was some fancy word for heading back home to your base.

  He was having many second thoughts about coming back to England and marrying Betty. Oh, he loved her and all that, but it sure would be safer in the good old U.S. of A. It looked like the Brits were going to fight and at least that was a relief. But where in the hell were the Yanks? His countrymen were not stepping up to the plate, and from all the newspaper reports, they were having trouble finding enough guys to join up.

  Yet, every vet he knew was signing up again. I suppose I’m doing more good here getting these airfields ready again then going through basic training again and all that paperwork. According to Ma, all the neighborhood boys were signing up and had already left so he sure didn’t know where all this shortage talk was coming from. Maybe it was a propaganda ploy. If it was then, where were they? They weren’t here in England that’s for sure.