The Free World War

by Matthew William Frend

  Blackett smirked. So he has a sense of humor after all.

  “Da Valentin … the joke – the joke is on me.”

  The clean white corridor of the frozen Danube loomed ahead from out of the comforting drift of snowflakes.

  Without stopping, the column continued from the road’s end and out onto the river of ice.

  Blackett braced himself as if the scout car could break through the crust any second, plunging them into the subzero water below, and certain death.

  He looked down from the passenger side door and spied a row of thin black stakes being used as a guideline by the driver. Just a few feet beyond, he could make out the cracked and jagged surface of the river, caused by shifting ice floes moving slowly beneath a deceptive blanket of white.

  “Wait a sec … why aren’t we …”

  “Breaking through? Ha! Your face again!” laughed the Russian.

  “It’s an underwater bridge,” he said. “One of several built by the Red Army in 1945 when they attacked through here on their way to Vienna.”

  Blackett had heard of these “bridges.” A roadway of dirt and gravel bulldozed to a level just below the waterline so they weren’t visible from the air, and with buried pipes to allow the water to continue flowing beneath.

  “Handy … it’s no wonder the previous RLA crossings haven’t been discovered. Don’t the Bolsheviks know about it?”

  “Nyet … it was forgotten. We had to … how do you say … renyovate it? In this weather it is easily concealed. The crushed ice from the tank tracks just refreezes and is then covered by more snow.”

  The convoy of over two hundred vehicles took an hour to traverse the bridge. When the last vehicle exited, a group of partisans rushed out and began to gather the markers. They were accompanied by horse and cart, into which the stakes were hastily thrown.

  Previous crossings had required a more rigorous cleanup. In clearer weather, the partisans made several passes over the frozen ruts made by the tanks, raking in fresh snow from the sides to cover the fresh tracks.

  Safely across the Danube, the column was now in hostile territory.

  ∞

  Mojave City

  2265 CE

  “Hesta, it’s been over thirty-six hours, why so long?” asked Arjon.

  “The extenuating circumstances are such that most, if not all, of recent human history is being rewritten.”

  “From one man’s actions? That’s very interesting.”

  He thought of a documentary he’d seen where the meganet had been used to produce a more far-reaching example of alternative events than that which Hesta was working on.

  In that case, Alexander the Great chose not to attack the Persian Empire, but instead stayed and consolidated Greece’s influence in the Mediterranean. The effects had been disastrous for subsequent world events. Democracy, and many other positive facets of Greco-Roman culture, had failed to propagate throughout the species.

  The documentary proposed that a world dominated by the more reactionary Eastern philosophies, such as Confucianism, or far worse – Bushido, would have eventuated.

  Arjon shuddered at the thought of the militaristic Samurai shaping human history. Shoguns and stunted feet … geez – thank you Alexander.

  ∞

  February 14th, 1946

  Near Enns, Austria

  As the column left the Danube behind, the slotted headlights on all vehicles were turned off. The drivers would have to complete the remainder of the journey using only the limited night-vision given by the faint glow of the surrounding snow. Fortunately, they only had twenty miles to go before reaching their destination in the partisan-controlled mountains.

  At the rear of the convoy several trucks and an M26 tank recovery vehicle comprised the ordnance unit. Trained by the US Army in the preceding months, it was their task to look after any breakdowns. Before crossing the Danube, these had simply been abandoned on the roadside in friendly country. Now they had to either be got going again, or else towed away from the road and into the trees, and then covered with camouflaged netting to reduce the chance of discovery.

  Inside the M3A1, Blackett was elated. He reveled in this kind of underground operations – of being behind enemy lines, where a small team can cause a disproportionate amount of mayhem.

  Rather than trying to get any sleep, he watched out the window and soaked up the darkness, so essential to covering their activity. He was ever mindful of all the contingencies which could ruin their progress – breakdowns, accidents, the worsening weather … patrols.

  With these in mind he speculated to Rhuzkoi. “Well, at least if this scout car breaks down we won’t need to hide it – we sold thousands of them to the Red Army.”

  “Da … although we never had any in my old unit. We saw many of your US tanks in other divisions, and of course the Studebakers.”

  Blackett continued to run the possibilities over in his mind, searching for anything they might have missed. The earlier columns had also been comprised of the trucks and tanks sold to the Reds under Lend Lease. Would that arouse suspicion if they were spotted? Would the locals even know the difference between theirs and the Russian built vehicles? There had been so little information coming from Eastern Europe since the war’s end – a world growing steadily colder and darker as the Kremlin sought to distance itself from its cooperation with the Allies.

  An intersection came out of gloom without warning. Still at full speed, they followed the lead armored car through the junction. In the cab, heads snapped to the left in unison as down a side road in the distance, a pair of headlights glimmered.

  “Pull over!” cried Blackett.

  The car slowed and stopped on the edge of the road to the right. Blackett waved the following vehicles past.

  “Find room to turn around … over there!” he said, pointing to a gap in the trees.

  They did a U-turn on the shoulder then sped back toward the intersection, as the column of blacked-out vehicles continued on.

  Rhuzkoi pulled his balaclava up over his face so that only his eyes were visible.

  In a muffled voice, he called to Blackett, “I will take the .50 caliber.”

  He clambered back over his seat and into the rear compartment, then stood up behind the machine gun.

  Blackett checked his Colt .45, then reached over and grabbed a Thompson sub-machine gun. They turned to the left, and as they were driving without lights would not be seen by any oncoming traffic. Blackett signaled the driver to slow down and bear off the road slightly, as against the whitish backdrop, they would be spotted sooner.

  The sound of tree branches whipping the side of the car gave the driver an indication that he was over far enough. The oncoming headlights increased in brightness.

  Blackett thought for a moment that perhaps it might be a civilian, a farmer in his truck on the way back from the market in Bratislava.

  Too bad.

  The gravity of what was at stake pushed all other thoughts from his mind. Before the beam of the approaching lights hit them, he yelled, “Fire!”

  Rhuzkoi opened up and the cannon-like sound of the heaviest machine gun of the war exploded into life.

  Every fifth round a tracer, the Major soon found his target. Sparks and flame spattered out from the now visible patrol vehicle.

  A wildly conflicting barrage of thoughts entered Blackett’s mind. Goddam that’s ironic … that’s another M3A1.

  It was an earlier version of the one they were in. It seemed to wobble, almost floating above the snow-covered surface of the road … then it swiveled on its axis and spun into the trees.

  The .50 cal ceased fire abruptly and the sound of the engine returned.

  The intervening seconds before they reached the wreck seemed to last for minutes. Had anyone heard the gunfire? Would there be survivors ready to open fire on them?

  What were they going to do if one of them had escaped into the woods to raise the alarm? They stopped and Blackett leapt out, Thompson at the ready.
He rushed up to the cab and let loose – emptying half of the clip in a wide spray from front to back of the scout car’s cabin.

  In the half-lit glow of the burning engine, he could only see the dim shapes of the three bodies inside jerking crazily from the bullet impacts. No survivors.

  Rhuzkoi joined him and inspected the vehicle. He took some satisfaction at the sight of the shattered windscreen. Only a few rounds from the .50 cal. would have been needed to obliterate it and instantly kill the occupants.

  “Let’s go,” said Blackett, “we’ll catch up with the tail-end of the convoy and get the M26 to come back here to tow the wreck into the trees.”

  “Da … but they’ll be missed by morning. We must also radio the partisans to prepare an ambush here to cover our tracks.”

  “Gotcha … that’s a better idea – we’ll leave it here then.”

  They left and soon caught the column. Rhuzkoi reluctantly broke radio silence to send a message to the partisans at the bridge. It was a game of ever-increasing risks.

  The remaining cards fell in their favor, and they arrived at Königswiesen before midnight. The hamlet was ideal for this purpose, lying in a valley and flanked by heavily wooded mountains on either side. RLA troops directed them to prepared sites under thick camouflage netting in the forest lining the valley’s edge.

  Around them, barely visible among the trees, were the outlines of more RLA armor, including many Russian tanks. These had been recovered from the defeated German army, who in turn, had captured them from the Red Army during the preceding years of conflict.

  Blackett and Rhuzkoi, along with several senior officers from the column, were led up a steep trail to a hunting lodge. It was invisible in the snow-covered darkness, until they were only a few feet away from the slips of light peeking out from behind blackout curtains.

  Inside, a blazing fireplace greeted them, and RLA officers hurried about busily. A tall, bespectacled General noticed them and left a group hovering above a map table. He stepped over and embraced Major Rhuzkoi warmly.

  “Comrade General,” said Rhuzkoi, “this is Colonel William Blackett of the United States Office of Strategic Services.”

  Blackett took an offered hand, and said, “It’s an honor to finally meet you General Vlasov.”

  “It is a mutual pleasure Colonel. We have much to thank your OSS for.”

  “Well General, if you are referring to your recent escape from captivity while in transit to Moscow, I’m sure all of the credit belongs to your anti-Bolshevik friends.”

  Vlasov chuckled appreciatively. The tall Russian had an imposing presence – the aura of a man with a purpose.

  As though every minute counted, the General motioned the small group of arrivals to a circle of heavy leather chairs around the fireplace.

  After a quick debrief of their expedition, and the encounter with the Red Army patrol vehicle, Blackett took the General aside and asked him about something that had been piquing his interest.

  “I have a question General, please let me know if it’s inappropriate, but it’s about the document we passed on to General Patton. He took it with him to Washington, and it appears to have been highly effective in influencing our government’s policy.”

  Vlasov indicated approval, also giving a quizzical look to his liaison officer. Rhuzkoi shrugged his shoulders, unknowingly.

  “We don’t doubt the document’s authenticity … it’s just I was hoping to provide a more detailed explanation of how it was acquired.”

  Blackett paused, choosing his words very carefully. “You see, General Patton is an officer of the highest honor …” another pause, both Vlasov and the Major were listening attentively. “And we’re sure you would wish to maintain that honor in all of your dealings with the General.”

  The Russians showed no reaction, but Blackett read their body language as being positive. Chests prominent, chins outstanding … there was no subterfuge here, they weren’t hiding anything, Blackett could tell that these too, were men of honor.

  “Colonel, I would explain to you with pride how we obtained the letter …” said Vlasov, “but I cannot.”

  Blackett’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “If it will breach confidentiality I can assure you …”

  “Colonel, we will provide you with full disclosure … once the operation is completed,” said Vlasov.

  “At this stage, lives would still be at risk – important lives. You must continue to trust in the validity of the letter, and that our intentions are also … honorable.”

  With that, the conference was over. General Vlasov and the officers of his command returned to the large map table, and their task of preparing for the following day … they were off to start a war.

  ∞

  Feb 18th, 1946

  Steyr, Austria

  The blare of klaxons through the trees sent a flock of sparrows fleeing from their overnight roost. The sirens heralded the arrival of the 3rd Army commander to the villa which was serving as a temporary 10th Armored Division headquarters.

  His Dodge half-ton command car was followed by several limousines. On their bonnets fluttered the flags of their respective nations. The British and French military governors to Austria were here as observers. The entourage spilled out of their vehicles and exchanged greetings. They were here to see the latest additions to their US ally’s arsenal – the T30 heavy tank, aptly known as the Mammoth.

  One of the 64-ton giants stood with a light coating of frost in the villa’s outer courtyard, near a statue of a mounted Duke Leopold VI. Its massive turret had a squarish protrusion on either side which housed the latest radar range-finding technology.

  The early morning sun struggled to break through the clouds, and light snow began to fall as General Patton addressed his guests.

  “Gentlemen, this tank represents one of the updates to our armored warfare doctrine.”

  He slowly paced around to the front of the tank, where the long-barreled 155mm gun rested in its travel sling.

  “A shift from the mobility of lightly armored medium tanks, such as the Sherman, to a thickly-armored vehicle with overwhelming firepower.”

  The Mammoth stood like a monument to destruction. Its metallic hull resonated an aura of indestructibility, and seemed to amplify the General’s words.

  “I won’t’ bore you gentlemen with the tactical detail … but basically this type of tank will be deployed to our GHQ tank battalions, and along with armored infantry and engineers, form the spearhead of an attack.”

  Lieutenant General Béthouart took off his Legionnaire hat and dusted off a few errant snowflakes.

  “Mon General, does this mean that your stalwart Sherman tank is now obsolete?”

  “I’m afraid so … the lessons learned while beating the Germans have manifested themselves in this weapon platform.”

  A question from General McCreery was a little more difficult to answer, “I’m curious about how the development and mass production of such a weapon came about?” The British commander groomed his moustache thoughtfully, “After all, the war is over, and the Russians don’t appear to be spoiling for a fight.”

  Patton laughed, “My dear General, if I asked you what the politicians in Whitehall were thinking … could you give me a straight answer?”

  The British General touched the peak of his cap, acknowledging that he would get no clearer explanation than the one he’d received.

  “So, Mon General … what will be following this … spearhead?”

  Patton’s voice magnified with pride as he tapped the plate armor of the T30 with his crop.

  “That we will see in a later demonstration. Our armored divisions are also being equipped with the fastest and most powerful medium tanks ever produced.”

  He scanned the early morning sky. As if on cue, the air suddenly erupted with the roar of a flight of P57 Thunderbolt fighter bombers.

  It seemed to be a signal for the day’s maneuvers to start. The fading thunder from the sky was joined by a roll
ing boom from nearby artillery.

  The crew of the Mammoth mounted up and the 700hp Continental engine roared to life.

  General McCreery and the others moved aside as the icy ground shuddered and cracked beneath the tank’s extra wide tracks.

  “Over 2 feet wide!” shouted Patton above the roar, “… so they’ll go right over the mud!”

  ∞

  Mojave City

  2265 CE

  “Simulation complete.”

  “Thank you, Hesta,” said Arjon. “I’d now like you to produce an enhanced version containing CGI re-enactments of the key turning points in history. Can that be completed by this evening?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Good! I’ll see if Eya wants to stay in for a movie night.” “The presentation will be scheduled to follow your evening meal.”

  “Nothing too filling. I want to leave room for popcorn.”

  ∞

  Feb 18th, 1946

  Steyr, Austria

  The T30 Mammoth rolled over a hill and out of sight as a flight of fighter bombers flew overhead. The exercise was now in full swing.

  The group of high-ranking officers and dignitaries sat on a viewing platform overlooking a snow-covered plain bordered by evergreen forest. The forest’s edge concealed a line of concrete bunkers and anti-tank emplacements – the entrenched enemy. US infantry occupied this line, acting in the defensive role of Red Force. Moving irrevocably toward them, Blue Force, a brigade of Mammoth’s together with their ground support troops.

  Simulating a real attack, the smoke rounds from the heavy tanks scored hit after hit from long range … well before they would have been under fire from the smaller caliber anti-tank fire. Gun emplacements withered under the barrage, and bunkers were systematically reduced by Blue Force’s cooperating units of armor and engineers.

  The visitors in the stands watched and talked excitedly, clearly impressed by what they were seeing. In the front row, however, sitting next to Patton, General McCreery shifted uneasily.