“Great to have you back Sergeant-Major!”
“Good to be back Kelsey.” he said, returning the salute. “Will you get me the figures on the 3.7-inch ammo?”
“I see you’re getting right back into it Sergeant. We all thought you’d want to take it easy until you worked your way back. What’s so important about the 3.7-inch ammo anyway?”
The Sargent Major gave him a look. “I’m fine, Kelsey. I’ve had plenty of time off in the hospital and plenty more time getting used to this new foot of mine. Now be a good lad and get the inventory will you? Those shells are the only ones we have with the VT fuse.”
The private dug out some papers from a filing cabinet behind him and then opened a folder.
“Oh, I see. I heard those shells were like magic. All I can say is I’m not getting into any football matches with you and your wooden foot — I bet you can really belt that ball now. I suppose your running speed is not too impressive but then again, no one will want to get in your way, either. With that thing, you’d end up breaking someone’s leg if you missed the ball and kicked ’em in the shin. My mum always said that when God closes one door, he opens another. Why, I bet that…”
“Kelsey, be quiet will you, lad? I’m trying to work here,” sighed the visitor as he looked down the list… “What’s this?! What happened to all the 3.7-inch VT-fused ammunition? It doesn’t show up on the inventory sheets.”
“Oh most of those were packed up shortly after VE Day and sent off to Devon to be near the live-fire sites. Not much need for Archie munitions being spread all over the countryside anymore after that. It’s not like the Huns had any planes left. Somebody probably thought they needed to be nearer the training grounds. I think most of it went to Okehampton.”
“Seems like a strange place to store shells that are sensitive to being damp. I suppose someone must know what they’re doing. Anyway, it’s above my station to question the higher-ups. Well it’s time to get them out of there and back into the hands of the ack-ack gunners. Old Ivan is going to be paying us a visit soon it seems, and we’re going to need all those magic shells spread round again. Curious… didn’t they have instructions that they were to be kept dry and under no circumstances were they to be allowed to get damp?”
“Now that you mention it Sergeant-Major, I do remember something like that. I’m sure they kept them high and dry in Okehampton… hang on, that’s in Dartmoor isn’t it? It rains all the time there; seems a bit of a stupid place to store ammunition that’s sensitive to getting damp. Well as you say I’m sure they know what they’re doing. From what they tell me, those shells are amazing at knocking down planes. It would be an act of high treason to allow them to be damaged, if you ask me.”
“No one asked you Kelsey,” replied the Sergeant-Major, “Now, let’s get going on the paper work. Ivan is going to attack soon. I can feel it.”
“But the paper said that the deadline was the 15th of October…”
“I don’t trust that Stalin… never have. Short’uns are always trouble. They said that about Napoleon. My Colonel used to say, ‘Never trust a small man, their brains are too near their arse.’”
Kelsey’s face fell, “That’s not fair, Sergeant-Major! Not all of us pint-sized folk are trouble!”
“That’s true Kelsey. For a shorthouse you’re a bloody good bloke.”
“Thank you Sergeant-Major… I think.”
The visitor left the private a little nonplussed as he left.
Truman looks out at the night from his train car. He was once again crisscrossing the country trying to drum up support for the war effort. The American public was tired and fed-up with rationing and sacrificing her young men. He could feel it at every stop along the way. The money-men were not investing because of what they called the ‘uncertainty of the situation in Europe.’
What uncertainty? It was certain that if they did not start emptying their pockets, that Europe would be forever under the boot of an even more brutal dictator than the one that they just defeated. We had to get this over with and we had to do it quick. The American public did not have a long attention span and the ‘situation’ in Europe was wearing thin. Enough were saying that we should not come to their rescue once more. But he knew that way lay folly.
An unchecked Stalin would soon have the wealth of Eurasia at his command; a land mass rich in all manner of resources, both human and mineral. Once he consolidated his hold there would be no possibility of invasion.
This war had to be finished, violently and swiftly. He just could not imagine invading a greater Soviet Union once they consolidated their power. Once Stalin controlled hundreds of millions of new hearts and minds the way he did in Russia, the game was over.
It was ironic that in order to prevent isolationism and the permanent subjugation of the European continent he would have to attack with everything he had way before he was ready. It had to happen within a year or the opportunity was lost, possibly forever. All the equipment from the aborted invasion of Japan was still available. All that was needed was a brilliant plan, and the will to carry it through to the very end. As tragic as it was, MacArthur’s death was a blessing in disguise. Just before his death, he had authored a brilliant plan absolutely stunning in its simplicity and logic. It was a campaign in the same style as his island-hopping strategy using the vast distances of the Soviet Union in much the same way as he used the vast distances between islands in the Pacific. Cut them off from their supply lines, isolate them and let them wither on the vine.
If everything went according to plan the campaign would produce minimum casualties and complete victory without slogging through the depths of Asia and in an acceptable time frame; a time frame that the American public would support and embrace.
But Mac was not the man to lead the campaign. That’s why his death was fortuitous as well as being tragic. It prevented a protracted fight and any more delays. The perfect choice was of course Patton, but that man was dead as well. Both were pains in the ass, but he did mourn their loss. Plus he needed multiple Pattons, so the search began for the successors to the two greatest fighting generals the world had ever seen. The way was clear for a new generation of Blitzkrieg warriors.
Names like Alexander Patch, William Simpson, Kruger, Eichelberger, Collins, Bradley, Terry Allen, Joe Stillwell, Courtney Hicks Hodges, Alexander Archer Vandergrift came to mind. All are good men, and all are fully capable of doing what had to be done.
Once Stalin got the bomb it was also game over. We have to move and we’ll have to do it while he was distracted by the British. We’ll have to hit them hard and fast before they had time to set up the rest of those cursed missiles. What the hell was guiding them?
Yes we have to attack them where they’re the weakest. We have to use our remaining atom bombs to their greatest effect, and we have to have them all work. We’re going for blood. In the twentieth century, that means OIL! In boxing terms the fight over Britain and the Battle for the Pyrenees would be jabs. Jabs meant to keep the opponent off-balance and to set him up. What was about to happen, that would be a shot to the kidneys. Not too sporting, but when you’re in a back-alley brawl, you do what you have to do to win.
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
The Night
