Chapter Thirty-Two
Sakhalin Conference Part One
Washington D.C
United States of America
July 1924
William Donovan sat comfortably in the furnished chair, fingers steepled and was deep in thought. From where he sat, he could hear the faint pop and boom of fireworks, briefly giving him unpleasant flashbacks to the Western Front’s infamous artillery barrages.
Close by sat Campbell Slemp, Personal Secretary to the President. Slemp was the leading assistant for the White House Staff and held great power and sway within the West Wing, despite repeated rumors of disagreements between Slemp and the President.
Slemp’s phone rang. Picking it up, the man listened to the voice on the other line for a moment. “Yes, sir,” he said and hung up. “You can go in now,” Slemp said to Donovan. Donovan stood, flattened out any creases, both real or imagined, and walked to the door.
Opening it, he walked into the beating heart of American democracy. Three men waited for him in the Oval Office. Secretary Charles Hughes was a known figure, an excellent statesman and negotiator, riding high off the success of the Four Power Treaty, the Nine Power Treaty, the Washington Naval Treaty and for helping organize the Dawes Committee whose Dawes Plan was being reviewed by both domestic and foreign leaders. The hyperinflation in Germany was worsening and political extremists were gaining popularity, much to the worry of American, French and British onlookers. Such popularity could lead to political power and the U.S. had a keen interest in ensuring democratic institutions and processes flourished in Europe rather than seeing them wither away on a collapsing economic vine.
Hughes rose to offer his hand, which Donovan shook respectively, the two exchanging a polite nod. The second man was faintly familiar to Donovan. He racked his brain, trying to recall who the man was and where he had seen his face before.
Ah. Major Sherman Miles, U.S. Army. The reason Donovan knew him was that Miles, as part of the Coolidge Mission after the Great War, had held the brevet rank of Lieutenant Colonel and had partook in the border adjustments of Carinthia and the reaffirmation of such adjustments after the Austro-Slovene conflict in the region.
Why was he here, Donovan wondered.
The third and final man in the room stood up from behind the Theodore Roosevelt Desk. Calvin Coolidge, President of the United States of America, was a man of average height and solemn appearance, seemingly cold and detached.
Yet if one were to look in his eyes then they would see the quiet inner strength, the fierce commitment to responsibly governing the United States after the Teapot Dome scandal, and a man of conservative small government principles and laissez-faire policies that was overseeing incredible economic growth that the United States had never before experienced.
“Ah, Mr. Donavan, glad you could meet us today.”
“It’s an honor, Mr. President.”
“Please.” Donovan sat down in the offered chair. The president returned to his desk, looking out the window for a moment, seemingly admiring the distant fireworks before sitting down behind his desk.
“I’m sure you can guess why I asked you to come over today, Bill.”
“The upcoming Sakhalin Conference is my guess.”
Hughes barked a short laugh as he looked at the president. “I told you he was perceptive, sir.”
Coolidge smiled. “That he is.” The president leaned back in his chair. “Bill, the situation in Asia is becoming more tense as of late. According to State Department sources, the Soviets have been smuggling weapons and financial support to Communist elements in China, Japan, and several countries in Europe. Mongolia is firmly under Sverdlov’s thumb and barks whenever Moscow commands.”
Coolidge sighed and pondered a moment.
“Britain and France can deal with the Soviets in Europe. But Asia is going to be the world’s market one day. Their population and resources will be indispensable to future American prosperity. We cannot have that be ruined by Soviet interference.”
“So you approve of the conference? Of its intended goal to allow Japan to retain the northern half of Sakhalin?”
“I am half a mind on yes and half a mind on no.” President Coolidge rubbed his chin in thought. “Tell me what you think, Bill.”
Donovan was silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Japan,” he began, “is a rising power. A hundred years ago they were an isolated island centuries behind the rest of the world technologically. Fifty years ago they were a newly industrial nation hungry for raw materials their country simply did not have. And twenty years ago they were an upstart regional power who took on Tsarist Russia… and won.”
The three men nodded, knowing this.
“I say this to show you that Japan has grown rapidly in industry, population, and threat since Commodore Perry forced them to engage with the world. One day, Mr. President, we might have to fight Japan. But I believe a war with the Soviet Union will come first. They are the antithesis of our country: anti-capitalist, anti-democratic, atheist, and a police state that oppresses individual freedoms.”
“With your experience in Asian affairs, do you think the United States should support the Sakhalin Conference?” Secretary Hughes asked.
Donovan pondered the question carefully before answering.
“No, I don’t think we should. However, nor do I think we should stop it.” The men around him seem nonplussed by that, as if that was what they were expecting. “The northern half of Sakhalin has been under Japanese control for years. It is rich in gas, coal, and above all, oil. These are necessary for an ever-growing industrialized nation, yet it is just as important for military expansion. If we were ever to cut Japan off from the oil and scrap metal it needs for its military industry, Sakhalin will be a temporary salve of sorts but one that simply cannot satisfy the increasingly hungry maw of Japanese industry. Yet it is better to have a strong Japan than a strong Communist Russia. One we can defeat considerably more easily than the other.”
The other three men nodded. The president moved over a document across the desk towards Donovan.
“I concur completely, Bill. As a result, I am sending a team led by Secretary Hughes to the Conference to act as both representatives of the United States and neutral observers. I want you to go as well.”
“To represent and neutrally observe?”
Coolidge smiled humorlessly. “Not quite.”
“Oh?”
“I want you to compile an intelligence report of everything you see and everyone you talk to. I want to know what the Japanese are doing and how and when and why they are doing it. As you said, a strong Japan is better than a strong Russia but I do not intend to be caught with my pants down whenever Japan finally starts eyeing our territorial and market interests. Do you accept?”
Donovan thought for a moment of his duties in the firm and in combating crime but an honest answer came swiftly. “Of course, sir.”
Coolidge seemed relieved, or rather less stressed, and gave a look to Sherman Miles.
“Now, major, what can you tell us about the Austrian Ambassador? I know you met this Hitler in passing in Carinthia. What can you tell me about the man?”
As the Army officer went into detail about the Bastard of Braunau am Inn, Donovan paid close attention. This Hitler fellow had caused quite an international stir. Donovan’s contacts in Austria had reported that Hitler’s actions and call for a conference surprised many and the fact that Hitler was still Ambassador outraged many in the established elite. He either had powerful friends in Austria or was too dangerous to touch. Likely a combination of both, and reports from Vienna were detailing large-scale speeches and gatherings of pro-Hitler citizens in favor of the conference and the fate of Sakhalin. The Austrian government was paralyzed, at least for the moment, and was allowing events to play out.
Donovan’s attention was on Miles recounting the Carinthian Plebiscite, the Austro-Slovene conflict, and its aftermath but all the while he pondered the same thing over and over in his mind.
Who was this Adolf Hitler and what did he want?
Moscow, Russia
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
July 1924
Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin stepped out of the car and looked up at the Kremlin. It was a symbol of Russian endurance, of strength. It was symbolic for the new Soviet state. Whoever controlled the Kremlin controlled the USSR.
Power, he thought wistfully, and it’s held by an intellectual. Tsking, he moved towards the guarded entry.
Behind him came his staff adjutant Andrei Fyodorrovich Kolganov. Or at least, that’s what he called himself these days. Stalin knew the boy’s true name. Pyotr, or the Bull as his cell knew him as, had told Stalin as much prior to the Revolution. Stalin knew ‘Kolganov’s’ parentage. While there were many former tsarist officers or children of them in the Soviet Union, it seemed Fyodor wanted such matters kept confidential.
And what could be confidential could be exploited at a day and time of his choosing, and thus he partook in the charade, for now at least.
The guards saluted as he entered the Kremlin. Stalin thought he could almost sense their dread as he walked in. Being the Deputy People’s Commissar of the Joint State Political Directorate gave one a certain gravitas that incited a respectable dose of fear.
Stalin did not shirk from that but rather embraced it. He wouldn’t want it any other way.
Making his way to the Premier’s Office took some time. Even with everyone knowing him, the Man of Steel was just that… a man. He had to be stopped, screened and checked more than once. With events in Japan having failed so catastrophically, there were whispers of discontent among elements of the party, the new premier’s foreign agenda had already suffered a major setback. And Sverdlov would not risk assassination from foes both external or internal.
Reaching the Premier’s Office, he looked at Kolganov.
“Stay here.”
“Yes, Comrade Stalin.” Kolganov came to a brief attention before taking a seat in the guest area.
Reaching the door, Stalin knocked.
“Come in,” came the response.
Stalin walked into the Office of the Premier of the Soviet Union. Yakov Mikhailovich Sverdlov, Lenin’s Heir, worked behind his spartan desk. It was littered with documents and memos needing signing or reading. Stalin knew only a few people held a more difficult job than he. Sverdlov was one of them. The paperwork alone must have required a platoon of clerks to sort.
The premier looked up. “Ah, Comrade Stalin, so thankful for you to have accepted my invitation to visit me today.”
Stalin kept a platonic face. If he had dared to decline the ‘invitation’ Stalin would have found himself digging his own grave with a pistol against his head. “Thank you, Comrade Premier. It was most generous for you to have invited me.”
“Bah, sit down, sit down.” Stalin did so, hand clutching the folder he held with care as if it were a child. At that moment, it was more dear to him than Vasily.
“So,” Sverdlov began, “let’s discuss your future in this government.”
Stalin felt his throat tighten but he refused to look intimidated.
“Operation Red Sun was a complete failure. The Japanese, rather than readying for a mass uprising as had been encouraged, instead went for their leaders directly. A bold move, and one we can relate to, however unlike us they failed, miserably so. Now we have an international problem.” The premier gestured towards his paperwork. “The League of Nations, this facade of international cooperation, is convening in Tokyo to discuss the ‘Sakhalin issue’ as they call it.”
Sverdlov’s scholarly face morphed into cold determination. “That is absolutely unacceptable, Joseph Vissarionovich. Sakhalin itself is unimportant, however it is symbolic. It was stolen by the Japanese during the Civil War, and now the capitalists and imperialists are likely to ‘gift’ it to the Japanese.”
Stalin felt the fury wash over him and he remained quiet, like an island in a storm.
“I should have you shot,” Sverdlov said, “for betraying the trust of the peasants and workers of this grand Communist state. I have ordered the deaths of others for far less.”
Stalin felt sweat starting to form at his temples despite the room’s cool temperature.
“However, I cannot lay the blame at the feet of the deputy but rather the one who orchestrated it all. As of this morning, Comrade Dzerzhinsky has been relieved of command. He is to retire to the countryside to enjoy a well-deserved retirement. Comrade Stalin, you are in charge of the OGPU.”
Stalin felt relief. He had prepared for this possibility. Opening the folder were two documents. One held a letter to his family if he were to be purged. Sverdlov was a family man, so even if Stalin were to be executed the letter would have reached his family. The second list however was a memo citing the need to reorganize and reform the secret police from the Joint State Political Directorate into the People’s Commissariat of State Security. Below the short statement were the names of over thirty members of the OGPU, section and cell leaders, key commissars in Dzerzhinsky’s OGPU.
Rivals one and all, men who had earned Stalin’s ire. If he were to be the new chief of the secret police, he wanted men he could trust.
He handed the memo to Sverdlov who read it quickly, eyes dancing behind the glasses he wore.
“This is something you feel is necessary, comrade?”
“Yes,” Stalin lied. “The OGPU needs to change. Felix did an outstanding job, but the stress of creating the people’s paradise has taken its toll. The OGPU has become bloated, complacent, it has missed things it should not have. Instead of reforming the organization, it is better to simply restart and do things in a better, more efficient way.”
Sverdlov looked at him for a moment before nodding. “I see. And these names?”
“A drastic rebirth requires drastic change. These men would slow down the process. And some of them, if they were to be investigated, would doubtlessly be revealed to have embezzled government funds or offered clemency to enemies of the state in exchange of favors.”
Sverdlov gave a chilling smile. “The price you pay to bargain with the devil, eh.” The premier looked at the paper where a dotted line awaited his signature. Grabbing a pen, the premier scribbled his name on the line.
“There, it is official. Congratulations on your new organization, Comrade People’s Commissar. May the NKGB serve the proletariat well.”
“Of course, Comrade Premier. We serve to better their lives after all.”
Vienna, Austria
Republic of Austria
August 1924
“Papa, I want more!”
Simon Golmayer smiled at the petulance in his daughter’s voice. It seemed all children were little devils at one age or another.
Hannah Golmayer had just turned seven, and Lord did she love to remind people of that fact! She stood there, reddish-brown hair tumbling down in curls. Her bottom lip was out and she stomped her foot.
“Papa, I want more!”
“Hannah,” her mother warned from across the room. “Don’t pester your father. He has been at work all day.”
Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out several hundred one krone banknotes and gave them to Hannah. She jumped with joy and ran off to play banker with her stuffed animals. Simon didn’t like bringing work home, but nonetheless Hannah knew what he did. It wasn’t as prestigious as a doctor or as profitable as a lawyer, but Simon was able to provide for his family, despite the hard times.
Judith gave him an exasperated look before returning to her quilting. He shrugged and opened the copy of the Neues Wiener Journal he had picked up on his way from work. He hadn’t had a chance to grab one in the morning and he was curious as to what was happening.
The headline made him wince.
‘Austrian krone loses value as new currency is announced! Instability rumored in the Government Coalition!’
Already there had been protests, supplementing the ones being carried out against the government’s austerity measures. Unemployment, having lowered in recent months, was once again rising albeit slower than before. The Austrian krone was rapidly devaluing despite a loan from the Bank of England to try and keep it afloat.
Instead of printing more money, further devaluing the near worthless krone, the government had announced they would begin transitioning to a new currency starting at the end of the year. It was an unpopular move. Chancellor Seipel was under great criticism from the Communists, the Social Democrats, some National Liberals and even some with his own Christian Social Party. The backlash was so widespread there could easily be a leadership challenge if issues persisted.
The Chancellor however stated that tough times required tough choices and that a new currency would help stabilize the markets and re-establish the public’s trust in their money. This would stimulate economic growth for the betterment of all, at least that was the pitch.
Simon sighed. The money he gave Hannah seemed like a lot to her but it wouldn’t even buy a candy bar at a grocery store.
He looked over at Richard, who was laboring over at the dinner table. Several textbooks over mathematics and engineering were open as he studied for his upcoming exam. Simon was proud of his son. Richard’s anger at the world had not lessened but had calmed, it was still there but better hidden.
The death of Abraham was no longer a fresh wound in their family’s psyche, and Richard was now focusing on those that lived. He still lived at home, houses and apartments had skyrocketed in costs to keep ahead of hyperinflation and working as a construction laborer part-time wouldn’t pay the bills, thus he stayed with his parents and younger siblings as he studied.
Everything was going well for the evening. Felix was doing his homework from school, Hannah was playing with a handful of useless krones, and Richard studied while he and his wife relaxed.
All was good. All was…
The living room window shattered. Judith yelped in surprise, frozen in her chair. Hannah and Felix began to cry, glass littered the front of the house. Another window shattered, a brick rolling across the floor.
Simon and Richard both threw themselves flat on the ground, combat experience coming back in a flash as they went down on instinct. Simon crawled to his younger son and wife, Felix cried as he was roughly pushed down behind a chair. Simon could see Richard grabbing Hannah, rolling over her as a human shield.
Shouting could be heard, and several more bricks went through the window, or rather where the window used to be.
Simon looked towards his eldest son, nodding. Richard, still clutching Hannah, dragged her further into the house. Simon could hear a drawer being pulled open. Richard crawled back, one hand pulling him forward, the other clutching two revolvers. He slid one to Simon who grasped it.
Nodding, both stood in conjunction, pistols raised to fire and…
No one was there. They could hear distant running from down the street. Lights were turning on in the neighborhood in response to the noise.
Richard looked ready to chase after those who damaged their home but Simon blocked his son’s way.
“No, Richard. If they come back, I’ll need you to help defend our family.”
Richard tensed but relaxed. “Yes, father.”
“Good lad,” Simon said, clapping his son on the back. Turning, Simon picked up one of the bricks which had a poorly painted-on Star of David with the words ‘Juden Unerwünscht!’ written beneath it.
Simon frowned. He had known antisemitism was rising in the city, especially against poorer Jews who had relocated to the city during the war, but this showed a clear escalation against the well-to-do Jewish members of Viennese society.
It was troubling, to say the least.
South Tyrol, Italy
Kingdom of Italy
August 1924
Jakob Kuhr took a long draw of his beer, savoring its rich flavor. Putting down the half-empty stein, he smacked his lips in appreciation and belched, his companions raising their own beer steins in salute.
“To the Commander!”
“To the Commander!” They echoed. The three men with him were Wolves and they were celebrating the newspaper laid on the table they sat around. Kuhr picked it up, cleared his throat dramatically and began to speak, many nearby shushing each other to better hear.
“‘With the League of Nations Conference over Sakhalin set to begin in less than a week, Ambassador Hitler of Austria has been quoted as saying that keeping North Sakhalin out of the hands of the Soviets and in the hands of Japan will deter the spread of Communism. Ambassador Hitler would go on, clarifying that Communism was an insidious poison that if it were to infect another country then it would spread forth in a kind of domino effect to neighboring nations. Denying North Sakhalin to Russia would be a victorious addition to international peace and stability.’”
Kuhr stopped as the men, and a few women nearby, cheered at that. Kuhr beamed, almost everyone in the beer hall knowing of Kuhr’s association with the Black Wolf.
He was about to read further when the door to the Bierhaus swung open and the cheering stopped for what entered.
Six Italian soldiers walked in, strutted more accurately. Their rifles were slung, posture at ease, but they waded in like the Roman legionaries of old.
They walked up the bar. One, bearing a corporal’s stripes, leaned forward and spoke in heavily accented German. “Six beers for my friends.”
The bartender, Leopold Braunwald, eyed the Italians with disdain as he cleaned a stein.
“We’re all out,” he said bluntly.
The Italian corporal stared in disbelief and anger at the bartender, muttering to his friends. They brought their rifles up half-aimed, a not so subtle threat.
“Do you wish to change your answer.”
Braunwald leaned forward. “As I said, dago, we’re out of beer. So sorry.”
The Italian corporal reached over, grabbed Braunwald by the shirt and slammed him down onto the counter. The sound of a broken nose and the shattering of fallen glass echoed like a gunshot in the Bierhaus.
Several men stood from their tables, some grabbing their steins like bludgeons while several others reached into pockets for knives and pistols.
Kuhr remained seated and at a gesture his fellows also sat down, the rest of the Austrians choosing safety over death.
Frau Braunwald came over, arms raised.
“Please, please, stop this! Stop it now!” She leaned over her husband, guiding him away. “We’ll give you beer,” she said to the Italians, “so just stop it.”
The Italians, realizing how close they had brushed with a mob out for blood, meekly accepted the olive branch. Six beers were given to them and they drank quickly, draining the beer down their thirsty gullets. When they had left with their tail between their legs, Kuhr rose and went to the Braunwalds.
Herr Braunwald had a rag against his nose, staunching the bleeding while Frau Braunwald wept as she swept up the broken stein glass.
Kuhr pulled out money to pay for his tab, the Italian lira feeling foul on his hands. He added a large tip to the bill.
“Do not worry, Herr Braunwald. This will be taken care of.”
Kuhr left, his men following suit. The Bierhaus remained quiet as a grave after their departure, the once vibrant energy having been sapped out by violence. A quote Hitler had said often in Carinthia came to mind then, ‘Violence is best matched with greater violence.’
The Austrians slithered their way through the city, knowing the ins-and-outs of Bruneck’s alleyways and streets. Within ten minutes they had found the Italians. They were moving slowly through the city, at ease and unafraid. Thus far the worst that had happened to the occupiers had been flat tires, sugar in gas tanks or infrequent boycotting of Italian goods. All fairly low in threat.
Yet that was to change. At a quick hand gesture, the Austrian men moved quickly through back alleys to place themselves in front of the Italians.
Kuhr reflected, as his three men situated themselves into position, that he did not receive explicit orders from Hitler to do this. Yet the Commander’s last letter called for ‘greater action’ against the Italians, leaving the meaning open to interpretation. Hitler would doubtlessly approve of what he was about to do.
Kuhr checked his revolver, cocking it inside his coat to muffle the sound.
As the Italians neared, Kuhr raised his pistol, hidden in the shadow of an unlit alley.
And fired.
On cue the other Wolves opened fire as well, cutting down the Italians faster than they could have responded in kind.
Rushing the fallen men, Kuhr’s men began to loot them of weapons, ammo and anything else that could prove useful. But that was for his men to do. Kuhr had another mission.
Finding the Italian corporal was easy. Kuhr had aimed at his abdomen when he fired. Enough to cripple but not yet kill. The man was bleeding out fast. Kuhr would have to hurry.
Stuffing his revolver in the man’s mouth, Kuhr hissed in his ear.
“Our home will become your grave.” The subsequent shot splattered blood, bone and brain matter on the paved road. Kuhr’s ears rang but he ignored the discomfort.
Kuhr cleaned his gun with the dead man’s coat as he looked around. Lights in nearby homes were already starting to turn on. Doubtlessly the local police would arrive soon, but by then they would be long gone.
As Kuhr rallied his men to leave, a thought passed through his mind, one that lingered in reservation: things would change now in South Tyrol. A new, bloodier chapter had begun.
Tokyo, Japan
Empire of Japan
September 1924
Adolf Hitler woke up to the slight snoring of the woman beside him. His room in the Austrian Embassy was dark but he could imagine her beside him, nude, sated and comfortable. It was not the first time he and Lieselotte had shared a bed, nor would it be the last. After her near-rape and murder on Shans i Dyte and the assassination attempt at the funeral, both felt bonded to one another. Survivors of near-death, the adrenaline and stakes involved pushed them together as if fate turned the wheel of destiny. Hitler wondered if this was Social Darwinism at work. Both had endured much, survived what would have killed or broken lesser people, and now they were thrust together as if the gods of old wanted them to create the next generation of Austro-German Aryans, the inheritors of the earth.
Shaking his head of such philosophical idealism, he rose from the bed, careful not to wake his… companion. He didn’t know what to classify her as just yet. Moving to the bathroom, he emptied his bladder noisily, holding himself steady against the door frame. Flushing away last night’s tea, he looked at himself in the mirror.
Admittedly he was a little dishuffled from last night’s… engagement with Frau Aigner. Knowing the importance of today, he dare not appear less than his best. Pulling out a razor and shaving foam, he rid himself of the growing hairs on his cheeks and neck, tidying up his toothbrush mustache.
Once finished, he turned on the shower and stepped in to allow the hot water to wash over him. His hand wandered to his back, feeling the puckered scars that always reminded him of Hill 53. The price of duty, the price inherent of the noble Aryan blood that flowed grouch his veins.
Halfway through his shower he heard Lieselotte enter the bathroom. She slid the curtain and joined him. What followed was a nice distraction and a good way to start the day.
An hour later a car driven by Leichtenberg took him to the Japanese Foreign Ministry where the talks were to take place. Arriving, Hitler was greeted with warm welcome by Yasuhito.
“Ah, Adi, the day is finally here, eh.”
“That it is, Your Highness. Hopefully the League of Nations sees reason when Prime Minister Griichi and Foreign Minister Keishirō Matsui state their case.”
“We can only hope, Adi.”
“Indeed.”
Yasuhito led Hitler and his First Secretary into the Foreign Ministry, greeting dozens of officials from a score of nations. Hitler mingled with the Ambassadors of the other nations, many congratulating him on helping organize today’s conference.
After several minutes of pleasantries and feigned camaraderie, the doors to the Ministry opened and the League representatives arrived. Secretary-General Eric Drummond walked in, wearing a sharp suit and top hat. Beside him were representatives from the four permanent members of the Executive Council followed by the six non-permanent Executive Council members serving their term.
“It’s really about to happen,” Leichtenberg murmured beside him.
Everyone who was to partake in the conference made their way to the grand hall where they were to discuss and come to a decisive conclusion over the Sakhalin question.
The table was large, sized to fit over fifty seated individuals. Chairs were also against the wall for staff to sit and take minutes or relay notes. Japanese Foreign Ministry aides helped guide the international body to their seats.
Hitler kept the frown off his face as he found the placard with his name and that of Austria upon it. It was not at the ends of the table nor in the center of the long parallel flanks. Yet he knew that was to happen. He might have called for the conference but the truth of the matter was that Austria was but a minor player here, a glorified observer.
The real decisions would be made by the Executive Council and the Secretary-General. It was they who had to be convinced of the necessity of Sakhalin remaining in Japan’s sphere, no matter the cost.
After everyone had sat down, Secretary-General Drummond rose from his position at the head of the table and looked out over the assembled men. Leichtenberg stood behind Hitler to translate.
“Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to discuss the question of North Sakhalin. This will not be easy, nor will it be swift or rash. However, in the interests of world peace this conference must come to a final conclusion that puts international cooperation and stability before anything else.”
Drummond sat down and spoke once more.
“Let us begin.”
) to seize the island, and perhaps there will be a sort of limited combat occurring, and the Soviets maybe get reverse Khalkhin Gol'd 👀 ,and forced to give it up
