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Book One World War Three 1946

Book One World War Three 1946
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Saturday, May 25, 2013

Cambridge Bombing by Tallthinkev

They made it to the shelter with plenty of time of time to spare. The air raid siren was still going, Maureen's father, Wal, had been thinking about taking the top off and filling it in, it was lucky he hadn't.
This was a time they needed it.
The last raid Cambridge had suffered was in '44, the Mini Blitz, it was later called. Charlie, Maureen and Keith's uncle joined them a little while later.
'What have you been doing?' asked Nan
'Just banking up the fire.' replied Charlie 'and bringing in the dinner.' He handed Mo and Keith a sandwich each. 'where's Wal?'
'River Lane, taking some extra milk to my sisters.'
'Uncle Charlie? Have you been busy at work? You've been coming in after we had to go to bed.'
'I've been very busy?'
'Doing what?'
'You should know by now, not to ask questions, could be about the war.' said their mother.
'I don't think we should worry about spies. It's the Bolshevik’s not the Jerries, Nan.'
The door was flung open and Wal came in, out of breath.
'Are you alight dad?'
'A bit out of puff that's all. Everyone nice and cosy now and that's not too bad.'
'Did you see any of them dad?' asked Keith
'Where are they going?'
'Hasn't your mother told you not to ask questions like that?'
Just as they had finished their sandwiches the first of a series of bangs started. First the dull thud of those a few miles away then getting closer and higher in pitch. The shelter shook. The dust that accumulated of the ceiling of the shelter rain down making what was left of their tea, or milk for the children worse than useless. Another very large bang was almost drowned out by the noise of low flying aircraft. This carried on for what seemed like forever, to the Mo anyway.
'Why are the bloody Russian worse than the Jerry's dad?' Keith had to shout. He got a thick ear because of that.
'Where did you learn that kind of language young man.' asked his mother, herself almost shouting.
It was almost silent in the shelter now, apart from the tears from the children, uncle Charlie wasn't far away from it himself.
'What's wrong uncle Charlie.' asked Mo
'It's worse than the trenches, bombing innocent children, the Hun only shot at us then. These bastard commies, they just don't care, just as bad as the Japs. No, worse.'
The rest of them knew not to say anything now, Charlie very rarely mentioned The Great War.
When the all clear sounded. They emerged from their underground bolt hole.
It was raining.
Behind them they could see The Maltings, or what was left of them. The smell of burning barley filled the air.
Their bungalow. Still there. The house two doors down wasn't, and next-door had one less wall than it did an hour earlier. Broken glass was shattered everywhere, from the grass around the shelter to the roof of their home.
Keith ran off. 'Where do you think you're going?' Nan almost screamed.
'The fire. Someone has to make sure it's still alight.'
Little Maureen Alsop ran as fast as her six year old legs could carry her. She was chasing after her ten year old brother Keith, and behind them both ran their mother.

Cambridge Bombing - Cambridge Airport byTallthinkev

It had been, all in all, a funny few days thought Jack. Everywhere else had been bombed to buggery and back. One light raid at the airport and that was it. Did they get it wrong and Cambridge wasn't the target?

Who knew?

The siren sounded. In what for the first time in three hours? And the last four had been false alarms, their planes just went over head, high overhead.

This time Jack could see them, lower this time. They were going to be in for it. Then the airport siren sounded.

He got undercover, fast.

He jumped into the slip trench and landed on someone, then someone landed on him. Always the same. Why was he in the middle of the heap?

Their planes dropped whatever they dropped he didn't know.


Napalm and HE. Much more of a punch than the big raids of the Jerries. That was for sure. At least the ack-ack had open up. Maybe they would get some of them this time.

Another thought.

When they, if they shot one down where would it end up? The middle of town, over Teversham, Milton? As long as he wasn't under it, well sometime better not to dwell on things.

The all clear.

It was not as bad as he had thought. The far end of the strip was the only thing he could see that had been hit. It had been napalm.

They let it burn, no good trying to put that stuff out. The more you tried, the more it spread.


The Afternoon.

Jack ran, again.

This time to bring in a P-51 into one of the armored hangers. Maybe the word armored was not the best way to put it. Just a congregated iron roof and wooden sides with many layers of sand bags around them, still more than enough to keep any damage away from the planes stored within them. They where also were dug into the ground a few feet. Duck boards helped and even better were the Marsden strips the Yanks had made to reinforce grass strips. It was still causing a few problems, with all the rain they were getting. Better wet feet than no head.

Apart from a direct hit they were fine. 

The bombing had caused havoc to many airfields to the south and the aircraft had no where to go. Each time the pilots had to fly farther away from their basses to land. Others were stuck at their bases unable to take off. The RAF and other NATO forces had shot down a hell of a lot of Russians. But for each one they downed other two seemed to pop up and attack what was left of the allied forces. Most of the radar stations where damaged or destroyed. Sector stations were another big target.

The one ace, they did have up their sleeves was the flying radar, like the Wellington Jack had worked on, as well as quite a number of other type of planes.

Some from the navy even.


Jack wouldn't know one if it stood in front of him, he hoped the ack-ack gunners would though. They were flying over the West Country and even over Wales. These had proved invaluable to NATO, as there ability to see the enemy when they took off in France gave the sector stations enough time to organise what was left to fly, and to get to where they were needed.

The Empire and other pilots were doing their best the overwhelming odds against Stalin's men. Any Red pilot that bailed out landed in England was left in England The reformed Home Guard soon rounded them up and shot them on the spot if they didn't give up at once. Something else different from the last time round with this war.

Another fighter came, in this time a Spitfire. One of the new Mk 21's, if Jack wasn't mistaken.

As it landed it veered towards one of the dug outs coming to a stop just yards away. Jack, Tom and the others ran towards it swinging it around so the tail faced the open front.

It took two goes.

As the first time the port wing wedged between a layer of sand bags. Still it only took 90 seconds to get it in.

He turned around to see Wilhelm standing at attention, with a look of almost awe on his face. Jack recognized the man.

Adolf Galland walked up to him and offered his hand. Jack took it. 'Well done Mr?'

'Jack Smith.'

'Well done Mr Smith and thank you.' then a smile 'Could you tell me who is in charge here?'

'I should think that it would be you now sir. You are a general' answered Jack, a bit confused. 'But best check at the office.'

Galland nodded 'Don't forget that I am President of Germany. As well as a general'

'Er, should you be up fighting, thought it would be bad thing to let them shoot you.'

'Whose going to tell me no?'

Jack was at a loss, so he just nodded.

'How about we make our little secret?' with that he walked back to Wilhelm and spoke more German. They both walked towards what was left of the office buildings.

Galland turned back 'Is it all right to borrow this young man?'

Again Jack just nodded and waved them away.

I was just about dark by the time Galland strode up the outside steps of the control tower. He had been unable to find anyone in the offices, and Wilhelm had said that was the only other place he could think that anyone could be. He opened the door.

'Any news on the other airfields, Sir Keith?'

'Evening Dolfo.'

Bedfordshire and the Cambridge Bombing by Tallthinkev

As with all bombing some bombs fell short, and with bombs falling short damage was heavy in the wrong places.
Commander Ian Fleming walked out of Cambridge police station in a mixed mood.
Donald Maclean had been on his list of suspects and Maclean was now dead. A house falling on him saw to that, Killed by the very people he served, But the other man was still alive. The man who had been found in the very same house.
'Where to sir?' asked Flemings driver.
'Addenbrookes Hospital.'
'All right sir.'

They got to the end of Hobson Street before they were stopped by a mix of regulars and Home Guard. They were asked for their papers, which they showed.

'I must ask you where you have just come from and your destination.' asked an officer.

Fleming told him 'One moment please gentlemen.' and with that the officer walked back to the little hut at the side of the road block. He returned a few minutes later, seemly happy with the answer he had got, and they were left to get on their way. Why was he stopped, when others were just waved though, was it because he was in uniform?

Still no love lost between the army and navy, then.

A few minutes later the commander walked into the entrance of the hospital and after a brief chat at the desk he walked to the ward that the man was in.

Anthony Blunt lay on a bed in the comer of the ward. Before Fleming could get to him he was stopped by a nurse.

'I'm sorry sir you can't come in here.'
'I can and I will. Now get out of my way.'
'Sir, I'm going to have to fetch the doctor if you don't leave.'
'Fetch you ever you want.' 

The nurse left the ward.

He drew the curtain around and sat next to the bed, he looked across at Blunt. He was surprised that he was even alive, he'd been told, of course, that he had suffered injuries but these were far worse than he could ever had imaged. The curtain drew open and a doctor demanded what Fleming was doing there. The commander explained the situation.

The doctor still not happy let it pass. 'If he comes around you get me before doing anything else. It that clear?' said the doctor.

'Yes doctor.' was Flemings reply. He, of course had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

By the early evening he almost nodded off. The got up with a start, Blunts eyes were open.
'How are you feeling?' asked Fleming
No answer came as Blunt lost continuousness again.
Nothing for it, he'd have to wait longer yet.

He was almost completely asleep when the curtain opened a man stepped through, he took one look at him, turned, and ran.

Fleming followed whilst pulling out his PPK, he shouted and when the man didn't stop he fired.
The man went down. Blood coming from his left shoulder.
A nurse got to the man before he could and was crouching beside him. He flung her aside.
Too late, the man had already bitten down on his cyanide capsule.
By the time others came to the ward Fleming had returned to his seat.
He sat there for what felt like an age.
Blunts eyes opened again.
'What have you got to tell me?'
Again nothing. Blunt passed out.

He came around again when he was shaken by awake by Fleming. Ian had waited for over twenty hours and it was twenty hours too long.

'Are you going to tell me who else or do I have to keep this up?'

Blunt went into some kind of fit, Fleming let him go, it passed almost as quickly as started.
Their eyes met.
He leant closer.
A mumble.
Nothing he could make out.
Another spasm and Blunt was dead.

Just over an hour later the commander was in C's office, and he told C of his last forty eight hours.

'Any idea who, if anyone, else is involved' asked C
'There are still a number of the Apostles who we haven't completely ruled out.'
'Such as?'

They talked for another half an hour. C summed up. 'Yes, we will have to go through them all again'

'I'll get right on it sir.'
'No commander. You are in no condition to do anything, you've been up, for what, the best part of three days?'

C held up his hand when Fleming started to object. 'No. You will get some rest and something inside of you.'
Fleming opened his mouth. C's hand again went up. 'That was not a suggestion.'
Fleming just nodded his head, he knew that he was shattered. 'You will put them two together, won't you sir?'

'Yes all right, but I don't really think it would do much good. They'll know we'd be watching them. But you have put a lot of work into this and you haven't been wrong yet, so yes we will, nothing to lose and all that.'

C looked across to Fleming, he was already asleep.

C watched as Cairncross and Burgess met, they first shook hands, the after a moment of hesitation embraced. A petty officer entered the room, with a tray, they both looked up. The navy man set down a hearty breakfast for them both along with a large pot of tea.

'A last meal for the condemned men?' asked Guy. There was no comment from the Royal Navy man.

They talked for the rest of their meal. How they were taken in by lies told to them, how they now knew how stupid they were and of their now hatred of Stalin.

'How many of us left?' asked Guy.

'How many indeed? A lot less than there were. We all have felt the loss of friend's. In one way or another, from fighting in Spain to being bombed by our so called allies. The bastards.'
'So you do you think is still with us?'

They went through a number of names. Some they knew were dead, others they hadn't heard from in years. Within half an hour the men were too tried to carry on and dropped off into a fitful sleep.

C turned to the man seated beside him.
'Captain Perret?'
The man looked up. 'Sir?'
'Did you get all that down.'
'Yes sir. All the recording equipment was checked earlier and of course we are writing it down as well.' He handed C the list of names the two men had talked about.

C then had an idea. He left the room. When he was out of sight of prying eyes he wrote a note on a small slip of paper and edged it under the door.
C returned and addressed a dapperly dressed man in the corner. 'You know them both, any ideas Kim?'

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

The Boy

Bill couldn’t believe his eyes. What was a little kid doing out here. For God’s sake this is crazy. Where’s his mother.
“Stop watching that child Bill and concentrate on your loading mate.”
“But Charlie he’s all alone…he’s crying and wounded. We have to help him! He’s going to die out there, we have to do something.”
“For Christ sake keep loading or we’re all dead including the boy!”
“There has to be something we can do…look at him he’s bleeding…he’s hurt and scared. He’s terrified we have to do something. We just have…”
“We’re out! Bloody hell we’re out! Alright let’s go then… we aren’t doing any good with an empty gun. Let’s go.”

Charlie is cut in two before Bill’s eyes and he just stares uncomprehending and then turns and jumps the gun emplacement sand bag wall and starts to sprint towards the boy. All he can think of is getting to him and bringing him to safety. He hears the sound of the engine and knows that a Sturmovik is coming in for a run at his former gun emplacement. He even hears the kick of the bomb being released. A wave of heat washes over him but he is on the edge of the napalms impact zone and only his legs beneath his knees are engulfed in searing pain. He is knocked down and tries to get up but his lower legs are missing and then the pain hits. The second Sturmovik’s run splashes him with napalm again.

Splashes is probably not the right term for something that is a liquid flame, that does incredible damage to the human body and soul of those who witness it and those who inflict it on others. This little splash, for wont of a better word, of this viscous, liquid flame hits his upper torso as he is struggling to remove his helmet. When the splash of napalm hits it is splashed further and lands on just a couple of patches on his left and right side. He drops his arms and they become welded to his body. This douses the flame but not before his arms are pinned. He finally starts to scream. He screams for what seems like hours and then something gets through the pain. Something cuts right though his agony. It is the little boy and he is standing by him and watching him.

He tries to detach his right arm from his body and rips a pound of flesh from his side. He is so intent on reaching the boy that he feels nothing. He reaches out but then his muscles fail him. They become detached from their bony anchor and finally the pain becomes too much and shock sets in. He collapses and he dies staring at the little boy who in turn is staring at him. 

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Where's Mum?

The boy watched the sky in awe. He was mesmerized by the swirling machines with winking lights in their nose and wings. When they came close to the ground and the flashes came from the wings there would be little explosions on the ground ahead of the plane, little explosions that where linked back to the plane by fiery trails. It was wonderful to watch and he was enthralled. He had been doing it for days between finding food to eat and sleeping. The area he was in seemed to be teaming with planes whirling and turning after each other and occasionally crashing with great noise and fireworks. It was wonderful…just wonderful and thrilling to his 3 year old eyes.

He really missed his Mum and never knew his dad. Just the men his Mum would bring home. Many of them were nice and if they were not Mum would make them leave. They brought him treats and that was nice.

At first the noisy crashes were scary but now he looked forward to them. A few had happened very close and one has sent noisy pieces of the plane spinning around him. He was nicked once by a small piece and had cried when he saw the blood. He really missed Mum then and had cried for a long time. He has no idea of time and as long as he had water and could still find the food that was in the building close by all he could do was to play by himself and watch the wonderful show going on all around him.

If he could count he would have known that he has seen 12 planes crash within a mile of where he was. 12 brave pilots much like the men who had visited his mother had died as his mother had died. Her body had saved his life as well as almost taken it. It had taken him quite a while to finally wiggle his way out from under her protective form. Once he had done that he could then wander around and find the food and water his body craved.

He had long since taken off his pants and went poopoo and peepee wherever he wanted. His poop hole was kind of sore but not always painful and he could forget how much it hurt when he watched the planes.

The big guns on the ground that used to shoot at the planes had been silent for days now. The planes with the red markings had dropped things on them and used their winking wings to make them explode in awe inspiring explosions. Sometimes after the explosions men cried out, some far into the night. Curious he went over to what was once a man, but was now a smoking pile with a head and eyes. The mouth had stopped making a wailing noise and the eyes had looked at him in wonder as it tried to detach what might have been an arm and hand to touch him. Then it collapsed in a pile like his Mum, and stopped moving…they always stopped moving.

The fiery smears of flames that engulfed large areas, were his favorite. His hearing had been severely damaged but he could still hear them when they spread their beautiful warmth and fire filled clouds over huge areas that once contained men. These flame clouds had kept him warm enough during the night. They set things on fire and he would stand or lie near them far into the night. It was cold at night.

A couple of times men had tried to come to him but had been damaged and cut down by the circling planes and their winking wings. After a while no one seemed to care and he was alone in his playground of smoke, flames, explosions and the dead.

He could not go near his Mum any more. She had started to stink and then an explosion had taken her away. She had peed and pooped in her clothes while he was under her and he had asked her why she could do that without getting put in a corner when he could not, but she had not answered. Her eyes eventually turned dead and her body cold and he knew he had to leave her. He was very thirsty and hungry when he had finally wiggled out from under her.

He guessed he was a big boy now. He remembered the other big boys in his neighborhood could run around all day without their moms always keeping watch over them. His Mum did not watch over him anymore so he must be a big boy. He cried every so often and wished she was here to watch over him again. He did not like being a big boy all the time. He missed her. He missed her so much.

No one would ever know why he and his mom were there near the airfield. In years to come when they excavated the grave site they were shocked to find the remains of such a small child. He had only 6 more hours to live but he did not know that and was getting excited as another bunch of whirling planes caught his eye and he watched in fascination as three of the red marked planes tried to stay on the tail of the green plane with the circles on its wings. He knew they were circles. His Mum had taught him that.

Just before the green plane crashed into the ground it came very close to him and he saw the pilots face staring in wonder at him as he waved. He had a nice face. He wished that he was his father. The last six hours and 3 minutes of his life were like the last 3 days or so. He ate some food, played with some interesting pieces of metal, went to the puddle and drank some water, cried a few times in loneliness and then wandered into an area he had never been before. He fell into a large pit and never regained consciousness. That’s where all the other bodies were eventually put in temporary graves. His mother and the pilot of the plane that he waved at were put in the pit as well. One small pile of what was humanity waiting to be discovered and separated into still other holes in the ground. As we all know they are just bodies and not the real person.

His body was never identified and his remains were placed in an unmarked grave. There should have been no one to even remembered his name or that he have once existed. Yet there was one. A secretary who had helped deliver him when she had heard his mother crying next door. Out he came before the doctor could get there. It was all she could so to hang on to him he cried so loudly. She was going through some old records and getting ready to store them when she remembered the little boy being born to that young girl. Pretty hard to forget that. He had such a smile. Most newborns don’t smile. He did from the get go. She was sure that she would see him in the films. His smile was so dazzling even as a newborn.

His name was Jeremy. His stood out so vividly in her mind. She was 7 months pregnant and just then decided to name her baby Jeremy if it was a boy.  Jeremy Beadle…now that had a nice ring to it.

Double Down

John Dunellen was a double ace and he was in deep shit. He was slowly gaining distance from the pack of Yak 9s chasing him but he was running out of time and space. His wingman and squadron mates had been separated during takeoff. It was hard to take off when Tu2s Bats were circling overhead and just waiting for you to show yourself. It was almost impossible to count on a safe haven to refuel and rearm. The anti-aircraft guns had gone silent one by one. The Soviets had targeted them specifically before they even attacked the planes on the ground landing or taking off. Their main focus for the first week had been the guns and gunners. They had died by the thousands. Horrible deaths and now many airfields throughout Britain were defenseless. Defenseless from marauding flying tanks and medium bombers loaded down with all manner of mayhem.

Dunellen tried something new this time he came back to the airfield with a third of a tank. He pretended that he was getting ready to land and waited for the Tu2 Bat to lumber on to his tail then he gunned it and turned inside the medium bomber and caught him with a deflection shot from his 20mm cannons. The bomber went down in a satisfying fireball. But he then found himself low and slow with three Yak 9s were on him like white on rice.

Dunellen was good. You don’t get to be a double ace in a 10 days if you aren’t good. He kept the Yaks at bay for another 10 minutes. Twisting and turning, dipping and weaving even a few barrel rolls. No one did barrel rolls anymore so maybe that’s why they worked.

He knew if he flew straight for even a few seconds he was dead. All the twisting and turning made it impossible to for him to gain altitude and to use the superior straight line speed his Spit possessed. While fighting for his life he saw his precious fuel being burned at a prodigious rate. He could even feel it. His plane became more responsive the lighter it got. The lighter it got the closer he was to death. Then the first cough happened.

It happened on a hard turn to the right. It was a real tight turn and almost caused him to black out. He would have got the Yak 9 with the 14 little swastikas on the side if he had been able to stay in the turn but the Yak’s wingman was doing his job and he had to break off the turn. The wingman’s 20mm cannon round took off the tip of his right wing.  No harm no foul at this height. If his opponents had been Yak 3s he would have not made it this far. The Yak 3 could outturn even a Spitfire. Against the Yak 9 the best pilot would have won. Against 3 Yak 9s all bets were off.

Then his engine coughed again and this time he was not in a tight turn. But he had to turn to avoid the tracers coming from the Russian aces plane. His luck ran out and his skill could no longer defy physics. The air flow over his laminar flow wings could no longer create the lift needed to keep the 2400 odd kilograms of aluminum in the air. In the last seconds of his life just before the Spitfire hit the ground and exploded something caught his eye for a moment.

 It was a very little boy standing among some wreckage calmly waving at him. He had no pants on and looked like he had never been washed. Time froze as they stared at each other for a fleeting moment. Their eyes locked and he though what was a little boy doing here surrounded by all this death. It made him think of his own family. Dunnellon’s last thought was of his new born daughter’s smile. Not a bad thought to die on.