Третья мировая война 1946 - Красная волна - Сталин атак впервые - Альтернативная история

Третья мировая война 1946 - Красная волна - Сталин атак впервые - Альтернативная история
В прямом эфире на Smashwords - 75% Off until Sept. 9

Friday, February 24, 2012

Diary of Burt Post Sept. 7th, 1946

We had Spam tonight. What is that stuff made of anyway? Maxine did a good job of it but this rationing is getting on everybody's nerves after a year of plenty. It's harder to go back once you tasted the future. I hope it is the future again. Things were looking so good. Truman was following FDR's lead and putting the country back to work again on an economy based on the little guy and his wants and needs and now we're back on rationing.

I guess sacrifices have to be made if we are to defeat the Russians. I just don't know if it's worth it. Our whole lives given once again to war. It just doesn't seem right.

Phillip shipped out already to parts unknown while his older brother Dick goes to another training. He sure has been trained in his two years of the Army. Was he a swimmer. 6'2" with big hands and feet. He flew through the water at the YMCA. Still holds many of the records there. Then he went and swam across Green Bay. Now that was a feat rarely done and in record time too.

I wonder if they will use his swimming skills. From what I heard about the army there is not much of a chance.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Jack Smith at Cambridge Airport by Tallthinkev

Cambridge Airport

Jack Smith wheeled his bike towards the hanger, he then stopped for a moment.

Bloody hell, he thought, there have been some changes lately. Looking around it began to sink in.

Apart from the,now, large amount of ack-ack guns and all the German and bloody Yanks about, it was the work he now had to do. Most of it was beyond him.

Thinking back to the anti aircraft guns. Why, was the question that came to mind. The Germans didn't bomb the airport so why make a big fuss and draw attention to yourself.

'Hey you!' Jack turned about and saw a very large Yank pointing at him.

'Where do you think you're going?'

'To work. What's it got to with you.'

'Where's your I.D. Buddy?' ask the Yank

'My what? What the hell is an idee?' said Jack

'Your I.D. Buddy. Don't piss me off, you wouldn't like it if you pissed me off.'

'Bugger off!' shouted Jack.

'OK buddy you are coming with me' the very large Yank grasped him by the arm and he was frog marched to a big hut a few yards away.

When they got into the hut Jack was pushed in, almost in the the arms of an officer. A major he thought, or was it a colonel. Damn stupid. Why have the same leaves as the rank symbols.

'What's your name sir?' asked the officer.

'Well that's better than buddy!' said Jack

'He was calling to buddy?' the officer was shaking his head 'I've told about that before, and I am sorry about it sir. May I ask your name?'

'Jack Smith, well William Smith really, and yours Major. Wait a minute I know you don't I? Henry Fonda, that's it.'

'Henry Fonda, that's rich. I do know him though, just about my best friend really.'

'It's colonel actually. Colonel James Stewart. And what do you do here Mr Smith?'

'More to the point what are you Bloody Yanks doing here?' asked Jack.

'Nobody told me you lot would be here.'

'Well, I must say, I didn't know myself I would be myself until two days ago' said Stewart, 'Why don’t you tell me what you do'

'Would be easer to show you' muttered Jack.

'What was that Mr Smith?'

'Come on and I'll show you'

With that, the colonel followed him out of the hut.

After about 50 yards they came to one of the smaller hangers. Before they got inside they where greeted by a young German.

'Good morning Herr Smith.' said the young man, almost bowing as he did. 'A nice day,is it not?'

'Yes it is, Wilhelm, warm for the time of the year. Have you heard from your family yet?'

'I only know that they were alive a couple of months ago, but I have to hope they still are. I have to go now Herr, sorry, Mr Smith' called out Wilhelm as he ran to the main office'

'That's quite funny' chuckled Stewart.

'What, he can't find his family? Doesn’t know if they are alive or dead?'

'No, not at all, not at all. That must be one of the worse thing I can think of.

It just that you both have the same name' said the colonel. He wasn't smiling now, just hung his head slightly. 'Thought it was all over.'

'Stalin's worse than Hitler. Never thought I'd say that about anybody.'

'Amen to that' replied the colonel.'


Seconds later they were in the hanger. Three aircraft where inside. A Meteor, a 262 and a Bell P-80.

None of them had engines fitted, they were on the floor, supported on old bomb trailers.

'What are they doing here then?' asked Jimmy.

'Not sure if I should tell you, but as you are here now, I might as well it won't matter. I, well I should say we are trying different engines in the different planes. We know the 262 has the best aerodynamics but not the best engines, they only seem to work for about 15 hours before they need to be taken out and fixed. It's more like rebuilding really.' said Jack.

'So who is in charge here?' asked Stewart.

'It's me. In this hanger anyway.' Said jack, 'I don't know why. I don't know anything about engines, I used to be a fabric man, you know fixing up Anson's, Oxford's and the like. Maybe it's because I've worked here for a number of years and haven't made too many mistakes. It's a bloody headache I'll tell you that for nothing. Three different spanners one for each plane. Three different languages every one talks.

'I see now three different type of spanners, we know as wrenches.'

They walked about more of the hanger.

Jack pointed at some barrels. 'This is another problem'

'What problem would that be Mr Smith' Jimmy asked, pointing at the barrels 'These?'

'Yes different types of fuel, it can mean as well as changing the engines we have to change the fuel tanks. Pain in the arse, if you ask me.'

'One last thing, do you know of any good bars, sorry, I should say, pubs around here?'

Before Jack could answer a door opened on the side of the hanger and a man walked in.

He was wearing a black leather German flying jacket and flying boots. He was still wearing his insignia, the swastika was missing, just cut off.

'Colonel, this is General Galland.'

Diary of Burt Post Sept. 6th, 1946


Heard from Uncle Frank over in Michigan. He's been visiting with my sister. Detroit is really starting to gear up for war again. I guess the workers are finally getting the picture that this war is for real and Old Joe Stalin is not the nice Uncle we were lead to believe. No more strikes.

I personally hope we don't us the A-bomb on them. The pictures that came out of Japan just before this last war were mind numbingly gruesome. I guess conventional war is just as bad or worse but at least you can save some of the children and women who have done nothing wrong but to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I can't believe our military has show such restraint.

From what I read the plan was to cut back on the ground forces and bomb whoever attacked us with our super bombers and A-bombs. So far I've heard nothing about our bombing campaign. There is a rumor that one raid was tried and went horribly wrong. I wonder what it was?

Walter Winchell is basically ignoring the war. He is concentrating on Hollywood gossip.  I bet it gets him in trouble some day. That Edward Murrow is doing some interesting reporting. Too bad Ernie Pyle got killed. It is so interesting to hear Murrow reporting from across the oceans live from thousands of miles away. It sounds like the Soviets are making steady progress through the Pyrenees. Losing Spain will be a devastating development.

I hope Truman and Ike are thinking hard on a solution. Things are looking pretty grim right now.

Charlie Briggs, Chapter 6 by Roisterer



**6**

The man behind the desk was looking down at some papers, I could see his narrow sharp parting. He was as old as some of my teachers from school.

Then he looked up at me with piercing intelligent eyes. "Briggs, eh? All right, what have we got here..." He looked down again at the papers.

"I'll assign you to Officer Hughes on reconnaissance. He needs a new co-pilot. Ever done any high altitude?"

"Well, I've done the training, sir."

"Good, good. I'm sure you'll fit right in. George is a good man, he should be able to show you the ropes." He sat back and put his hands behind his head.

"Well, we've advanced so fast against the Eyties that we need to move up to Beghazi. I'm heading out there tomorrow. Would you like a lift?"

"Thank you sir, it's most welcome." I was wondering if we'd be in a truck or he rated his own car. It seemed I never stayed anywhere long enough to fit in.

"Good, so meet me here at 0700 tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir, I'll be there."

"One more thing, Briggs. We don't have cadets here in active service. Consider yourself Acting Pilot Officer. I'm sure it will be official soon enough. Carry on, and send in Cadet Burrows." He looked down again at the papers.

That sounded like a dismissal, so I saluted again. "Sir!" I said, and turned to walk out. I got to the door but my head was reeling. Acting PO already?

Walking out of the building, I tried to remember what the Squadron Leader had said. Officer Hughes? I wondered what he was like.

Next morning of course I went down with the trots. I was feeling dreadful when I got to the Squadron Leader's office. Stan was there as well, but he was only feeling slightly better.

So I didn't enjoy the journey as much as I should have. The Squadron Leader did indeed rate his own car and driver. We went along the coast road, which was alright for a few miles, but then descended into dirt with the occasional stretch of tarmac. At first there were people everywhere. Donkeys, horses, carts, and a few bicycles. Sometimes the smell became overwhelming, which didn't make me feel any better. The driver kept shouting for people to get out of the way. Then it was off into the desert, and only infrequent villages.

Two days later we drew up at the new air base. I could see some activity, and some aircraft, but where were the buildings? I looked more closely, and saw some Nissen buts surrounded by sandbags.

We came to a stop. Sqdrn Ldr Barker looked at us. "This is where you two get out. Go and find your pilots."

"You'll probably find him in the mess. Why don't you go and look for him?"

That was another dismissal, so I saluted. "Thanks for the lift, sir!"

Must be the officers' mess, of course. I found a passing crewman and asked him the way. I rather liked the sharp "Sir!" at the end. Life was looking up.

I found my way into an improvised building with sandbags around. It looked like a bomb shelter. There was guard outside, but he stepped aside and let me enter. It was dark and smoky inside, but I saw several officers around tables, and a few more propping up a small bar.

I asked at the first table, and somebody pointed towards the bar. "Beaner's over there, with his back to you. The man in question was deep in conversation with another man.

Beaner? Well, I suppose everyone had a nickname. I drew myself up and strode over. The man whom officer Hughes was talking to noticed me, and my new boss noticed and turned round.

He was like a younger version of the Squadron Leader, with a sharp parting and small moustache. To me he still looked ancient, older than Joe, but I suppose he was about the same age I am now.

"Yes?" he said slightly irritably.

"Cadet Officer ... er ... acting Pilot Officer Briggs reporting, Sir."

His face fell further. "Don't tell me you're my new co-pilot."

His colleague was equally amused. "I say, Beaner, you'll be teaching them to shave next."

He looked back at me. "How old are you, lad?"

"I'll be eighteen in three weeks, sir."

He rolled his eyes. "Christ! So I lose Dusty to his own aircraft, and I get you. Biter must have it in for me."

I must have looked crestfallen. The other one continued, "never mind, you can teach him all your bad habits."

"So, what's your name, Briggs?"

"Err, Briggs, Sir." I wasn't catching on.

Officer Hughes rolled his eyes again. "I mean, what's your first name?"

"Charlie, Sir."

"Hah, you should be the rear gunner then. Tail-end Charlie."

I'd heard that a thousand times before, but laughed with him anyway.

"OK, gunner, see you tomorrow at 0500."

My jaw must have dropped.

"We start early on recon. Need to be over the target site at dawn." He pointed a finger at me. "Don't be late."

__________________
The Hunter and the Hunted completed novel
A Slice of Life short story (horror)