I've got something in mind for this, but it's part of my triennial US political update. So you'll have to wait until 1950.
It's worth pointing out, though, that the US suffered some brain drain in this particular field. That's going to color things.
A Shift in Priorities - Sequel
- Thread starter rast
- Start date
I've got something in mind for this, but it's part of my triennial US political update. So you'll have to wait until 1950.
It's worth pointing out, though, that the US suffered some brain drain in this particular field. That's going to color things.
Liberation is not deliverance.
(Victor Hugo)
He had everything together, all trysts were in place; the only flaw in the scheme was the presence of British troops on the Freetown Peninsula. I.T.A. Wallace-Johnson had no idea how to get rid of them without a bloodbath, a carnage which would hit the civilian population in the first place. – The Temne and Mende had agreed to form a federation together with I.T.A.’s sphere of influence, the Krio region, and the Sherbro people and the other tribes had eventually joined. The Federation of Sierra Leone thus would comprise the whole territory of former Crown Colony and British Protectorate – minus Kono Land that had joined the Bauer Protectorate.
The soldiers, however, were spoiling the plan. Freetown was the given capital of the federation. Without the town and the peninsula, the federation would be kind of trashy – just some primitive natives clubbing together under the trees. The British would not go away of their own volition, that was a given fact. – There wouldn’t be another big operation like the last – failed – one; they would just dig in and defend their turf – like their comrades were doing up north in Bathurst. I.T.A. was on the horns of a dilemma: his indigene confederates were urging for action, but a country without capital was daft. Damn, it was his town! His palace! His residence!
This was the state of affairs, when I.T.A. learnt that a delegation of the Bauer Protectorate had arrived at the Ribi River crossing site, just out of reach of the British forces. Going there wasn’t difficult for him, he had often travelled inland during his talks with the tribes. The soldiers were used to see him go and come back, thought it was part of his job as Chief Controller SL. That I.T.A. was driving himself, didn’t raise questions either. He had done that many times before.
A man of about forty years, an Akan, as far as I.T.A. could tell, was waiting for him in front of a small hut.
“Bonjour, Mister Wallace-Johnson, nice to meet you. Je m’appelle Felix Houphouët. General von Bauer sends his kindest regards.” His English had an awful French accent.
Another man stepped out of the hut.
“May I introduce you to Général Oliver Law. I suppose you’ve already heard of him.”
Law looked somewhat older than Houphouët, his handshake was downright powerful.
“Hi there, how’re you doing?” Law spoke with a horrible Texas drawl, was even worse to understand than the Akan.
“Now, Mister Wallace-Johnson, we have heard of your plans. And we would like to propose an economic union between Sierra Leone and the Protectorate.” explained Houphouët.
“Yeah, and we’ve been informed about your military problems…” Law chimed in.
“Oui. And we think, we can solve your problems. – Once you join the West African Union, Général Law will take care of removing any hostile foreigners…”
(Victor Hugo)
He had everything together, all trysts were in place; the only flaw in the scheme was the presence of British troops on the Freetown Peninsula. I.T.A. Wallace-Johnson had no idea how to get rid of them without a bloodbath, a carnage which would hit the civilian population in the first place. – The Temne and Mende had agreed to form a federation together with I.T.A.’s sphere of influence, the Krio region, and the Sherbro people and the other tribes had eventually joined. The Federation of Sierra Leone thus would comprise the whole territory of former Crown Colony and British Protectorate – minus Kono Land that had joined the Bauer Protectorate.
The soldiers, however, were spoiling the plan. Freetown was the given capital of the federation. Without the town and the peninsula, the federation would be kind of trashy – just some primitive natives clubbing together under the trees. The British would not go away of their own volition, that was a given fact. – There wouldn’t be another big operation like the last – failed – one; they would just dig in and defend their turf – like their comrades were doing up north in Bathurst. I.T.A. was on the horns of a dilemma: his indigene confederates were urging for action, but a country without capital was daft. Damn, it was his town! His palace! His residence!
This was the state of affairs, when I.T.A. learnt that a delegation of the Bauer Protectorate had arrived at the Ribi River crossing site, just out of reach of the British forces. Going there wasn’t difficult for him, he had often travelled inland during his talks with the tribes. The soldiers were used to see him go and come back, thought it was part of his job as Chief Controller SL. That I.T.A. was driving himself, didn’t raise questions either. He had done that many times before.
A man of about forty years, an Akan, as far as I.T.A. could tell, was waiting for him in front of a small hut.
“Bonjour, Mister Wallace-Johnson, nice to meet you. Je m’appelle Felix Houphouët. General von Bauer sends his kindest regards.” His English had an awful French accent.
Another man stepped out of the hut.
“May I introduce you to Général Oliver Law. I suppose you’ve already heard of him.”
Law looked somewhat older than Houphouët, his handshake was downright powerful.
“Hi there, how’re you doing?” Law spoke with a horrible Texas drawl, was even worse to understand than the Akan.
“Now, Mister Wallace-Johnson, we have heard of your plans. And we would like to propose an economic union between Sierra Leone and the Protectorate.” explained Houphouët.
“Yeah, and we’ve been informed about your military problems…” Law chimed in.
“Oui. And we think, we can solve your problems. – Once you join the West African Union, Général Law will take care of removing any hostile foreigners…”
Rast-approved:
Go, go to your business, I say, pleasure, whilst I go to my pleasure, business.
(William Wycherley)
Nine men sat down in the opulent dining room of a mid-sized cruise ship. They were meeting under the cover of a charity cruise along the scenic coast of the Shimane Prefecture. All were senior members of the various zaibatsus involved in the Latin American enterprise. They were senior- but not too senior, to keep the press from getting suspicious, or if (heaven forbid) the boat should sink. Wives and children had been sent ashore on an excursion, and the remaining crew and servants were all hand-picked men. The meeting began:
“Gentlemen, we’re here to discuss a revision to our policy in Central America.
“Until recently, we’ve been able to offset our costs in the region. It’s been a good place to offload arms and to buy extremely cheap agriculture products. But the continued development taking place among our little cousins in the East Indies threatens to drop the bottom out of agriculture prices. Their cheap manufactured goods aren’t any cheaper or better than what’s coming out of the Philippines, with shipping costs more than triple! We’ve extracted all the hard currency we can from the Latins, and our mineral surveys are proving...unimpressive, to say the least. Simply put, we doubt the ability of our…'allies' in Central America to pay for our patronage much longer.
“We’ve been in Central America at the government’s behest for seven years now, and we’ve been fighting this phase of the war for four years. The prime minister is certainly grateful that we stepped in in the region. We may not have to worry about the wounded pride of the military bringing down a government any more, but that doesn’t mean mollifying the generals once in a while isn’t sound policy. And our involvement has undoubtedly helped bind the Filipinos even more closely to us. All at home were happy that we kept the Yankees scrambling in their own hemisphere. But we can’t be expected to waste a fortune doing it!”
General grunts of agreement met this statement, and the speaker continued:
“And I for one would argue that we’ve accomplished everything the government asked of us. Let’s not forget, after Shanghai, the Yankees grew dangerously interested in our sphere of influence. Tokyo was looking for a way to keep them out of our hair. Now, if nothing else, we’ve forced them into entangling relationships in their own hemisphere once again. They may not have turned away from China, but they’re spending at least as much time talking to the Latins these days. They’re growing closer to the Mexicans, Dominicans, Cubans, Mesoamericans, Puerto Ricans, Panamanians, and Haitians. And the main concern of these regimes is the spread of Mosleyism. Soon, if these countries have anything to do with it, the Yankee’s main concern will once again be Great Britain and her New World colonies. It shouldn’t be too hard for us to claim credit for that with the government.
“And another thing, we all remember how dangerous and unpredictable the US was when they were ruled by capitalist oligarchs. They destabilized the world on a regular basis! Now every single one of their allies are socialists, anarchists, Panchists, or at the very least leftists. We’ve done the whole world a favor for that, tying their destiny to these regimes.
“I am confident this will satisfy the government, and then we can reallocate our resources and get back to the business of prosperity for the Empire!”
More noise of approval, even louder this time.
“The question now is, what can we walk away with? We can open up a back channel in Vieques to negotiate our exit from the war zone, and we have a few cards to play. Without our support, our proxies won’t last another six months. With it, this war could rage on for several more years. If we emphasize this, the Yankees may be willing to make a deal. So...what do we want?”
And so the real conversation began.
Go, go to your business, I say, pleasure, whilst I go to my pleasure, business.
(William Wycherley)
Nine men sat down in the opulent dining room of a mid-sized cruise ship. They were meeting under the cover of a charity cruise along the scenic coast of the Shimane Prefecture. All were senior members of the various zaibatsus involved in the Latin American enterprise. They were senior- but not too senior, to keep the press from getting suspicious, or if (heaven forbid) the boat should sink. Wives and children had been sent ashore on an excursion, and the remaining crew and servants were all hand-picked men. The meeting began:
“Gentlemen, we’re here to discuss a revision to our policy in Central America.
“Until recently, we’ve been able to offset our costs in the region. It’s been a good place to offload arms and to buy extremely cheap agriculture products. But the continued development taking place among our little cousins in the East Indies threatens to drop the bottom out of agriculture prices. Their cheap manufactured goods aren’t any cheaper or better than what’s coming out of the Philippines, with shipping costs more than triple! We’ve extracted all the hard currency we can from the Latins, and our mineral surveys are proving...unimpressive, to say the least. Simply put, we doubt the ability of our…'allies' in Central America to pay for our patronage much longer.
“We’ve been in Central America at the government’s behest for seven years now, and we’ve been fighting this phase of the war for four years. The prime minister is certainly grateful that we stepped in in the region. We may not have to worry about the wounded pride of the military bringing down a government any more, but that doesn’t mean mollifying the generals once in a while isn’t sound policy. And our involvement has undoubtedly helped bind the Filipinos even more closely to us. All at home were happy that we kept the Yankees scrambling in their own hemisphere. But we can’t be expected to waste a fortune doing it!”
General grunts of agreement met this statement, and the speaker continued:
“And I for one would argue that we’ve accomplished everything the government asked of us. Let’s not forget, after Shanghai, the Yankees grew dangerously interested in our sphere of influence. Tokyo was looking for a way to keep them out of our hair. Now, if nothing else, we’ve forced them into entangling relationships in their own hemisphere once again. They may not have turned away from China, but they’re spending at least as much time talking to the Latins these days. They’re growing closer to the Mexicans, Dominicans, Cubans, Mesoamericans, Puerto Ricans, Panamanians, and Haitians. And the main concern of these regimes is the spread of Mosleyism. Soon, if these countries have anything to do with it, the Yankee’s main concern will once again be Great Britain and her New World colonies. It shouldn’t be too hard for us to claim credit for that with the government.
“And another thing, we all remember how dangerous and unpredictable the US was when they were ruled by capitalist oligarchs. They destabilized the world on a regular basis! Now every single one of their allies are socialists, anarchists, Panchists, or at the very least leftists. We’ve done the whole world a favor for that, tying their destiny to these regimes.
“I am confident this will satisfy the government, and then we can reallocate our resources and get back to the business of prosperity for the Empire!”
More noise of approval, even louder this time.
“The question now is, what can we walk away with? We can open up a back channel in Vieques to negotiate our exit from the war zone, and we have a few cards to play. Without our support, our proxies won’t last another six months. With it, this war could rage on for several more years. If we emphasize this, the Yankees may be willing to make a deal. So...what do we want?”
And so the real conversation began.
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Votes should be weighed not counted.
(Friedrich Schiller)
Otti Seidel was excited – and a little bit alarmed: her mother was designated to become an imperial minister. Kurt Schumacher had asked Käthe Seidel to be his minister of the interior. – Now, Otti had paid attention in school. Because of the federal structure of the empire, each state had a minister for inner affairs of its own. Thus, the imperial one didn’t have much to say, notionally…
But her mother had only smiled. She would be master of the Imperial Criminal Police. And Department Five of the ICP was the Imperial Secret Service. In addition, she would be responsible for inner security, the imperial public service, the patents system, customs, immigration and sport. That was not a mean task inventory. In fact, she would be powerful, one of the really powerful members of the cabinet.
Would one have to move? Yes, one would take up official residence in Wilhelmstraße Number 74. – As one of Groß-Berlin’s mayors, responsible for the Wedding district, her mother had been provided official residence in a mansion at the Leopoldplatz. This was a nice environment, which Otti had come to appreciate. But now, one was going to move to the very centre of power in Germany, the Wilhelmstraße. Her friends certainly would be impressed; would they still come and visit her? It was kind of intimidating to have the Wilhelmstraße for residence…
It wouldn’t affect her studies. In fact, she could then walk to the lecture rooms, the university was just around the corner. She was studying economics, a decision that had surprised her mother. Yet, Otti had had her dad and his company in mind, when she had gone for economics. Well, to tell the truth, dad had become just another politician… But Otti wasn’t interested in politics at all. Her mother’s activities she usually found sucking and disgusting.
Yes, thinking about it, both her parents were politicians, and prominent ones on top of that. That was scary, wasn’t it? Dad was sending letters on a regular basis. He was embroiled over his head in preparations for the electoral campaign of 1950, was seldom at home, travelling all the time. – And Ma was handing over her job as mayor – and preparing for the Wilhelmstraße. Yeah, both of them had no time for real life…
[FONT="]That night, she sat down and wrote a letter to Adele, dad’s wife. The semester break was upcoming. Was it okay that she came down to Edea? Just to see Adele and the kids, and – perhaps – gain some experience by working for SEM… [/FONT]
(Friedrich Schiller)
Otti Seidel was excited – and a little bit alarmed: her mother was designated to become an imperial minister. Kurt Schumacher had asked Käthe Seidel to be his minister of the interior. – Now, Otti had paid attention in school. Because of the federal structure of the empire, each state had a minister for inner affairs of its own. Thus, the imperial one didn’t have much to say, notionally…
But her mother had only smiled. She would be master of the Imperial Criminal Police. And Department Five of the ICP was the Imperial Secret Service. In addition, she would be responsible for inner security, the imperial public service, the patents system, customs, immigration and sport. That was not a mean task inventory. In fact, she would be powerful, one of the really powerful members of the cabinet.
Would one have to move? Yes, one would take up official residence in Wilhelmstraße Number 74. – As one of Groß-Berlin’s mayors, responsible for the Wedding district, her mother had been provided official residence in a mansion at the Leopoldplatz. This was a nice environment, which Otti had come to appreciate. But now, one was going to move to the very centre of power in Germany, the Wilhelmstraße. Her friends certainly would be impressed; would they still come and visit her? It was kind of intimidating to have the Wilhelmstraße for residence…
It wouldn’t affect her studies. In fact, she could then walk to the lecture rooms, the university was just around the corner. She was studying economics, a decision that had surprised her mother. Yet, Otti had had her dad and his company in mind, when she had gone for economics. Well, to tell the truth, dad had become just another politician… But Otti wasn’t interested in politics at all. Her mother’s activities she usually found sucking and disgusting.
Yes, thinking about it, both her parents were politicians, and prominent ones on top of that. That was scary, wasn’t it? Dad was sending letters on a regular basis. He was embroiled over his head in preparations for the electoral campaign of 1950, was seldom at home, travelling all the time. – And Ma was handing over her job as mayor – and preparing for the Wilhelmstraße. Yeah, both of them had no time for real life…
[FONT="]That night, she sat down and wrote a letter to Adele, dad’s wife. The semester break was upcoming. Was it okay that she came down to Edea? Just to see Adele and the kids, and – perhaps – gain some experience by working for SEM… [/FONT]
Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.
(Gustave Flaubert)
Once again, Max Sikuku was travelling. He had spent the weekend with the family in Edea – and had held an extended conference with the general manager of SEM. The company was doing well, surprisingly well without him. One had erected a new production hall and begun to produce electrical appliances, which were selling like hot cakes. The banks were fawning to place credits with SEM, a development undreamt of in the past. And now, Max was on his way to Südwestafrika.
He was riding on the littoral express, which came down from Duala, went through Spanish Guinea and traversed the Congo River at Boma. From Boma to the south, the line was called Congo Line. It ran through Portuguese Angola to Benguela, then curved inland to Lubango, crossed border to Südwest north of Ondangwa in Ovamboland and finally reached Windhuk. It had been constructed by the Middle African Reichsbahn. Only the stretch from Lubango to Windhuk had been destroyed in the war, but was already repaired – and better than before.
Well, after the 1946 elections, Max had tried to put across privatisation of the MARB. That had upset the socialists quite thoroughly. And having witnessed how the MARB had done the repair job, he had to admit that for a state owned organisation they were indeed excelling with determination and robust efficiency. Now, he certainly would not repeat the privatisation thrust after the upcoming election – at least when trying to forge a coalition with the socialists…
The stewards were handing out coffee and tea and offering rolls or burgers for lunch. This was a nice service. Dinner would be served in the buffet car tonight. Max asked for white coffee and bought two cheese rolls. Then he turned to watch the scenery outside. He could study the files in his briefcase after dusk. They were still rolling through western Nordwestkongo, a sparsely populated territory. The tracks were stilted here. That avoided accidents with wild animals – and made one think one was sitting in a helicopter. Of course, the trains could drive faster up here.
The jungle down there looked pretty intact. There was so much uninhabited space in Middle Africa. And the area here was clearly underdeveloped. The next good port was Boma, which also took the traffic coming down the Congo River. Max had travelled this route quite frequently. – It was interesting to see things improve south of the Congo. In Angola, the tracks ran at ground-level, and the natives were using the opportunities available by a good transport system. He hadn’t seen a single Portuguese during all his journeys. But around the train stops, towns were growing and trade was increasing.
Yeah, it was the same pattern that had worked in Middle Africa. But obviously not along the stilted tracks. Perhaps he should propose some additional train stops there. – Promoting economic growth was near and dear for the MALU. Seeing such a large terrain undeveloped was vexing him. He reached for his briefcase to scribble down a note. Nordwestkongo was governed by a tribal-religious coalition; one of the few regions not under the influence of the SDPMA. Perhaps one could arrange something.
[FONT="]In Windhuk, he would meet Gerda Wassenhöver, the Südwest MALU chairwoman. She was of German stock. Her father, a cattle farmer, had been killed in the Herero Uprising of 1904. For that, she was thankful to the Hereros ever since. – There was a fair chance that Südwest might decide against independence after the 1950 election. Since Middle Africa had cracked down on them in force, people down there were experiencing efficient administration for the first time – without tribal corruption and rivalry. Gerda thought the party could win quite a substantial number of seats, because of Max’s advocacy for respecting the Southwesters’ will. Now, wouldn’t that be nice? [/FONT]
(Gustave Flaubert)
Once again, Max Sikuku was travelling. He had spent the weekend with the family in Edea – and had held an extended conference with the general manager of SEM. The company was doing well, surprisingly well without him. One had erected a new production hall and begun to produce electrical appliances, which were selling like hot cakes. The banks were fawning to place credits with SEM, a development undreamt of in the past. And now, Max was on his way to Südwestafrika.
He was riding on the littoral express, which came down from Duala, went through Spanish Guinea and traversed the Congo River at Boma. From Boma to the south, the line was called Congo Line. It ran through Portuguese Angola to Benguela, then curved inland to Lubango, crossed border to Südwest north of Ondangwa in Ovamboland and finally reached Windhuk. It had been constructed by the Middle African Reichsbahn. Only the stretch from Lubango to Windhuk had been destroyed in the war, but was already repaired – and better than before.
Well, after the 1946 elections, Max had tried to put across privatisation of the MARB. That had upset the socialists quite thoroughly. And having witnessed how the MARB had done the repair job, he had to admit that for a state owned organisation they were indeed excelling with determination and robust efficiency. Now, he certainly would not repeat the privatisation thrust after the upcoming election – at least when trying to forge a coalition with the socialists…
The stewards were handing out coffee and tea and offering rolls or burgers for lunch. This was a nice service. Dinner would be served in the buffet car tonight. Max asked for white coffee and bought two cheese rolls. Then he turned to watch the scenery outside. He could study the files in his briefcase after dusk. They were still rolling through western Nordwestkongo, a sparsely populated territory. The tracks were stilted here. That avoided accidents with wild animals – and made one think one was sitting in a helicopter. Of course, the trains could drive faster up here.
The jungle down there looked pretty intact. There was so much uninhabited space in Middle Africa. And the area here was clearly underdeveloped. The next good port was Boma, which also took the traffic coming down the Congo River. Max had travelled this route quite frequently. – It was interesting to see things improve south of the Congo. In Angola, the tracks ran at ground-level, and the natives were using the opportunities available by a good transport system. He hadn’t seen a single Portuguese during all his journeys. But around the train stops, towns were growing and trade was increasing.
Yeah, it was the same pattern that had worked in Middle Africa. But obviously not along the stilted tracks. Perhaps he should propose some additional train stops there. – Promoting economic growth was near and dear for the MALU. Seeing such a large terrain undeveloped was vexing him. He reached for his briefcase to scribble down a note. Nordwestkongo was governed by a tribal-religious coalition; one of the few regions not under the influence of the SDPMA. Perhaps one could arrange something.
[FONT="]In Windhuk, he would meet Gerda Wassenhöver, the Südwest MALU chairwoman. She was of German stock. Her father, a cattle farmer, had been killed in the Herero Uprising of 1904. For that, she was thankful to the Hereros ever since. – There was a fair chance that Südwest might decide against independence after the 1950 election. Since Middle Africa had cracked down on them in force, people down there were experiencing efficient administration for the first time – without tribal corruption and rivalry. Gerda thought the party could win quite a substantial number of seats, because of Max’s advocacy for respecting the Southwesters’ will. Now, wouldn’t that be nice? [/FONT]
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Kwam lub mai mee nai loke. – There are no secrets in the world.
(Siamese proverb)
Cam Ranh Bay was a restricted military area. No unauthorized persons were allowed here, except Lera Bobkova. That lecherous Vietnamese admiral had made it possible, Phạm Văn Phu, whom she had met in Hué. The man was so wild about getting his dick between her thighs that she effortlessly could twist him around her little finger. Providing her with a valid visitor pass had happened in a breath. A military aircraft had shuttled them to Cam Ranh Bay. Lera had been surprised to discover a vast air force base adjacent to the naval installation. Phạm said the Japanese had constructed it.
Two Japanese naval task forces were anchoring in the bay, one assembled around the large carrier Sōryū, the second with the older carriers Haitaka, Tsuru and Washi. Lera had registered all that as a matter of routine. She was not here as a ship spotter. General Muharip wanted to know how deep the rift between Japan and China really was – and how the smaller East Asian nations were positioning themselves in this respect. Admiral Phạm was a paper pusher in the ministry of war, counselling various politicians in Hué. That he had decided to bring Lera to Cam Ranh had not been predictable. The bloke wanted to poke her unimpeded by family and staff; and the officer club here offered ideal conditions for that.
Pooh! It took almost six hours until Phạm had shot all his bolts. What a hoggish sex maniac… She had coaxed him to drink a lot of alcohol, but that hadn’t degraded his virility, rather to the contrary: it had only disinhibited him further. Now, he had finally fallen asleep and was snoring like a bear. Lera took a shower and dressed for the bar. She hoped to intercept some Japanese officers and sound them out.
Hardly had Lera left the suite, when two Vietnamese civilians entered.
“Goodness! This was the wildest fuck I’ve ever seen.” remarked the first.
“Yeah. Admiral Phạm truly is a ballsy bull.” answered the second. “And that lady from Singapore is a luscious sweetie, isn’t she? – Let’s have a look whether we can find something that tells us more about her.”
Carefully, as not to wake the admiral, they were rummaging through Lera’s luggage.
“Nothing. Might it be that she really is what the admiral believes she is?”
“Well, there is no camera, no notebook, no hidden whatever, only lingerie…”
“A bimbo then? Just a high-class tart?”
“Looks like so… Well, let’s keep her under observation, just to be sure…”
“Now, I’ve my wife to blow off my steam. But how will you manage it?”
In the meanwhile, at the bar, Lera was chatting with three Japanese naval officers. They did not belong to one of the task forces, but were permanent base staff. It was interesting to learn what they thought about their Vietnamese and Siamese allies – and their Chinese allies… One really couldn’t call them humble. They were social Darwinists to the core. They were looking down on their ‘little cousins’. They hated the Chinese. And they were truly afraid of the Russians…
Mesoamerica? No, they had nothing to do with that. The armed forces were not involved, not even as instructors. Well, those who had gone had been duly discharged before they went. It was a strange adventure anyway, but at least it was an adventure… Yes, it was the right thing to do. Nippon must not suffer insult without gaining satisfaction. The Americans? Oh no, they weren’t dangerous. The Russians were, but not the limp Americans…
When Lera returned to the suite, Phạm was still snoring. Well, perhaps she should also sleep some hours. Once the bloke woke up, he would want sex again. Why didn’t they allow women to become soldiers? It was so disgusting to make believe one liked men and their obnoxious manners…
(Siamese proverb)
Cam Ranh Bay was a restricted military area. No unauthorized persons were allowed here, except Lera Bobkova. That lecherous Vietnamese admiral had made it possible, Phạm Văn Phu, whom she had met in Hué. The man was so wild about getting his dick between her thighs that she effortlessly could twist him around her little finger. Providing her with a valid visitor pass had happened in a breath. A military aircraft had shuttled them to Cam Ranh Bay. Lera had been surprised to discover a vast air force base adjacent to the naval installation. Phạm said the Japanese had constructed it.
Two Japanese naval task forces were anchoring in the bay, one assembled around the large carrier Sōryū, the second with the older carriers Haitaka, Tsuru and Washi. Lera had registered all that as a matter of routine. She was not here as a ship spotter. General Muharip wanted to know how deep the rift between Japan and China really was – and how the smaller East Asian nations were positioning themselves in this respect. Admiral Phạm was a paper pusher in the ministry of war, counselling various politicians in Hué. That he had decided to bring Lera to Cam Ranh had not been predictable. The bloke wanted to poke her unimpeded by family and staff; and the officer club here offered ideal conditions for that.
Pooh! It took almost six hours until Phạm had shot all his bolts. What a hoggish sex maniac… She had coaxed him to drink a lot of alcohol, but that hadn’t degraded his virility, rather to the contrary: it had only disinhibited him further. Now, he had finally fallen asleep and was snoring like a bear. Lera took a shower and dressed for the bar. She hoped to intercept some Japanese officers and sound them out.
Hardly had Lera left the suite, when two Vietnamese civilians entered.
“Goodness! This was the wildest fuck I’ve ever seen.” remarked the first.
“Yeah. Admiral Phạm truly is a ballsy bull.” answered the second. “And that lady from Singapore is a luscious sweetie, isn’t she? – Let’s have a look whether we can find something that tells us more about her.”
Carefully, as not to wake the admiral, they were rummaging through Lera’s luggage.
“Nothing. Might it be that she really is what the admiral believes she is?”
“Well, there is no camera, no notebook, no hidden whatever, only lingerie…”
“A bimbo then? Just a high-class tart?”
“Looks like so… Well, let’s keep her under observation, just to be sure…”
“Now, I’ve my wife to blow off my steam. But how will you manage it?”
In the meanwhile, at the bar, Lera was chatting with three Japanese naval officers. They did not belong to one of the task forces, but were permanent base staff. It was interesting to learn what they thought about their Vietnamese and Siamese allies – and their Chinese allies… One really couldn’t call them humble. They were social Darwinists to the core. They were looking down on their ‘little cousins’. They hated the Chinese. And they were truly afraid of the Russians…
Mesoamerica? No, they had nothing to do with that. The armed forces were not involved, not even as instructors. Well, those who had gone had been duly discharged before they went. It was a strange adventure anyway, but at least it was an adventure… Yes, it was the right thing to do. Nippon must not suffer insult without gaining satisfaction. The Americans? Oh no, they weren’t dangerous. The Russians were, but not the limp Americans…
When Lera returned to the suite, Phạm was still snoring. Well, perhaps she should also sleep some hours. Once the bloke woke up, he would want sex again. Why didn’t they allow women to become soldiers? It was so disgusting to make believe one liked men and their obnoxious manners…
“Wow!” said the other June Bugs, who at that very moment were playing their concert under the chestnut tree. “Has haughty Mr. Violin-Zoomzeman found a pair of children, who are flying with him to the moon?”
(Gerdt von Bassewitz – Peter and Anneli’s Journey to the Moon)
Originally, the new German space mission had been planned for two male space farers, as Hanna Reitsch had been the only trained woman available. But then Beate Uhse had volunteered, a trained acrobatic flyer. While several more women were now being bred to become space farers, Beate Uhse and Karl Gratz were selected for the upcoming mission.
When the mission was officially announced, the media went hysteric. The fatal accident of March 18th was played back ad nauseam, as was the incident of the burning A12 some weeks before. Within short time, a general hysteria was raging, which also affected a lot of politicians from all camps. – It was publicity, not quite of the kind that one desired, but publicity nevertheless, adjudged Ludwig Erhard unblinking; well, it was Wernher von Braun’s job to turn scare into jubilance, wasn’t it?
On June 21st, 1949, a Tuesday, the mission was kicked off. While a chorus of voices was still howling that it was too early and preparations had been too hasty, the A12 went straight into the sky. Uhse and Gratz circled around the globe for incredible eight hours, talking all the time via radio. Then, their capsule landed safely in the waters of the Central Pacific Basin, where they were picked up by a naval task force.
[FONT="]“Well now, there we go!” Ludwig Erhard was reported to have remarked, while lighting another cigar. “Next stop, the moon…” [/FONT]
(Gerdt von Bassewitz – Peter and Anneli’s Journey to the Moon)
Originally, the new German space mission had been planned for two male space farers, as Hanna Reitsch had been the only trained woman available. But then Beate Uhse had volunteered, a trained acrobatic flyer. While several more women were now being bred to become space farers, Beate Uhse and Karl Gratz were selected for the upcoming mission.
When the mission was officially announced, the media went hysteric. The fatal accident of March 18th was played back ad nauseam, as was the incident of the burning A12 some weeks before. Within short time, a general hysteria was raging, which also affected a lot of politicians from all camps. – It was publicity, not quite of the kind that one desired, but publicity nevertheless, adjudged Ludwig Erhard unblinking; well, it was Wernher von Braun’s job to turn scare into jubilance, wasn’t it?
On June 21st, 1949, a Tuesday, the mission was kicked off. While a chorus of voices was still howling that it was too early and preparations had been too hasty, the A12 went straight into the sky. Uhse and Gratz circled around the globe for incredible eight hours, talking all the time via radio. Then, their capsule landed safely in the waters of the Central Pacific Basin, where they were picked up by a naval task force.
[FONT="]“Well now, there we go!” Ludwig Erhard was reported to have remarked, while lighting another cigar. “Next stop, the moon…” [/FONT]
Well, seems like Beate Uhse will ride a Dildo shaped object to a new climax: The Moon.
Ludwig Erhard: Father of Extreme Optimism.
I hope the German space program has put a bit more thought into the plan than its director. What's the name and the capabilities of the new capsule they used?
Erhardt is only the "head": providing the money, taking credit in case of success and bearing responsibility in case of failure. The real work is done by the experts and he seems smart enough not to interfere with their work.
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Ordinarily, the moon is manufactured in Hamburg, and in a very slovenly way.
(Nikolai Gogol)
In Achinsk and Moscow, one had registered with some relief that the Germans were not quitting the space race. With competition continuing in force, there would be no constraints to slow down and save tax money. Nevertheless, Generál-Leitenánt Mikhail K. Tikhonravov’s decision to apply more caution remained valid. The Russians thus eschewed new manned missions for the time being. Instead, they started launching a series of satellites.
In Prerow and Berlin, one wondered what the Russians were up to. That Pepelyaev had only survived his mission by hitting it lucky was known by now. Also that the Russians had no stronger carrier rocket available and were still working on one. Therefore, launching satellites made sense. But there were three applications possible: general research, and military or commercial use.
One satellite, called Wéstnik-1 (messenger), was clearly commercial. It was a communications satellite that reflected radio messages. Regarding the huge Russian land mass, this offered advantages in transferring information from far west to far east and vice versa. – However, Wéstnik-1 was not geostationary; therefore, the communications link was only available during certain hours.
Two satellites were thought to be military. They were on a low orbit, circling for about four days before re-entering atmosphere and landing inside the Russian borders. It was thought that they were spy satellites, photographing military installations in foreign countries – or at least the prototypes for such a usage.
The other three satellites had been declared to be research vehicles – like the two spying birds – by the Russians. However, one wasn’t sure what they actually were doing. The Russians weren’t very forthcoming with information, except babbling about ‘peaceful research’ and ‘enhancement of knowledge’.
Ludwig Erhard had immediately become interested. Was there a commercial use in satellites? He had Wernher von Braun explain him the intricacies of launching satellites without being able to control their movement in orbit. One was working to complete the first steerable space craft, von Braun explained, and hoped to gain more knowledge from operating it.
Was there a way to control a space craft from earth? No, there wasn’t. One could do ballistic launches, that was about all. And the Russians couldn’t do more either. But in possession of a steerable craft, one could think about placing satellites in favourable positions.
But what would be required to control a space craft from earth? Computations, quite an awful lot of computations… One couldn’t do that in the short time available… But perhaps beforehand? No, not really. One couldn’t predict any rocket trajectory with absolute certainty.
Erhard pondered this for while. What about zusies? Had one thought about employing zusies for the computations? Yes, one had. However, the time for operating a zusie was even longer than the time required to do the computation by hand.
Erhard wasn’t entirely convinced. When von Braun had left, he called his secretary. “Get me Professor von Neumann, please. Yes, von Neumann, Johann von Neumann. He works for Siemens.”
(Nikolai Gogol)
In Achinsk and Moscow, one had registered with some relief that the Germans were not quitting the space race. With competition continuing in force, there would be no constraints to slow down and save tax money. Nevertheless, Generál-Leitenánt Mikhail K. Tikhonravov’s decision to apply more caution remained valid. The Russians thus eschewed new manned missions for the time being. Instead, they started launching a series of satellites.
In Prerow and Berlin, one wondered what the Russians were up to. That Pepelyaev had only survived his mission by hitting it lucky was known by now. Also that the Russians had no stronger carrier rocket available and were still working on one. Therefore, launching satellites made sense. But there were three applications possible: general research, and military or commercial use.
One satellite, called Wéstnik-1 (messenger), was clearly commercial. It was a communications satellite that reflected radio messages. Regarding the huge Russian land mass, this offered advantages in transferring information from far west to far east and vice versa. – However, Wéstnik-1 was not geostationary; therefore, the communications link was only available during certain hours.
Two satellites were thought to be military. They were on a low orbit, circling for about four days before re-entering atmosphere and landing inside the Russian borders. It was thought that they were spy satellites, photographing military installations in foreign countries – or at least the prototypes for such a usage.
The other three satellites had been declared to be research vehicles – like the two spying birds – by the Russians. However, one wasn’t sure what they actually were doing. The Russians weren’t very forthcoming with information, except babbling about ‘peaceful research’ and ‘enhancement of knowledge’.
Ludwig Erhard had immediately become interested. Was there a commercial use in satellites? He had Wernher von Braun explain him the intricacies of launching satellites without being able to control their movement in orbit. One was working to complete the first steerable space craft, von Braun explained, and hoped to gain more knowledge from operating it.
Was there a way to control a space craft from earth? No, there wasn’t. One could do ballistic launches, that was about all. And the Russians couldn’t do more either. But in possession of a steerable craft, one could think about placing satellites in favourable positions.
But what would be required to control a space craft from earth? Computations, quite an awful lot of computations… One couldn’t do that in the short time available… But perhaps beforehand? No, not really. One couldn’t predict any rocket trajectory with absolute certainty.
Erhard pondered this for while. What about zusies? Had one thought about employing zusies for the computations? Yes, one had. However, the time for operating a zusie was even longer than the time required to do the computation by hand.
Erhard wasn’t entirely convinced. When von Braun had left, he called his secretary. “Get me Professor von Neumann, please. Yes, von Neumann, Johann von Neumann. He works for Siemens.”
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The biggest change to civilization since the Industrial Revolution occurs by happenstance in this TL. Of course in OTL, after the governments reduced the funding for code breaking, it was banks that drove computer development before NASA got involved during this same time period.
Exciting! Once commercial applications can be theorized, I reckon a few more nations will start to join in the space race. The Ottomans seem a likely candidate, for one.
By the way, I think the readers of TTL would really enjoy the US TV show, Manhattan, if you ever get a chance to watch it.
By the way, I think the readers of TTL would really enjoy the US TV show, Manhattan, if you ever get a chance to watch it.
Communism deprives no man of the power to appropriate the products of society; all that it does is to deprive him of the power to subjugate the labour of others by means of such appropriation.
(Karl Marx)
CEPLAN was growing – like a healthy organism, claimed the Public Information Bureau – like an ulcer, whispered the underground. Once, they had started their existence in Arden Estate; today, Whitmore Estate and Colville Estate were also inside the perimeter. And there were rumours that Haggerston would be the next quarter to be incorporated. Tenements and workshops were bit by bit replaced by modern office buildings.
They had zusies, copies of a machine bought from Siemens, adapted to British standards by homegrown inventions. They were still experimenting with them, trying to find still more applications. Camp 235 had been ordered to detach Detainee 18-728-423 Alan Turing to CEPLAN. He had arrived a fortnight ago, had been explained the situation – and had started working with one of the zusies. It was difficult to coax him to take a break for eating or sleeping.
The Chief Controller CEPLAN, Frank Ridley, however, didn’t believe in zusies and other modern stuff as replacement for rosters and notebooks. Generations of clerks and administrators had succeeded without such gadgets. The British Empire had risen and fallen without them. This wasn’t progress, this was teaching people to no longer rely on their brains. It was mass stultification, replacing memory formation by button pressing.
He had agreed to acquire zusies because he wanted additional abilities. He wanted forecasts, not a replacement for pencil and paper. He wanted projection, a look into the future. His hunch told him the machines could do that, if fed with present-day facts. But he didn’t want to replace men by machines; that was something the capitalists might do. But true communists wouldn’t do that, would they?
His subordinates were divided over the issue. The job at CEPLAN was toilsome and mirthless, but safe and secure. If a single zusie could replace a thousand clerks, where would one end? Factory farming chicken? A horrible thought. – But the job was boring, deadly dull. If the mind-numbing routine could be taken over by a zusie, one would be free to do creative work, improve the system, develop new approaches.
No, said the conservative faction, one would not be free but be set free to do other – daft – work. Rubbish, answered the modernists, this was pre-communist thinking. Capitalists would do that. But in communism, people weren’t set free, were they? Let the zusies do the work, watch them work, have a cup of tea and be happy. – Why then was the chief controller so worried?
While exercising with the zusie, Alan Turing had ample opportunity to eavesdrop on many such discussions. Based on his personal experience, he had done some computations. Communism required so many controllers, wardens, camp guards and policemen that the working force hardly sufficed to get the work done. Therefore, zusies were indeed required to set free people to do useful work somewhere else.
Actually, Turing thought, the system was only kept from cracking by the continuous supply received from Canada and the other colonies. Britain alone wasn’t viable any more, despite factory farming and type-restricted production, because too many people were kept busy in unproductive jobs. He wondered what the controller – worker relation might be in Canada.
Camp internees and expatriates were exacerbating the problem. Internees generally were working, like he did here, but very often only on a very primitive basis, far below of what they could perform in a sane system. And the expatriates were working against Britain. Well, one would see… – As a gay, he was not looking for a system change. Camp 235 and CEPLAN were treating him reasonably. Any other system might simply put him into jail. And queers on the continent or elsewhere weren’t off any better.
No, he could live with the system. It was cumbersome, but it wasn’t malevolent. Internees weren’t killed; at least as far as he knew. It was a waste, but it wasn’t utterly inhumane.
(Karl Marx)
CEPLAN was growing – like a healthy organism, claimed the Public Information Bureau – like an ulcer, whispered the underground. Once, they had started their existence in Arden Estate; today, Whitmore Estate and Colville Estate were also inside the perimeter. And there were rumours that Haggerston would be the next quarter to be incorporated. Tenements and workshops were bit by bit replaced by modern office buildings.
They had zusies, copies of a machine bought from Siemens, adapted to British standards by homegrown inventions. They were still experimenting with them, trying to find still more applications. Camp 235 had been ordered to detach Detainee 18-728-423 Alan Turing to CEPLAN. He had arrived a fortnight ago, had been explained the situation – and had started working with one of the zusies. It was difficult to coax him to take a break for eating or sleeping.
The Chief Controller CEPLAN, Frank Ridley, however, didn’t believe in zusies and other modern stuff as replacement for rosters and notebooks. Generations of clerks and administrators had succeeded without such gadgets. The British Empire had risen and fallen without them. This wasn’t progress, this was teaching people to no longer rely on their brains. It was mass stultification, replacing memory formation by button pressing.
He had agreed to acquire zusies because he wanted additional abilities. He wanted forecasts, not a replacement for pencil and paper. He wanted projection, a look into the future. His hunch told him the machines could do that, if fed with present-day facts. But he didn’t want to replace men by machines; that was something the capitalists might do. But true communists wouldn’t do that, would they?
His subordinates were divided over the issue. The job at CEPLAN was toilsome and mirthless, but safe and secure. If a single zusie could replace a thousand clerks, where would one end? Factory farming chicken? A horrible thought. – But the job was boring, deadly dull. If the mind-numbing routine could be taken over by a zusie, one would be free to do creative work, improve the system, develop new approaches.
No, said the conservative faction, one would not be free but be set free to do other – daft – work. Rubbish, answered the modernists, this was pre-communist thinking. Capitalists would do that. But in communism, people weren’t set free, were they? Let the zusies do the work, watch them work, have a cup of tea and be happy. – Why then was the chief controller so worried?
While exercising with the zusie, Alan Turing had ample opportunity to eavesdrop on many such discussions. Based on his personal experience, he had done some computations. Communism required so many controllers, wardens, camp guards and policemen that the working force hardly sufficed to get the work done. Therefore, zusies were indeed required to set free people to do useful work somewhere else.
Actually, Turing thought, the system was only kept from cracking by the continuous supply received from Canada and the other colonies. Britain alone wasn’t viable any more, despite factory farming and type-restricted production, because too many people were kept busy in unproductive jobs. He wondered what the controller – worker relation might be in Canada.
Camp internees and expatriates were exacerbating the problem. Internees generally were working, like he did here, but very often only on a very primitive basis, far below of what they could perform in a sane system. And the expatriates were working against Britain. Well, one would see… – As a gay, he was not looking for a system change. Camp 235 and CEPLAN were treating him reasonably. Any other system might simply put him into jail. And queers on the continent or elsewhere weren’t off any better.
No, he could live with the system. It was cumbersome, but it wasn’t malevolent. Internees weren’t killed; at least as far as he knew. It was a waste, but it wasn’t utterly inhumane.