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Old 02-21-2012, 02:17 AM
SPEMack618 SPEMack618 is offline
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The Kremlin, 28 June 1950
Andrey Vyshinsky snarled at his “bodyguard” when he walked into his office. For one thing, the man’s suit was cheap and rumpled, secondly, it was obvious that we was wearing a pistol under his coat, and finally, most grating was the fact that soon Vyshinsky was going to have to ask the man’s boss for help. And that was a tacit admission of defeat. The capitalist lackey’s at the UN had indeed passed the Korean resolution, which Vyshinsky had said they were going to do, but Stalin hadn’t listened, nor apparently did he care. But now, now, the Capitalist lackeys were going to authorize the use of force to stop the Korean situation and Vyshinsky was no longer in the picture. That would attribute to a loss of face with Stalin, and that was never good.
“Valiy, what did you do during the Great War?” Andrey asked his “bodyguard”, who was in reality his watcher assigned from the NKVD.
“Comrade Minister, I fought the fascists for the Motherland.”
“Spare me please, what did you really do?”
“Sir, I, uh, well, I was in charge of a special detachment tasked with spreading fear and dissension among the fascist populace.”
“And how did you do that?”
“By any means necessary to the protect the State and the Party.”

Chekist bastard! He killed and raped his way through the country side while real soldiers, like my son, died fighting soldiers. Vyshinsky raged to himself, thinking about the war, his lost son, and the burning scar down the base of his neck. However, if anything, the man before him gave him an idea for a possible solution to this Korean mess. A good solution at that, if for him and not the North Koreans, who he was sure would be defeated by that pig dog MacArthur in a timely fashion. Little ungrateful yellow savages wouldn’t know what to do with the country anyway.

State, War, and Navy Building, 1 July 1950

Special Agent Calvin Landis quietly fumed to himself as he wilted in the heat of the Washington summer. The tall, stout Kentuckian hated Washington, hated the heat, hated the mosquitoes, and hated his new job. Counter-Espionage was great during War II, for it allowed him to feel as if he was making an actual contribution to the war effort, something his Purple Heart from the Big War prevented him from doing in uniform. He also disliked being so physically close to Director Hoover. He realized that as a young agent chasing bank robbers in the ‘20s, that he admired him from afar, however he had come to loathe sitting within verbal summonsing distance of the director. And he hated the stupid office firearms policy. He had worn a Colt Detective Special for twenty years under his arm. It was small and out of the way, and he ever had needed more gun, he had generally had either a Thompson gun or a Model 12 as his main weapon. But working out of Headquarters, he had to conform to Mister Hoover’s rules on appearance, which meant no visible shoulder holster straps. And that meant his damn revolver was digging into his side, was rubbing on his dress shirt, and was getting liberally covered with his perspiration. Fifty was too damn old to be somebody’s errand boy, which was what he felt like after being assigned to Washington. Take today for instance, he was supposed to be speaking with the head of the State Department security head over something concerning possible Soviet attempts on American diplomatic personnel. That caused him to snort in contempt.

His view of the Soviets was colored by his post-Great War service in the 31st Infantry Regiment. The “Polar Bears” as they were somewhat derisively known had been sent to Siberia after the Csar fell in attempt to stabilize the situation in some sort of damn fooled peacekeeping mission that then Corporal Landis hadn’t comprehended, for he was a recently transferred infantry man, who had served with Blackjack and beat the Huns in 17 weeks and was now babysitting damn Russian royalty. The Marines were supposed to be the ones who fought “small wars”, not the Army. Landis could only seethe as he waited for his appointment.
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Old 03-21-2012, 11:22 PM
SPEMack618 SPEMack618 is offline
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Finally, the small box on the secretary’s desk buzzed. There was a brief muffled conversation that Landis couldn’t hear, his hearing being degraded through his twenty years of having a .30-06 go off by his head regularly. The secretary turned to Landis and smiled and simply waved her hand in the general direction of the door. Landis stood, retrieved his hat and walked on in. The small man seated behind the desk looked slightly flustered, whether from the heat or the amount of work on his desk wasn’t immediately clear to Landis. However, there was something vaguely familiar about the man.
“Sergeant Landis, glad you could spare a minute for your old platoon leader…..”

Argonne Forest, France, 1917
Private First Class Calvin Landis nervously opened the bolt just a hair on his M-1903, and ensured that there was a round in the chamber and that the magazine cutoff was in the off position. Despite, the lectures from his father, who had rode up Kettle Hill, Landis saw the value in a magazine and figure he could put in a five round stripper clip just as easily as he could load one round at a time. The .30 Caliber Government cartridge of 1906 was an “okay” round to Landis, and he had shot fairly well with it out to 400 yards in National Guard summer camp, so that wasn’t an issue, however his worry, and this was a genuine worry brought about by having been around the small pre-war Regular Army, and not the mainly conscript formed National Army which he was currently assigned too, was his platoon leader. Second Lieutenant Oswald Grant III was fresh out of Beta Theta Pi, college and officer training. It wasn’t that the man was a bad officer; in fact, Landis was genuinely impressed with the skill in which the man had moved the platoon towards the front and their preparation for going “over the top.” However, what irked Landis, and he had so to one of his squad mates, was that he just couldn’t trust a man who went into battle wearing a long coat and carrying nothing more than a pistol and a whistle. It looked as if the man were more concerned with getting into the bloomer of some Alpha Delta Pi at the spring hop than killing Huns. Now, Captain Dillard, that old coot was a fighting man’s officer. Granted, Landis had to remind himself, the man was a First Sergeant from the Georgia Militia who would probably lose his bars as soon as the Huns realized what was good for them, but until, the scarred old sergeant at least looked the part, and hell, the man carried a Winchester ’97 with a bayonet on it and an old Single Action Army,.
Captain Eli James Dillard, National Army, (1st/Sgt Georgia State Militia), scowled around his pipe in a vague show of disgust. That college boy Oswald had merrily helped him read the operations order and almost seemed excited at the prospect of the coming offensive.
“Well, Captain, it looks as if the French are ready to permanently evict the Hessian menace from their soil.” He had said, his boyish face beaming at the idea of as he put it “finally embarking on the great crusade to rid the world of the specter of war.” Dillard, who while not a fool, didn’t read his letters too well, was too prideful to ask what the hell all that meant, but all he knew was that when he gave the order to prepare his platoon for the attack, Oswald had saluted sharply, said: “Well then sir, we shall indeed give it the old college try.” The boy officer then about faced and marched off to his platoon, leaving Dillard alone with his thoughts.
Landis nervously checked the chamber on his Springfield one last time as the Lieutenant walked by telling everyone to make ready and wishing them “Godspeed men. Let’s do what we came here for.” Landis chuckled and wondered what his dad would make of a man who looked more at home on a foxhunt than a battlefield.
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I like to think, that before that Navy SEAL double tapped bin Laden in the head, he kicked him, so that we could truly say we put a boot in his ass.
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