Cold War

By

Timothy C. Phillips

1947

The peace had failed us. Who would have thought that it would come to pass this

way? Our former Eastern brothers in arms, who linked up with us so joyously on the

German border, at the close of the Second World War; they were now our bitter political

enemies. As I sat in the cold train compartment into the growing darkness, I could see out

my window vast panoramas of destruction, now overgrown in places. In others, I saw the

first signs of rebuilding.

It really was a shame; I remembered the happy time, somewhere near the Rhine. I

had been slightly wounded, on leave after the uncertain victory in the Ardennes, when the

long-suffering armies had finally met, sharing wine and cheese and celebrating; everyone

knew that it was just a matter of time, and it would all be over, we would all go home.

I also remembered the bitterness of the POWs who, like us, had fought so hard

and for so long, only to be at last encircled and cut off from their homelands, by us, a

kindred race. They had also tasted defeat at the hands of our allies, whom they had always

thought so inferior. Dozens of battles in those past few months had shown them that the

opposite was true. But proud victory parades with the conquerors perched in their tank

turrets were over. All of that had given way to a cold peace, in a devastated world.
 Now, the war was over, and our former friends had the Atomic Bomb, that super

secret device that almost wasn’t, that miraculous discovery that our country had

ultimately used to end all of the bloodshed. It was a good decision, at the time; the killing

had lasted for so long, and had claimed so many.

So the dreamed of victory had been won. But now, new questions had come, and

with them paranoia and distrust. How had they, our old friends, come by our secret

knowledge? Would they use the atomic bomb against us? All of those months, we had

arrogantly thought the technology secure, thought it so closely guarded.

I remembered how I had left the army, and had quickly found work in the

burgeoning intelligence field. I had been sent first to England, in those first chaotic days

when everyone talked of building the New Europe. Then the revelation first came; secrets

were being leaked. We had, within our ranks, found and executed one spy after another.

The depth of the deception, the damage done, was staggering, perhaps unknowable.

It had become obvious to those of us in high positions that our vaunted

intelligence system, believed impregnable during the war, had been penetrated by moles

that were selling our secrets to our new, “cold war” enemy. Repeated purges had failed to

ferret out the leaks in time. We learned when they had detonated their own bomb, and

sent the newsreel around the world. Ultimately, I had been sent to Berlin, to European

headquarters, and given a new mission.

I was to set up listening posts in fishing trawlers, most bearing Russian markings,

along the enemy’s border in the Sea of Japan. I was to ascertain the enemy’s state of

readiness and response capability. Information would come from intercepted radio

transmissions and decrypted messages transmitted by our agents inside. The old
camaraderie was now lost forever, it seemed. People had forgotten the time when two

jubilant, victorious armies had linked up in Eastern Europe, hastening the end of the most

terrible war in human history.

I once again clutched the valise in my lap, feeling slight astonishment at the scope

and magnitude of the information inside. We should be thankful, after all, that there is

treachery everywhere. The enemy was good, but our own spies were also quite efficient.

Of course they were also quite well paid. Everyone desires the treachery, but none the

traitor. We now relied on those we would have shot in the street in ’42.

My orders were clear. If the Japanese were not in a comparable state of readiness

to that of the Greater German Reich, I was to inform the Reichstag at once. We would

then strike quickly and decisively with our new Atomic V-4 rockets. I sighed deeply as I

sat staring out of the train window, as it sped across the vast expanse of occupied Russia.

Sometimes, I almost wished the Allies had won the war.