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Book One World War Three 1946

Book One World War Three 1946
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Thursday, July 21, 2011

Not a Sausage


“Oh Yuri! Look! That’s a full Maior loading that truck. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one outside of head quarters. Since when do Maiors do this kind of work?”

“You dunce… look at the load.”

Looks like some kind of little boat to me.

“It’s a small submarine and it does not like to be out of the water. “

“What can that little thing do to those Capitalist monsters roaming all over the world’s oceans? They so small and they have no guns.”

“You dolt they have torpedoes and those torpedoes can sink a battleship.”

The huge lifter strains under the load but successfully delivers its load onto the special trailer. The trailer groans under the strain but takes the weight easily. The load handlers crawl over the midget submarine like ants on a captured giant caterpillar. Slinging ropes and cables and using winches to tie down their deadly looking cargo. Hundreds of loads have already left the ship yards and ports in Poland and West Germany on their way to the coast of France and the Low Countries.

Soon hundreds more will be making their way from ship yards in Albania. Soon submerged killing machines will be prowling from their coastal bases out to a range of 300 miles. Virtually undetectable, these copies of the German Seehund XXVII midget submarine will create a formidable challenge to the anti submarine forces of NATO. At 39 feet and a crew of 2 these midgets are too small to generate an Asdic echo. Their two G7eT5 GNAT acoustical torpedoes give these midgets a heavy weight punch.

Everywhere the sea could be reached by heavy truck was a potential launching site for these lethal midgets. They will come as a very unpleasant surprise for the ships of NATO. Their first use would be the English Channel.

“Careful comrade, watch that line in back. It’s not supposed to bend. This is not a sausage!”
The load creaks and groans subside as the elegantly lethal load finally settles down from its short flight by crane from dry dock to transport. A light rain starts to fall as the big motor of the transport truck strains to move its load. Within minutes Midget Submarine 219 is on its way to a launching site near IJmuiden. Others are either on site or on their way, spread out for hundreds of miles along the English Channel coast.

The coastal shipping lanes of the Southern British Isles are about to receive a rude awakening. No longer will the grey monsters of the NATO navy cruise at will up and down the coasts of Europe with impunity.

A 300 mile wide killing zone is about to be created wherever Red Army forces touch the sea.

Monday, July 18, 2011


The harsh light of the office was hard on his tired eyes. The smell of the basement office hadn’t changed in years. He had been passed up for promotion a dozen times and it was time to think about retirement. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to. Too many mysteries to solve; too many unanswered questions.

It was lunch time and all his colleagues were heading out to the lunch room. He didn’t have to eat much anymore. He didn’t exercise or perform manual labor and so his food intake was minimal. He hated to exercise anyway. It was for those insecure muscle men that were afraid of getting sand kicked in their faces anyway. You know the kind that answered those ads in the back of magazines. They always seemed to be short guys anyway.

He was not short at six foot two but he was very out of shape. Of course in 1946 there was no emphasis on fitness. Most people still worked manual labor jobs and the thought of exercise was not a priority. The new phenomenon of the couch potato was about to invade the modern psyche but not quite yet. Kids still played outside and people still worked with their hands. A suntan meant that you were a manual laborer and was not a sign of high social status. Everyone smoked and drank.

Many homes had little bars in them where friends would gather after a good meal in each other’s homes. Taking turns being host and hostess having their peers over for dinner was what weekends were for.

Not for Crenshaw however. He was unmarried and uninterested at this point in his life. His life was his work. No hobbies and no distractions. Just his paper pushing job and the Soviet missiles…which by the way was not his job. His boss had made that very clear. He made him give back all the blackboards he had setup and told him to not work on the Soviet missile issue.

How had he put it? “Forget god damn Stalin’s missiles and concentrate on your own god damn job!”

So he worked on the problem in his spare time. How were they doing it? What was the guidance system? He’d figure it out if it took him the rest of his life.

Which between you and me, was only another 12 months anyway. Lung cancer, undetected and untreated, was in the early stages of forming. A lifelong smoker Crenshaw was doomed since he was 36. If he had stopped then the damage would have been reversed…but he didn’t. So he was a dead man walking thanks to Pall Mall cigarettes. The only brand he ever smoked. After all Santa smoke Pall Mall and “puff by puff … you’re always ahead.” Which of course he was.

He was going to die a full 15 years ahead of his non-smoking twin brother.