The same principle applies. In-between harvests, food is stored for months, too. Unsurprisingly. I think Britain had developed a lot of livestock farming supported by imported Canadian grain, didn't it? In that case, there'd be a lot of 'meat' in the system that can be diverted until the shortage becomes obvious.
A Shift in Priorities - Sequel
- Thread starter rast
- Start date
Right, then. Well, the "optimistic" picture is still pretty bleak if this military operation fails. One would imagine now would be the time to start planning for the worst, if they don't want to risk a collapse come winter.
Through the place in short there went one wide murmur of content: "God be praised! The town is free from this great rascality!"
(Wilhelm Busch – Max and Moritz)
The blues became rampant after the first victims had been interred. Before that, there had been a kind of stunned silence. People had still been dazed, busy counting their fingers and their family members. – But then, the dams broke quickly. There had been too many dead, far too many... One could put up with some folks being killed accidentally during police operations; that was regrettable, but could hardly be avoided. – Yet, the military had overacted. The soldiers, not accustomed to deal with rioting crowds, had done what their training had told them. However, "Take aim! Open fire!" was not the way to deal with citizens, even if they were rebels and throwing stones. Gunning protesters down hadn't been right in the last century, and it wasn't right now.
The SPD was the first to shatter. Their traditions and standards were completely opposed to using military force against citizens. Kurt Schumacher and his cabinet had committed a heresy! – Yes, it had been a dire emergency, very dire indeed, but sending the troops in had been wrong nevertheless. – There were some unrelenting folks on the right wing of the party, who still were supporting Schumacher, but the vast majority were soon witnessed to distance themselves from the imperial chancellor and his colleagues in cabinet. The calls for a special party convention were growing louder and louder.
The media were also quick to chime in. The newspapers were the first to raise critical review. But because many dissenting SPD members were working on the upper floors of the state owned – or at least state controlled – radio and TV stations, criticism and slander became excessive after a short while. Consequently, public opinion was rapidly swinging from relief to dismay. 6,358 citizens had been killed, more than 40,000 injured, some 350,000 were grounded; this was far worse than in the 1848 revolutions, where in France alone approximately 5,000 citizens had been killed by the army, and stood absolutely no comparison to the few hundred victims to be bemoaned in the German Confederation in the 1848 fightings.
The LDP was the next to waggle. The left wing, the ancient FVP members, had much in common with the left wing of the SPD, even if they didn't believe in tutelage by the state. The right wing, the former NL members, were rather of the "right or wrong, my country" type; they wouldn't budge even if more people had been killed. But the left wing folks were moving. A special party congress became inevitable.
Inside the Zentrum, the commotion ran along parallel lines. Christian conscience clashed with conservative self-assertion. But here, the party leadership was able to fend off the shouts for a special convention. One could understand the concerns of the party members, but a conservative outfit should rather remain passive in such affairs. There were enough squallers active in SPD and LDP to achieve change, better the Zentrum remained united and able to act. – And, lo and behold, the party members could be coaxed to accept that approach.
The GDNP remained completely unaffected by the brouhaha. These folks were all of the "my country, no matter what" type, and six thousand dead anarchists didn't touch them, even if some of them had lost rogue kids in the riots. That was the price one had to pay from time to time, true Junkers were used to it. – One better prepared for new elections, which were deemed unavoidable. Because the left would be fragmented beyond recognition, a strong right had every chance to seize power.
The special party congress of the SPD convened in Hamburg on February 4th, 1950. Kurt Schumacher tried to defend his policy, but was shouted down and deeply insulted. Defiantly and sputtering with rage, he declared his retirement from all party offices and thus as imperial chancellor. – On February 5th, Kaiser Wilhelm IV fixed new elections for Sunday, April 23rd, 1950. Erich Ollenhauer of the SPD was asked – and agreed – to run the acting government until the newly elected Reichstag could convene. Kurt Schumacher was not available, he had left for Switzerland.
(Wilhelm Busch – Max and Moritz)
The blues became rampant after the first victims had been interred. Before that, there had been a kind of stunned silence. People had still been dazed, busy counting their fingers and their family members. – But then, the dams broke quickly. There had been too many dead, far too many... One could put up with some folks being killed accidentally during police operations; that was regrettable, but could hardly be avoided. – Yet, the military had overacted. The soldiers, not accustomed to deal with rioting crowds, had done what their training had told them. However, "Take aim! Open fire!" was not the way to deal with citizens, even if they were rebels and throwing stones. Gunning protesters down hadn't been right in the last century, and it wasn't right now.
The SPD was the first to shatter. Their traditions and standards were completely opposed to using military force against citizens. Kurt Schumacher and his cabinet had committed a heresy! – Yes, it had been a dire emergency, very dire indeed, but sending the troops in had been wrong nevertheless. – There were some unrelenting folks on the right wing of the party, who still were supporting Schumacher, but the vast majority were soon witnessed to distance themselves from the imperial chancellor and his colleagues in cabinet. The calls for a special party convention were growing louder and louder.
The media were also quick to chime in. The newspapers were the first to raise critical review. But because many dissenting SPD members were working on the upper floors of the state owned – or at least state controlled – radio and TV stations, criticism and slander became excessive after a short while. Consequently, public opinion was rapidly swinging from relief to dismay. 6,358 citizens had been killed, more than 40,000 injured, some 350,000 were grounded; this was far worse than in the 1848 revolutions, where in France alone approximately 5,000 citizens had been killed by the army, and stood absolutely no comparison to the few hundred victims to be bemoaned in the German Confederation in the 1848 fightings.
The LDP was the next to waggle. The left wing, the ancient FVP members, had much in common with the left wing of the SPD, even if they didn't believe in tutelage by the state. The right wing, the former NL members, were rather of the "right or wrong, my country" type; they wouldn't budge even if more people had been killed. But the left wing folks were moving. A special party congress became inevitable.
Inside the Zentrum, the commotion ran along parallel lines. Christian conscience clashed with conservative self-assertion. But here, the party leadership was able to fend off the shouts for a special convention. One could understand the concerns of the party members, but a conservative outfit should rather remain passive in such affairs. There were enough squallers active in SPD and LDP to achieve change, better the Zentrum remained united and able to act. – And, lo and behold, the party members could be coaxed to accept that approach.
The GDNP remained completely unaffected by the brouhaha. These folks were all of the "my country, no matter what" type, and six thousand dead anarchists didn't touch them, even if some of them had lost rogue kids in the riots. That was the price one had to pay from time to time, true Junkers were used to it. – One better prepared for new elections, which were deemed unavoidable. Because the left would be fragmented beyond recognition, a strong right had every chance to seize power.
The special party congress of the SPD convened in Hamburg on February 4th, 1950. Kurt Schumacher tried to defend his policy, but was shouted down and deeply insulted. Defiantly and sputtering with rage, he declared his retirement from all party offices and thus as imperial chancellor. – On February 5th, Kaiser Wilhelm IV fixed new elections for Sunday, April 23rd, 1950. Erich Ollenhauer of the SPD was asked – and agreed – to run the acting government until the newly elected Reichstag could convene. Kurt Schumacher was not available, he had left for Switzerland.
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The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways. The point, however, is to change it.
(Karl Marx)
Yeah, Phase One had worked as anticipated – or even better. Ferdinand Christopher Smith was satisfied. The stupid Panchists had piggishly traded all important ministries for the honour of providing el Presidente. Thus, not only the ministry of the interior, but also war, finance and public works had fallen to the communists. And the Yanks were beaming with joy because the first free elections in the United Mesoamerican Republic had passed off without major incidents – and a legitimate government had been formed. So, okay, Pedro Joaquín Chamorro Zelaya, a bloody Panchist, was now president and spending his time banquetting and bell ringing in Ciudad de México and Washington – while his communist ministers were preparing the ground...
In some months, when the ground had sufficiently been tilled, the evil reactionaries would stage a coup, which – of course – was going to fail. Unfortunately, el Presidente would be killed – before police and armed forces could smash the insurrection – only to discover that prominent Panchists had been involved in the plot. Yes, that was the standard cookie-cutter approach – and it was going to score a success. And even the Yanks would be delighted that democracy had been saved in the RUM – while the Mesoamerican comrades would be in control of San Pedro Sula. Smith was absolutely confident that events could be fabricated so that Phase Two became another communist accomplishment.
However, there were things going on which worried him. Not in the RUM, that part was cut and dried – more or less. No, he had got wind of the – quasi – shooting war occurring between Ottawa and London. This was madness – communists killing communists, or at least trying to do so. His snouts were telling him Rowley had refused to obey orders – and Palme Dutt had sent out gunmen. Now, Palme Dutt was dead – and Rowley and Wintringham were entrenched in a kind of remote dogfight. This wasn't good, not at all. – Rowley was pain in the ass, but she was competent, very much so. Wintringham was more of an artist than a true communist leader – in Smith's mind. His book about his experiences in the Spanish Civil War was fairly good. His other books Smith hadn't read.
Smith felt inclined to offer his services as intermediary. This lunacy couldn't be allowed to continue. Good communists should fight capitalists and other reactionaries, even scrofulous socialists – but not fellow communists. Yes, there always was infighting, about opinions, theories, posts and so on, but no frigging shooting war. Communism had only triumphed in one country: Britain – and her colonies. Everywhere else, blooming socialists were ruling. Even the US, once the showpiece of capitalism, had become kind of socialist. The socialists were the enemy one had to fight, they were stealing the workers and transmuting them into tame zombies.
Well, Ottawa said they wouldn't mind. It was Westminster which had started it all. Once Edith Rowley was officially confirmed as Triple C, deliveries would be resumed. – But from London, only angry silence was emanating... – until a PRN task force sailed into Kingston harbour. Smith hardly made it to the mountains, while marines and soldiers were advancing from the piers. – Hell! Wintringham must have gone crazy. Smith was in panic. This approach he hadn't anticipated at all. – By dusk, he was still free; the military had stopped at the outskirts of Kingston. Hang it all! What should he do now?
(Karl Marx)
Yeah, Phase One had worked as anticipated – or even better. Ferdinand Christopher Smith was satisfied. The stupid Panchists had piggishly traded all important ministries for the honour of providing el Presidente. Thus, not only the ministry of the interior, but also war, finance and public works had fallen to the communists. And the Yanks were beaming with joy because the first free elections in the United Mesoamerican Republic had passed off without major incidents – and a legitimate government had been formed. So, okay, Pedro Joaquín Chamorro Zelaya, a bloody Panchist, was now president and spending his time banquetting and bell ringing in Ciudad de México and Washington – while his communist ministers were preparing the ground...
In some months, when the ground had sufficiently been tilled, the evil reactionaries would stage a coup, which – of course – was going to fail. Unfortunately, el Presidente would be killed – before police and armed forces could smash the insurrection – only to discover that prominent Panchists had been involved in the plot. Yes, that was the standard cookie-cutter approach – and it was going to score a success. And even the Yanks would be delighted that democracy had been saved in the RUM – while the Mesoamerican comrades would be in control of San Pedro Sula. Smith was absolutely confident that events could be fabricated so that Phase Two became another communist accomplishment.
However, there were things going on which worried him. Not in the RUM, that part was cut and dried – more or less. No, he had got wind of the – quasi – shooting war occurring between Ottawa and London. This was madness – communists killing communists, or at least trying to do so. His snouts were telling him Rowley had refused to obey orders – and Palme Dutt had sent out gunmen. Now, Palme Dutt was dead – and Rowley and Wintringham were entrenched in a kind of remote dogfight. This wasn't good, not at all. – Rowley was pain in the ass, but she was competent, very much so. Wintringham was more of an artist than a true communist leader – in Smith's mind. His book about his experiences in the Spanish Civil War was fairly good. His other books Smith hadn't read.
Smith felt inclined to offer his services as intermediary. This lunacy couldn't be allowed to continue. Good communists should fight capitalists and other reactionaries, even scrofulous socialists – but not fellow communists. Yes, there always was infighting, about opinions, theories, posts and so on, but no frigging shooting war. Communism had only triumphed in one country: Britain – and her colonies. Everywhere else, blooming socialists were ruling. Even the US, once the showpiece of capitalism, had become kind of socialist. The socialists were the enemy one had to fight, they were stealing the workers and transmuting them into tame zombies.
Well, Ottawa said they wouldn't mind. It was Westminster which had started it all. Once Edith Rowley was officially confirmed as Triple C, deliveries would be resumed. – But from London, only angry silence was emanating... – until a PRN task force sailed into Kingston harbour. Smith hardly made it to the mountains, while marines and soldiers were advancing from the piers. – Hell! Wintringham must have gone crazy. Smith was in panic. This approach he hadn't anticipated at all. – By dusk, he was still free; the military had stopped at the outskirts of Kingston. Hang it all! What should he do now?
We know the US can track RN movements and they would certainly tell the region what's going on. This is likely to draw the new Havana Pact even closer together. I can't imagine the Pact and the US are going to let the Royal Navy conduct military operations unhindered on half the islands of the Caribbean. It's as likely a flashpoint as Canada, at any rate.
And Smith's allies in the RUM aren't likely to take the fall of their one and only patron very well. Either they go scrambling for another- Britain itself- and tip their hand early, or they back him and become some of the strongest backers for action against the UK in the Pact.
A lot hinges on Smith's next move. Regionally, if his network in the RUM feels they can no longer count on his support, plans are likely to change or go off the rails.
Funnily enough, I can see an escape route for him in the form of the Yanks. Why wouldn't they agree to transport him to Canada? As far as they can see, Britain's making enemies out of friends, and that's all to the good as far as their ultimate goal (freeing the UK) is concerned. Even if Rowley and Smith don't want to be friends with the US, helping them might bring down communist Britain.
Of course if the US knows what Smith has planned for the RUM they might not be so inclined to be helpful. Though if that's the case, Smith's plans are probably going to fail, anyway.
And Smith's allies in the RUM aren't likely to take the fall of their one and only patron very well. Either they go scrambling for another- Britain itself- and tip their hand early, or they back him and become some of the strongest backers for action against the UK in the Pact.
A lot hinges on Smith's next move. Regionally, if his network in the RUM feels they can no longer count on his support, plans are likely to change or go off the rails.
Funnily enough, I can see an escape route for him in the form of the Yanks. Why wouldn't they agree to transport him to Canada? As far as they can see, Britain's making enemies out of friends, and that's all to the good as far as their ultimate goal (freeing the UK) is concerned. Even if Rowley and Smith don't want to be friends with the US, helping them might bring down communist Britain.
Of course if the US knows what Smith has planned for the RUM they might not be so inclined to be helpful. Though if that's the case, Smith's plans are probably going to fail, anyway.
There's something in a flying horse, there's something in a huge balloon.
(William Wordsworth)
Prerow hadn't been hit by protests and riots, nor had the rocket industry been besieged or assaulted. Despite the fact that a rocket deal had provided the initial spark to ignite the powder keg, the disturbances had taken place in the town centres. Industrial areas had generally been spared. Some said this was due to the circumstance that students, tramps and other rioters had no affiliation to the world of industry and labour, others claimed it was simply because rioting on the market place got you much more attention than trying to climb high walls in an enterprise zone.
Nevertheless, the German rocket men had kept low profile – with Ludwig Erhard's full endorsement. – But Erhard's intent of riding out the riots and afterwards continuing as if nothing had happened came to nothing when the ruling coalition collapsed. – Now, it looked as if 1950 was going to be a very quiet year for the German space programme. Even a jack-of-all-trades like Erhard saw no way to keep it going. The RRA had got stuck.
This, however, did not apply to DELAG. Driven by Hugo Eckener's desire to see success before popping his clogs and by Eugen Sänger's determination to make the grade, Brüderchen and Schwesterchen had been readied. The question whether to wait for an improvement of the political climate never arose; Eckener was eighty-two and didn't expect to live forever. He would not subordinate the space boat project to the whims of some long-haired anarchists and paunchy thugs.
Wednesday, March 15th, 1950, was a dry and sunny day in southern Germany. At 10 o'clock sharp, the engines of Brüderchen were started – and at 10:35 hours the tandem started to move over the waters of Lake Constance. Ponderously gaining speed, Brüderchen finally lifted off at 10:41 hours. – Now, the giant needed hours to climb up to the lower stratosphere, where – 26,000 metres above sea level – Schwesterchen would be launched at a velocity of twice the speed of sound.
On board of Brüderchen, clad in a kind of space suit, Eugen Sänger was watching the little blistering dot that was Schwesterchen speed away. Would the space boat make it to outer space?
Powered by rocket engines, Schwesterchen, piloted by DELAG test pilots Karl Herber and Eduard Kammnitzer, was surging ahead. It still had to gain a lot of height. – But it soon became clear that this time outer space wouldn't be reached. Schwesterchen reached an altitude of 63,000 metres above sea level, before it started to sink down again. – But both, Brüderchen and Schwesterchen, made it safely back to earth. Brüderchen landed on Lake Constance, and Schwesterchen on a specially prepared runway between Friedrichshafen and Meckenbeuren.
[FONT="]Almost, but not quite, Eugen Sänger explained to Hugo Eckener. But one had learned a lot; and the engineers were already at work to implement many improvements. Brüderchen had to rise to 30,000 metres. That was doable. Schwesterchen had to become faster. That was a problem, but not an unsolvable one. – Next time, well, next time one would succeed... [/FONT]
(William Wordsworth)
Prerow hadn't been hit by protests and riots, nor had the rocket industry been besieged or assaulted. Despite the fact that a rocket deal had provided the initial spark to ignite the powder keg, the disturbances had taken place in the town centres. Industrial areas had generally been spared. Some said this was due to the circumstance that students, tramps and other rioters had no affiliation to the world of industry and labour, others claimed it was simply because rioting on the market place got you much more attention than trying to climb high walls in an enterprise zone.
Nevertheless, the German rocket men had kept low profile – with Ludwig Erhard's full endorsement. – But Erhard's intent of riding out the riots and afterwards continuing as if nothing had happened came to nothing when the ruling coalition collapsed. – Now, it looked as if 1950 was going to be a very quiet year for the German space programme. Even a jack-of-all-trades like Erhard saw no way to keep it going. The RRA had got stuck.
This, however, did not apply to DELAG. Driven by Hugo Eckener's desire to see success before popping his clogs and by Eugen Sänger's determination to make the grade, Brüderchen and Schwesterchen had been readied. The question whether to wait for an improvement of the political climate never arose; Eckener was eighty-two and didn't expect to live forever. He would not subordinate the space boat project to the whims of some long-haired anarchists and paunchy thugs.
Wednesday, March 15th, 1950, was a dry and sunny day in southern Germany. At 10 o'clock sharp, the engines of Brüderchen were started – and at 10:35 hours the tandem started to move over the waters of Lake Constance. Ponderously gaining speed, Brüderchen finally lifted off at 10:41 hours. – Now, the giant needed hours to climb up to the lower stratosphere, where – 26,000 metres above sea level – Schwesterchen would be launched at a velocity of twice the speed of sound.
On board of Brüderchen, clad in a kind of space suit, Eugen Sänger was watching the little blistering dot that was Schwesterchen speed away. Would the space boat make it to outer space?
Powered by rocket engines, Schwesterchen, piloted by DELAG test pilots Karl Herber and Eduard Kammnitzer, was surging ahead. It still had to gain a lot of height. – But it soon became clear that this time outer space wouldn't be reached. Schwesterchen reached an altitude of 63,000 metres above sea level, before it started to sink down again. – But both, Brüderchen and Schwesterchen, made it safely back to earth. Brüderchen landed on Lake Constance, and Schwesterchen on a specially prepared runway between Friedrichshafen and Meckenbeuren.
[FONT="]Almost, but not quite, Eugen Sänger explained to Hugo Eckener. But one had learned a lot; and the engineers were already at work to implement many improvements. Brüderchen had to rise to 30,000 metres. That was doable. Schwesterchen had to become faster. That was a problem, but not an unsolvable one. – Next time, well, next time one would succeed... [/FONT]
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30,000 metres?
Good work, rast, once again. It's sad to hear about the setbacks in both the RRA and DELAG's project, but I hope ol' Eckener lives to see Little Sister make it all the way.
We are Englishmen; that's one good fact.
(Oliver Cromwell)
There had been an incident, the guardswoman was shouting over the telephone. Someone had broken into the camp – with an armoured vehicle – and left again. One was still busy accounting for the detainees. Chief Controller Marge Thompson was appalled. It was what? Three o'clock in the night. She had been soundly asleep, until the ringing telephone had jolted her out of her dreams.
"Have you alerted the police?" she asked, the first thing that came to her mind. "Road blocks have to be established! That vehicle has to be stopped!"
"No, madam! – Yes, madam!" replied the guardswoman.
"Proceed as ordered!" growled Thompson. "I'm coming!"
Three minutes later, after hastily donning her clothes, she was on the move, pedalling frantically. There was a nasty gale blowing from the northwest and it was raining. Thompson cursed. Why was the wind always coming from the wrong direction? – Nevertheless, she made it to Camp 235 in record time. The camp was brightly illuminated. Thompson could see the detainees stand in rank and file. The damage area, where the rogue vehicle had broken through the fences, had already been resealed with concertina wires. So, the guards had acted prudentially, at least in this respect.
It took another twenty minutes to check who was missing. Well, two detainees were gone: 23-532-702 Polly Brown and 22-625-045 Debby Faulkner. – Brown was a military, a former general, sent to camp for sabotage. She had a fairly good forecast, might have been released on probation in some months. Faulkner was a Churchillian of the worst kind, daughter of a banking dynasty, deemed incurable, thus interned for lifetime. – But to Thompson's surprise, MI5 thought that freeing Brown had been the objective of the attack. Faulkner was considered an unimportant free rider.
The armoured vehicle was found in the morning, not far from the camp and empty. Conclusion: the attackers had changed vehicles, were now travelling in something entirely else. – But despite general alert and innumerable roadblocks, no trace of Brown and Faulkner was found. – Fortunately, Thompson was not accused of malfunction. It was evident that she wasn't at fault. And the guards had reacted correctly as well, MI5 was telling her. The fences had been repaired by next evening, and soon routine set in again.
Thompson was experienced enough not to ask pesky questions. The incident was kept under the wraps. The guards were obligated to keep silence about it. – But there was one question that really bothered Thompson: if freeing Brown had been the objective of the raid, how had the assailants known she was detained in Camp 235? Well, she was sure MI5 would ask the same question. The source of this piece of information must be in London, where all the records were kept centrally. But she rather kept her suspicion to herself.
(Oliver Cromwell)
There had been an incident, the guardswoman was shouting over the telephone. Someone had broken into the camp – with an armoured vehicle – and left again. One was still busy accounting for the detainees. Chief Controller Marge Thompson was appalled. It was what? Three o'clock in the night. She had been soundly asleep, until the ringing telephone had jolted her out of her dreams.
"Have you alerted the police?" she asked, the first thing that came to her mind. "Road blocks have to be established! That vehicle has to be stopped!"
"No, madam! – Yes, madam!" replied the guardswoman.
"Proceed as ordered!" growled Thompson. "I'm coming!"
Three minutes later, after hastily donning her clothes, she was on the move, pedalling frantically. There was a nasty gale blowing from the northwest and it was raining. Thompson cursed. Why was the wind always coming from the wrong direction? – Nevertheless, she made it to Camp 235 in record time. The camp was brightly illuminated. Thompson could see the detainees stand in rank and file. The damage area, where the rogue vehicle had broken through the fences, had already been resealed with concertina wires. So, the guards had acted prudentially, at least in this respect.
It took another twenty minutes to check who was missing. Well, two detainees were gone: 23-532-702 Polly Brown and 22-625-045 Debby Faulkner. – Brown was a military, a former general, sent to camp for sabotage. She had a fairly good forecast, might have been released on probation in some months. Faulkner was a Churchillian of the worst kind, daughter of a banking dynasty, deemed incurable, thus interned for lifetime. – But to Thompson's surprise, MI5 thought that freeing Brown had been the objective of the attack. Faulkner was considered an unimportant free rider.
The armoured vehicle was found in the morning, not far from the camp and empty. Conclusion: the attackers had changed vehicles, were now travelling in something entirely else. – But despite general alert and innumerable roadblocks, no trace of Brown and Faulkner was found. – Fortunately, Thompson was not accused of malfunction. It was evident that she wasn't at fault. And the guards had reacted correctly as well, MI5 was telling her. The fences had been repaired by next evening, and soon routine set in again.
Thompson was experienced enough not to ask pesky questions. The incident was kept under the wraps. The guards were obligated to keep silence about it. – But there was one question that really bothered Thompson: if freeing Brown had been the objective of the raid, how had the assailants known she was detained in Camp 235? Well, she was sure MI5 would ask the same question. The source of this piece of information must be in London, where all the records were kept centrally. But she rather kept her suspicion to herself.
Yeah, I've got to agree with that. With numbers this high, this is now in the realm of being the German equivalent of the US 'Time of Troubles' of the 1930s, where there was mass disorder, protests and an incompetent President combined all into one.
I imagine that this level of political disorder would not be good for the German economy of COMECON as a whole, and there are also going to be wholesale changes as well.
This mess is going to take years to resolve.
Canada freeing the former leader of the british nuclear weapons program?
(the camp number was a nice twist)
We live in a rainbow of chaos.
(Paul Cezanne)
The Pariser Platz had been tidied up; without the blackened ruins of the Adlon Hotel and the adjacent Palais Arnim – well, and the soot marks and broken windows still visible on most other buildings – one could almost blank out the riots. Otti Seidel was amazed how fast workaday life had been resumed. There were even people busy to remove debris from the Adlon wreckage, while next door folks were diligently sifting through the cinders of Palais Armin, which had housed the Prussian Academy of Fine Arts. Perhaps they hoped to find some intact works of art below the ashes.
Her mother belonged to the acting government of Erich Ollenhauer. She had been fiercely criticised for her role in suppressing the riots, but wouldn't resign. As an experienced politician she knew that demission meant accepting blame. There was nothing she had to regret – she kept telling her daughter – and the media... Otti, who had a good idea of her mother's responsibilities, tended to believe her. Käthe neither had held command of the Prussian Police nor of the armed forces.
Well, she would be blamed nevertheless. It seemed that everybody was blaming everybody else. The soldiers had been recalled to the barracks, and police presence had been reduced to normal pre-crisis level. At the same time, more and more ex-rioters were released from custody, free now to spread their versions of the truth. Otti's impression was one of utter fragmentation. Nobody appeared to be in agreement with anybody else. All had been hurt, nobody was happy.
The university had restarted lectures. Economy was temporarily taught in the former barracks of the guards engineer battalion. That meant Otti had to take the metro rather often. Thus, she was well informed about popular opinion – or rather opinions. She had no clue what the result of the April elections would be, but she had an acute inkling that their days in the official residence in the Wilhelmstraße were counted.
At least, she had established contact with Paula G'Norebbe again. Paula tought the Germans were crazy. How could they ruin their own country? For nothing? Without purpose? – Otti had tried to explain, but had soon resigned. One couldn't explain it. It had been collective lunacy. – But perhaps coming down from madness had a sobering effect – when one was waking up between ruins?
(Paul Cezanne)
The Pariser Platz had been tidied up; without the blackened ruins of the Adlon Hotel and the adjacent Palais Arnim – well, and the soot marks and broken windows still visible on most other buildings – one could almost blank out the riots. Otti Seidel was amazed how fast workaday life had been resumed. There were even people busy to remove debris from the Adlon wreckage, while next door folks were diligently sifting through the cinders of Palais Armin, which had housed the Prussian Academy of Fine Arts. Perhaps they hoped to find some intact works of art below the ashes.
Her mother belonged to the acting government of Erich Ollenhauer. She had been fiercely criticised for her role in suppressing the riots, but wouldn't resign. As an experienced politician she knew that demission meant accepting blame. There was nothing she had to regret – she kept telling her daughter – and the media... Otti, who had a good idea of her mother's responsibilities, tended to believe her. Käthe neither had held command of the Prussian Police nor of the armed forces.
Well, she would be blamed nevertheless. It seemed that everybody was blaming everybody else. The soldiers had been recalled to the barracks, and police presence had been reduced to normal pre-crisis level. At the same time, more and more ex-rioters were released from custody, free now to spread their versions of the truth. Otti's impression was one of utter fragmentation. Nobody appeared to be in agreement with anybody else. All had been hurt, nobody was happy.
The university had restarted lectures. Economy was temporarily taught in the former barracks of the guards engineer battalion. That meant Otti had to take the metro rather often. Thus, she was well informed about popular opinion – or rather opinions. She had no clue what the result of the April elections would be, but she had an acute inkling that their days in the official residence in the Wilhelmstraße were counted.
At least, she had established contact with Paula G'Norebbe again. Paula tought the Germans were crazy. How could they ruin their own country? For nothing? Without purpose? – Otti had tried to explain, but had soon resigned. One couldn't explain it. It had been collective lunacy. – But perhaps coming down from madness had a sobering effect – when one was waking up between ruins?
Far from the gay cities, and the ways of men.
(Homer)
It was a desolate clime, mountainous ad nauseam, inhabited by atavistic people, many of which weren't even genuine Hànzúrén – but Miao, Yao, Yi, Qiang, Dong, Zhuang, Bouyei, and so on... Well, all these folks appeared to be quite happy, living without the blessings of modern civilisation. Tsai Xuě-bái was amazed. – While visiting the Chóngqìng reactor farm, she had been talked into visiting Guìzhōu Province, where – according to popular wisdom – there were no three feet of flat land, no three days without rain and no human being with three Yuan in his pocket.
Now, these paupers were self-sustaining, kind of... – The only thing of national importance they were producing was: Maotai, a strong brand of báijiŭ, made from red sorghum and wheat. Maotai was the only Chinese báijiŭ destilled on a larger scale; 220,000 litres were turned out annually, Xuě-bái had learnt. Maotai was considered the official booze of the Qing Dynasty; it was handed out on state receptions; and it was the only booze that Chinese ambassadors were allowed to bestow on foreigners. – Leastwise, Xuě-bái had prudently avoided getting pissed out of her mind when invited to taste the stuff.
She had also been led to watch tradional bull fights – and other peculiar rituals. But, strange to say, she didn't have the impression the natives were attempting to attract state funding. Chóngqìng was generating electricity galore, more than the skeleton industry remaining in the Cháng Jiāng valley could absorb. Were the natives asking for power lines? No, they rather were anxious to demonstrate that they had everything they needed – and wanted...
Xuě-bái was mystified. She had lived in the countryside during her guerrilla days – and thoroughly hated every minute of it... She was a town kid, had grown up and studied in Guǎngzhōu. How could people want to go on living like the pigs they were rearing? Without schools? Without decent health care? – But they were having children, hordes of children. Urban Chinese couples were parenting one kid as a rule, sometimes two, often none; and these savages kept producing an excess of population. Even if half of their offspring died early...
Comrade Deng had told Xuě-bái about his findings in the Indian Federation. Well, this here seemed to be the Chinese equivalent of Indian poverty – not by social class, rather by place of residence. Guìzhōu was perhaps the poorest province in the Great Qing Empire, but only so by a whisker... She had thought China was on the way up, yet, Guìzhōu was teaching her the opposite. China was like India. There was a high-tech China, to which she belonged, and there was Guìzhōu-China, which was much larger and much more popolous than her China.
Xuě-bái was wondering why it had taken her so long to realise this. Ye gods! Even during the guerrilla days, she had been part of high-tech China. And in the war with Russia, she had ridden on a wave of innovations – which, however, never had reached Guìzhōu – obviously... After the war with Russia, she had witnessed the shrinkage of the industries she had implemented. That should have warned her. – But she had been busy with the Trade War, and then the nuclear project...
Now, the existence of Guìzhōu didn't stop the nuclear project, not at all. The Great Qing Empire remained the major power it was. – Yet, her mental picture of China had formed cracks. Her confidence had been hurt. It was one of those nasty mind things. You think you're perfect – and then you discover this ugly furuncle in your face... Xuě-bái wasn't exactly demoralised, only a little bit bewildered. Returning to the nuclear project and the halls of science would certainly help her overcome the little crisis. Guìzhōu and the likes of it would hardly change, but the nuclear project would change the world.
(Homer)
It was a desolate clime, mountainous ad nauseam, inhabited by atavistic people, many of which weren't even genuine Hànzúrén – but Miao, Yao, Yi, Qiang, Dong, Zhuang, Bouyei, and so on... Well, all these folks appeared to be quite happy, living without the blessings of modern civilisation. Tsai Xuě-bái was amazed. – While visiting the Chóngqìng reactor farm, she had been talked into visiting Guìzhōu Province, where – according to popular wisdom – there were no three feet of flat land, no three days without rain and no human being with three Yuan in his pocket.
Now, these paupers were self-sustaining, kind of... – The only thing of national importance they were producing was: Maotai, a strong brand of báijiŭ, made from red sorghum and wheat. Maotai was the only Chinese báijiŭ destilled on a larger scale; 220,000 litres were turned out annually, Xuě-bái had learnt. Maotai was considered the official booze of the Qing Dynasty; it was handed out on state receptions; and it was the only booze that Chinese ambassadors were allowed to bestow on foreigners. – Leastwise, Xuě-bái had prudently avoided getting pissed out of her mind when invited to taste the stuff.
She had also been led to watch tradional bull fights – and other peculiar rituals. But, strange to say, she didn't have the impression the natives were attempting to attract state funding. Chóngqìng was generating electricity galore, more than the skeleton industry remaining in the Cháng Jiāng valley could absorb. Were the natives asking for power lines? No, they rather were anxious to demonstrate that they had everything they needed – and wanted...
Xuě-bái was mystified. She had lived in the countryside during her guerrilla days – and thoroughly hated every minute of it... She was a town kid, had grown up and studied in Guǎngzhōu. How could people want to go on living like the pigs they were rearing? Without schools? Without decent health care? – But they were having children, hordes of children. Urban Chinese couples were parenting one kid as a rule, sometimes two, often none; and these savages kept producing an excess of population. Even if half of their offspring died early...
Comrade Deng had told Xuě-bái about his findings in the Indian Federation. Well, this here seemed to be the Chinese equivalent of Indian poverty – not by social class, rather by place of residence. Guìzhōu was perhaps the poorest province in the Great Qing Empire, but only so by a whisker... She had thought China was on the way up, yet, Guìzhōu was teaching her the opposite. China was like India. There was a high-tech China, to which she belonged, and there was Guìzhōu-China, which was much larger and much more popolous than her China.
Xuě-bái was wondering why it had taken her so long to realise this. Ye gods! Even during the guerrilla days, she had been part of high-tech China. And in the war with Russia, she had ridden on a wave of innovations – which, however, never had reached Guìzhōu – obviously... After the war with Russia, she had witnessed the shrinkage of the industries she had implemented. That should have warned her. – But she had been busy with the Trade War, and then the nuclear project...
Now, the existence of Guìzhōu didn't stop the nuclear project, not at all. The Great Qing Empire remained the major power it was. – Yet, her mental picture of China had formed cracks. Her confidence had been hurt. It was one of those nasty mind things. You think you're perfect – and then you discover this ugly furuncle in your face... Xuě-bái wasn't exactly demoralised, only a little bit bewildered. Returning to the nuclear project and the halls of science would certainly help her overcome the little crisis. Guìzhōu and the likes of it would hardly change, but the nuclear project would change the world.
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Now that one has seen how the other half lives, will there be an analogue to OTL China to deal with the demographic/economic issues in the hinterland?
We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.
(Eric Blair)
HMS Porgy was approaching the Labrador coast. It was time for Colonel Fraser's commandos to get ready for disembarkation. The submarine had been relieved of torpedoes and torpedo crew to make room for the soldiers. Thirty-three of them had been crammed into the boat, together with a load of equipment and supplies. Lieutenant Commander Alfred Winterbottom, HMS Porgy's captain, had counselled for going ashore in daytime, but the colonel had decided to do it in the night. The Labrador coast in March was not a place one wanted to sojourn at: if daytime temperature did hardly ever exceed 32° Fahrenheit, at night the mercury could shrink to indicate a mere 3° Fahrenheit, or even zero.
HMS Porgy was a conventional but modern submarine of the Tropical Sea Class, commissioned in 1948. She was equipped with a snort mast, a night periscope and a radar that could be used from periscope depth. – But the Labrador Sea was a dangerous place in March: icebergs, growlers and drift ice were abundant, carried southwards by the cold Labrador Current. – Disembarkation wouldn't be a simple operation of here now, gone in a blink. Shuttling equipment and supplies ashore was going to require multiple boat runs. The commandos had to be self–sufficient; one could not – and would not – rely on indigene support.
The PRCN presence evidently was restricted to patrol aircraft, which seemed to follow a certain routine. There was one plane circling after breakfast – and a second one – or the same again – just before tea–time. What forces were to be found on land remained an enigma. However, Winterbottom couldn't imagine that anybody was living in this desolation at all. Fraser had only shrugged his shoulders. "You never know" he had muttered "until they open fire." – Being spotted during disembarkation would mean abortion; not the worst outcome for the commandos, thought Winterbottom, who had come to regard the mission as suicidal.
The commandos must be crazy. Going ashore in the middle of nowhere, a thousand miles away from civilisation, they had to set up a hidden base camp. Thereafter, they would advance to their undisclosed destination. Winterbottom hadn't been let in on the mission. Well, he could guess what it was. – HMS Porgy was to linger in the Labrador Sea, although Winterbottom didn't expect any of the soldies to survive – even if the mission was a success. The chance that any one of them made it back to the submarine was nill. But the chance that the boat was detected and destroyed in the process was immense. Yet, an order was an order...
While his first officer was conducting the approach, Winterbottom was down, watching the commandos don full gear. The lads were a magnificent sight, true athletes and hit men, brawny and tough. Colonel Frazer had already finished his preparations and was joking with the chaps. He seemed to be perfectly at ease. Yeah, these old aristocrats had style, jumping onto the disk saw with a laugh...
(Eric Blair)
HMS Porgy was approaching the Labrador coast. It was time for Colonel Fraser's commandos to get ready for disembarkation. The submarine had been relieved of torpedoes and torpedo crew to make room for the soldiers. Thirty-three of them had been crammed into the boat, together with a load of equipment and supplies. Lieutenant Commander Alfred Winterbottom, HMS Porgy's captain, had counselled for going ashore in daytime, but the colonel had decided to do it in the night. The Labrador coast in March was not a place one wanted to sojourn at: if daytime temperature did hardly ever exceed 32° Fahrenheit, at night the mercury could shrink to indicate a mere 3° Fahrenheit, or even zero.
HMS Porgy was a conventional but modern submarine of the Tropical Sea Class, commissioned in 1948. She was equipped with a snort mast, a night periscope and a radar that could be used from periscope depth. – But the Labrador Sea was a dangerous place in March: icebergs, growlers and drift ice were abundant, carried southwards by the cold Labrador Current. – Disembarkation wouldn't be a simple operation of here now, gone in a blink. Shuttling equipment and supplies ashore was going to require multiple boat runs. The commandos had to be self–sufficient; one could not – and would not – rely on indigene support.
The PRCN presence evidently was restricted to patrol aircraft, which seemed to follow a certain routine. There was one plane circling after breakfast – and a second one – or the same again – just before tea–time. What forces were to be found on land remained an enigma. However, Winterbottom couldn't imagine that anybody was living in this desolation at all. Fraser had only shrugged his shoulders. "You never know" he had muttered "until they open fire." – Being spotted during disembarkation would mean abortion; not the worst outcome for the commandos, thought Winterbottom, who had come to regard the mission as suicidal.
The commandos must be crazy. Going ashore in the middle of nowhere, a thousand miles away from civilisation, they had to set up a hidden base camp. Thereafter, they would advance to their undisclosed destination. Winterbottom hadn't been let in on the mission. Well, he could guess what it was. – HMS Porgy was to linger in the Labrador Sea, although Winterbottom didn't expect any of the soldies to survive – even if the mission was a success. The chance that any one of them made it back to the submarine was nill. But the chance that the boat was detected and destroyed in the process was immense. Yet, an order was an order...
While his first officer was conducting the approach, Winterbottom was down, watching the commandos don full gear. The lads were a magnificent sight, true athletes and hit men, brawny and tough. Colonel Frazer had already finished his preparations and was joking with the chaps. He seemed to be perfectly at ease. Yeah, these old aristocrats had style, jumping onto the disk saw with a laugh...
historic weather for the region:
https://weatherspark.com/history/28443/1950/Happy-Valley-Newfoundland-and-Labrador-Canada
Ittl Canada's newest icecream - Commando Popsicles
https://weatherspark.com/history/28443/1950/Happy-Valley-Newfoundland-and-Labrador-Canada
Ittl Canada's newest icecream - Commando Popsicles
Hiding places there are innumerable, escape is only one, but possibilities of escape, again, are as many as hiding places.
(Franz Kafka)
Yeah, the best hiding places in Britain were found in London. It was kind of consequential. This vast agglomeration of more than eight million people and countless buildings offered so many dens that a whole army could be concealed. Polly Brown knew London, above all the East End, yet she had no idea where her abductors – or were they liberators? – had got her to. It was a nondescript dark basement room. There was no window, only a kind of ventilation louvre. The door was made of sheet steel and locked. There was a light switch, which didn't produce anything. The blokes had left her with a crate of water bottles and a package of biscuits. A bucket with a lid served for loo, some blankets for bed.
If her count was correct, she was locked in for the third day. She had avoided making noise; being rescued by police or MI5 wasn't actually on her wish list. The three abductor-liberators hadn't shown up since caging her. However, they hadn't fettered her – and had left provisions. Therefore, she assumed they weren't outright hostile. – The other internee freed, that hysterical blonde roly-poly, had been dumped in Chelmsford, right on the main road. – Polly was wondering: had the abductor-liberators been caught perhaps? – or killed? And she was left down here to die? There were just four water bottles and one bag of biscuits remaining...
And, of course, she was asking herself to what faction those lads might belong. Certainly, they were no Churchillians. Partisans of Ernest Bevin? Enemies of Palme Dutt – or rather Tom Wintringham? – Palme Dutt's assassination had been a rumour in Camp 235, therefore most probably true. Wintringham's advent to power had been another rumour... – Or were these people keen on learning more about Britain's nuclear programme? In this case, they had seized the wrong person. She had no clue about all this scientific monkey business. – But for what other reason might someone kidnap her?
Okay, she had supervised the tests of the nuclear weapons programme. These events – and the test results – might be of interest for certain folks. Yes, spooks were a possibility. Well, foreigners... – Now, Polly remained a loyal British socialist, even after having fallen from grace. But there were ways to make people talk, ugly ways...
However, in this case, letting her thirst and starve would have been cleverer. So, perhaps, blabbing wasn't what was expected from her... What else? She didn't know...
Eventually, there were sounds outside the steel door – and the lock was unclipped.
"General Brown? We're friends. We will come in now."
They were three, and they were carrying a light. Polly ouched when it blinded her.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, must get accustomed to the light, that's all..."
"Okay, I'm Huey, this is Dewey and Louie is the guy with the lamp. We come from beyond the sea. We apologise for any inconvenience suffered. And we would like to gain your cooperation..."
(Franz Kafka)
Yeah, the best hiding places in Britain were found in London. It was kind of consequential. This vast agglomeration of more than eight million people and countless buildings offered so many dens that a whole army could be concealed. Polly Brown knew London, above all the East End, yet she had no idea where her abductors – or were they liberators? – had got her to. It was a nondescript dark basement room. There was no window, only a kind of ventilation louvre. The door was made of sheet steel and locked. There was a light switch, which didn't produce anything. The blokes had left her with a crate of water bottles and a package of biscuits. A bucket with a lid served for loo, some blankets for bed.
If her count was correct, she was locked in for the third day. She had avoided making noise; being rescued by police or MI5 wasn't actually on her wish list. The three abductor-liberators hadn't shown up since caging her. However, they hadn't fettered her – and had left provisions. Therefore, she assumed they weren't outright hostile. – The other internee freed, that hysterical blonde roly-poly, had been dumped in Chelmsford, right on the main road. – Polly was wondering: had the abductor-liberators been caught perhaps? – or killed? And she was left down here to die? There were just four water bottles and one bag of biscuits remaining...
And, of course, she was asking herself to what faction those lads might belong. Certainly, they were no Churchillians. Partisans of Ernest Bevin? Enemies of Palme Dutt – or rather Tom Wintringham? – Palme Dutt's assassination had been a rumour in Camp 235, therefore most probably true. Wintringham's advent to power had been another rumour... – Or were these people keen on learning more about Britain's nuclear programme? In this case, they had seized the wrong person. She had no clue about all this scientific monkey business. – But for what other reason might someone kidnap her?
Okay, she had supervised the tests of the nuclear weapons programme. These events – and the test results – might be of interest for certain folks. Yes, spooks were a possibility. Well, foreigners... – Now, Polly remained a loyal British socialist, even after having fallen from grace. But there were ways to make people talk, ugly ways...
However, in this case, letting her thirst and starve would have been cleverer. So, perhaps, blabbing wasn't what was expected from her... What else? She didn't know...
Eventually, there were sounds outside the steel door – and the lock was unclipped.
"General Brown? We're friends. We will come in now."
They were three, and they were carrying a light. Polly ouched when it blinded her.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, must get accustomed to the light, that's all..."
"Okay, I'm Huey, this is Dewey and Louie is the guy with the lamp. We come from beyond the sea. We apologise for any inconvenience suffered. And we would like to gain your cooperation..."
Someone from Canada? I remember years ago those Quebecois terrorists (or something
) using the French versions of Donald's nephews' names. But I must admit I am getting all these British ladies mixed up.