Polar Bear Blues

by Stephen Wishnevsky

  The ship didn’t smell really all that bad, for being so overloaded with losers, but it did not smell good. Sovine was demonstrating some common sense. He was lining up men in four columns, all the net would hold, and urging them to keep moving. I found that mate, at least some old sailor with a billed cap on, and asked him, “Where are these women?”

  “The unnaturals?” He looked everywhere but in my eyes. “There is a bit of a problem, here… sir.”

  “Took you long enough to say sir, whatever your name is.”

  “Stiggs, sir. Second Mate Stiggs.” I knew Second Mate gets all the shit details, but he was getting on my nerves after ten words. I am not a bully, but sometimes it is handy to look like one. I glowered a bit more. He swallowed on a dry throat. “It’s like this here, sir. They got a new what you call, regime back home in the States. They are cleaning out the jails, and all. Sir.”

  “When you say, ‘they’, you mean the IB?”

  “They call it the FBI now, sir. Federal and all. So they are cleaning out all the jails. The prisons. And sending them over here.”

  “All of them?”

  He gulped again. He did not want to speak. But he did. “They shot all the lifers and the death row people. Dead. We seen them when we loaded the trains to bring the rest on board. A lot of them.”

  “They made you travel inland to load the prisoners, the deportees, and you saw a lot of dead prisoners. Is that what you are telling me?”

  “Yes, sir. I seen that with my own eyes. Up at San Quentin.” He went on. “We figured that they used us because we would not be able to tell anybody. You know. What we seen.”

  “And you might not come back.”

  “Yes. Sir. And I am not sure I want to go back. I mean…”

  “I understand. I am a deportee myself, I am just a little higher up the shit list than some. So what about the women?”

  “Oh, my God, they are a rough bunch. Them bull-daggers and suffragettes, and all like that.” His accent was getting deeper with stress. “They rounded them up all off the streets and out of jails and all, and loaded them up. Sir. With clubs. And some of those women are really men. And all.”

  “You mean queers?”

  “I… Shit, I don’t know what to call them. I’m a sailor, I been around, but I know for sure that some of those women in the hold have dicks between their legs. I seen’m fucking. They don’t give a shit.”

  “Got your goat, did they? Well let’s take a gander at these bad babes, shall we?” He led the way back amidships, in back of the center island with the bridge and the engines. The H.R. Hayes was run of the mill, a thousand tonner, reasonably new, all shipshape except for the stink, which grew stronger as we approached the hatches. A few of the wooden covers had been thrown aside, the stink and an enraged babble of voices issued forth. “I thought I told you to get these people out of there and get them on shore?”

  “I’m not standing here when you do that. Not with a gun in each hand, I’m not. You want them out, I’ll tell you where the ladders are, then I’m gone. I might be old, but I’m too young to die.”

  “You could die. Lots of people die here every day. It’s going to get worse. You want to swim back to the States, start paddling.” He actually looked over the stern, as if calculating. He shrugged, accepting his fate. That mine blast had knocked the starch out of most people on board. A very mild case of shell-shock. I have seen worse. I have worse. I looked over the edge down into the dimness of the hold. Eyes stared back at me. Lots of eyes, lots of breasts, mute eyes staring too. The air wafting up out of the hold was ripe and fecund. Seize the moment. “Who’s in charge down there?”

  A raspy voice answered, all whiskey and tobacco. “Who the fuck wants to know?”

  “I do. Miles Kapusta is my name. I’m in charge. You gonna answer my question, or you want to spend the night here?”

  “We been in this shithole a month now, so who gives a shit?”

  “You or nobody, bitch-eyes. I’m trying to help, but it would be a lot easier to just walk away. I got more shit than I can handle right now. There’s a fucking war on, did you notice?”

  “That’s in Europe.”

  “That one is over. The krauts won. It’s coming here now. Last time. Who the fuck are you?”

  She let that sink in. “Ruby is my handle. Ruby Clay Wilson, you want it all. Where the fuck are we, anyway?”

  “China.”

  “Shit.”

  “Worse than that. So you want to play my game, or not?”

  “What…” she thought it over. My eyes were used to the gloom now, she looked like a pit fighting bulldog. Scars and jowls and all. Her nose had been broken so many times it looked like a pug dog’s. Fuck me. Scratch that. She was mostly naked in the heat, and no part of my dick was going in there. Move on. “Okay, if it’s the only game in town. Deal.”

  “Get your traps, clothes, whatever. I will get you a ladder. We have a three mile walk, I can get you rations, something to drink. We are all living in factory buildings. We can find you one to clean out. You play ball, the Army will feed you. If not, then not. Clear?”

  “As mud. Okay. Deal. How soon?”

  “A few minutes. The sailors seem to be scared of you.”

  “Those pussies should be. They tried to rape us, first night on the boat. We learned them.”

  “That sounds like a warning.”

  “Call it a word to the wise, Kapusta. A word to the wise.”

  “Heeded. Fine. Be right back. Anything you need?”

  “Tobacco. We have been out for weeks. Sucks.”

  “I can do that. If you play ball.”

  “Do I look like a fucking Brooklyn Dodger?”

  “Babe Ruth played for the Yankees.”

  “That was almost sorta kinda funny, Cabbage Head.”

  “First funny thing here for a long time, Ruby baby. Be right back.” I turned to give orders to the Mate, but he had evaporated. Tried to rape Ruby? Dumb ass. Fuck him. Desperate loser.

  >>>>>

  Back in the bow, the casualties were all loaded and gone, the sailors all off the ship, and clustered behind the soldiers as if for protection. Or for actual protection. I had Red Sovine haul in one of the cargo nets, drop in down in the hold. “More in the other holds?”

  “I don’t think so. They have been quiet. I figured some sort of cargo.”

  “Get a crew, pop the hatches and take a look.” He looked reluctant, but then remembered who worked for who.

  “We were in the front two, that’s how our guys got hurt, but they let us up on deck to eat and shit. That means there is only one left.”

  “So?”

  “I’m on it.” The first women were struggling up out of the hold, Ruby talked big, but she was as weak as a kitten. The others were worse, mostly naked, but not at all attractive. A lot of them had sores from laying on the steel ribs of the ship, all filthy, crusted with foulness. I asked Ruby, who was gazing at the sky as if it made her eyes hurt, “You never bathed?”

  “Those assholes barely gave us enough water to drink. Bread and water and lard. We got old apples a couple of times. Pig slop on Sunday. All the crew’s leavings made into soup. We ate it, though. Nothing else.”

  “You take your time, then see if you can get something to eat. Must be something. Red, you take charge, don’t let them get into the damn liquor, if there is any.”

  “And tobacco.” Ruby growled.

  “You heard the lady.” Ruby snorted out her breath at that. It might have been laughter. Once.

  Red told off six guys to open the rear hold, I walked back with them, while Red led Ruby and a few of the strongest women back to Crew’s Quarters and the Galley. Those big wooden hatch covers are heavy, but we flipped a few off, let them fall, took a look. It was full of small crates, very heavily bound in steel, piled on top of much bigger crates, crates even bigger than the ones that held the Jap flivvers in the new warehouse. I could see a few of the big ones, and thought to make out the markings,
“Curtiss P-1-USAAS.” Oh, really? The smaller ones were easier to read, even if I hadn’t recognized them from my little vacation with the AEF in France. “CARTRIDGES-.30 CAL-BALL- BELTS.” Oh, fucking really? I ran to the other side of the deck, there were a few soldiers still on guard. I called down to the sergeant in charge, “Get word to Hodges, get more guards, we have a goddamn air force on this boat.” He looked blank, so I broke it down to soldier talk. “Lots of ammo on this tub. 30 cal machinegun belts.”

  He still didn’t get it. He just saluted and followed orders. As if a couple hundred invalid lesbian troublemakers was not enough grief. An Air Force? Fucking bully for us.

  >>>>>>>

  We managed to get everybody unloaded and headed home. There were two hundred and twenty six of the alleged females, and there had been an even thousand deportees. Eighty-three dead, they were left on the beach for the Chinese to bury, when and if. Fifty-five wounded, leaving one thousand and eighty-eight. I had an idea from someplace that eighty-eight was a lucky number in Chinese. Auspicious. I didn’t know much about them, I had read up a little to use them as villains, but most of what I thought I knew was from reading Fu Manchu novels. Not encyclopedic, one might say. I know a lot of shit, but in my business, truth is not preferable to folklore. Popular literature always has to play to the popular prejudice. But now I was a brevet historian. Sigh.

  And commander of a couple of brigades of… fucking irregulars. Irregulars, hell. These people were damn near unbelievable. The females, damn did I need a better name for them, headed for the water as soon as they got down the cargo net. Each one had a tiny little bindle, whatever they had salvaged from the Crew Quarters and the Galley. Looked like an insurrection in the slop chest. I did notice that every one of them had a knife, a shiv, or some sort of weapon in hand, even if it was just a big bolt or nut from the hold braces. And yes, some of them had penises. Peni. What the fuck ever. They left their pathetic possessions on shore and washed off the nastiness as well as they could in the cold bay waters. None of them showed any trace of modesty or shame. Beaten out of them, I suppose.

  Jeems and Sovine had gone on ahead, with orders to clean the road as much as they could, in passing, and to bed down in the car warehouse. We still had half a day of daylight here, so I let the females take their time. They were skin and bones, and very few of them had shoes, so hurry was not an option. Eventually they were all somewhat cleaner, had a few rags around their waists and places, and off we straggled.

  We got about halfway, and rested, here comes Sovine and that ex-car salesman Jimmy Bolton leading a parade of those DAT Lila flivvers, twenty or more. “Lieut, ,” Sovine yelled, “we thought you might need a little help with those women. They looked pretty beat.”

  “Extra points, Red, for using your head. Good man.”

  “Got to get along to go along, Lieut. I’m just a hobo, not a bindlestiff. Got some packing blankets in the back for padding, and there is rice and beans waiting at the Machine Shop.”

  “You heard the man, Ruby, load them up.”

  “Fuck me, Cabbage Head, you actually act like you give a shit.”

  “Rube, I don’t know what the fuck you people are, or why you are here, but the General said to take care of you, and I’ll do it.”

  “Done.” She waved arms, and yelled, “Girls, load them skanky butts up, we got a ride.”

  “What’s it going to cost us, our pussies?” One lanky gal asked.

  I answered, “At the moment you are civilians under the protection of the US Army. That’s me. The penalty for rape is execution, and I don’t feel like filling out a lot of fucking paperwork. You hear me?”

  That took her a bit aback. “Just asking. We can take care of ourselves in a fair fight.”

  “Not a bit of doubt in my mind. My name is Miles.”

  She cocked her head, looked me over top to bottom. She looked dubious, but all she said was, “Justine.” She helped the weaker women clamber on up, then was the last to board. She and Ruby got to ride up front with two of the drivers, and I wedged my big butt in the lead truck. Off we putted. I could smell tobacco smoke as the women indulged themselves with what they had looted from the crew of the ship. Fine.

  >>>>>>

  As we rode, I dithered. Should I change my mind and put them in the DAT building? It was bigger, more open, but then again, eight hundred men needed the room. It would be crowded enough. I had maybe a hundred, men and women both, at the machine shop, and it was full, but on the other hand, I had some idea what my people were about, and they had been selected as being useful. So maybe they might take orders better. And for shit sure, these females might be bad ass bitches, but the chances of them having serious knowledge of carpentry were kind of small. They were pretty damn feeble too. So…

  Some of my guys had some women already. Perhaps the women we had would help keep order. Fat chance. Most of “my” women were Chinese or other nondescript war refuse. I knew there were some White Russians, other Europeans, no telling who was who without exhaustive interviews. Screw it. What am I, a sociologist? An anthropologist? Nope. I was an imitation silver bar asshole with a job to do. So? Fucking do it. “Driver, take us to the Machine Shop. Once we unload, take two trucks, go to HQ, and see what rations and uniforms they can spare. Tell them two hundred and fifty effectives. We also need First Aid and… Shit. I’ll call. You just go.”

  “Yes, sir.” We decanted them back at the Shop, all they wanted was water. There was only the one bathroom, with three pots, but they managed. The rice and beans were sent over to the DAT House, and the women fell out wherever they could find a spot. I found that Justine still standing, staring at the room, a quizzical look on her face.

  “Help you with something?”

  “This is a factory of some sort?”

  “A machine shop. We work metal. Lathes? Milling machines?” I could tell from the blank look on her face, I was not communicating. “Don’t worry about it. All you need to know is that it keeps the rain off. Tomorrow we will feed you up, find clothes and shoes, then try to arrange housing. I don’t suppose any of you know anything about carpentry?”

  “I am a graduate of Swarthmore. Political Science with a minor in Musical History.”

  “You play?”

  “A piano. Not well.”

  “So you don’t cook? Keep house? Type?”

  “I can type.” She looked me over again. “Why do you ask?”

  “We are on a war footing here, and it is going to get worse. I have no idea why you were sent here, but here you are, and I have to find something for you to do.”

  “We are here because we are lesbians. We suspect you will try and make whores of us. That is all men want to do with women. We have only value for our vaginas. I warn you, that will not work. We will die first.”

  I had never heard any person pronounce that word before. It was usually found only in medical texts. Press on. “Justine, we are in China. Whores are a dime a dozen here. It is an honorable profession. The market is flooded. You noticed the women here? They are no better than they have to be, but men need women, and women need men. I don’t judge.”

  “Not all women need men.”

  “Fine. I don’t care.”

  “You say that.”

  “I mean that. You should listen to people. You do not know. The war in Europe is over. The British and the Germans have signed, or are about to sign an Armistice. Once that deal is done, the entire German Empire is going to come right down the Trans Siberian Railway, right down our throats. We have no idea if the Hoovers plan to fight, or if they plan to just let us be eliminated. We have no idea. But…”

  “You do not trust the Government.”

  “We are all deportees. Even the Army. The Americans hold Murmansk, Archangel, Vladivostok, and Dalny. This is Dalny. I suspect the soldiers in the east will be wiped out AS-fucking-AP. The Reds are on the Silk Road, the Americans, and what they laughingly call the International Forces, are on the railroad. We hear that Patton will n
ot sign any treaty, that he plans to fight on, but we don’t know that for sure. We actually don’t know anything. Pardon the vulgarity, but we are sitting here with our thumbs up our butts, and it is not a very comfortable position.”

  “Forgivable. We seem to have been cast from the frying pan into the fire.” She hugged her blanket tighter around her thin shoulders and shivered. I did not blame her. I wanted to hug her, but I refrained. Obviously that could get me hurt. I thought I could hold her down, if it came to that, I was twice her weight or more, but I was not going to mess with Ruby under any conditions. She scared me.

  I tried to explain. “I can’t figure any part of it. It all comes back to Patton. The Army thinks that he will never give up on any war, no matter what.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we are trapped between two of the biggest bullheaded assholes on the planet, Patton and Goering, and I can’t see that much difference. Patton loves his…” A thought struck with the force of a hammer. Sometimes you know that the truth exists. It smacks you down.

  “What are you thinking?” Damn, she was smart.

  “Patton loves his tanks. They were a debacle in France, too much mud, too many fortifications. But in the wide open plains of Siberia and Mongolia…”

  “Mongolia. Genghis Khan. Horsemen. Cavalry.”

  “Very fast. You got it.”

  “I do have a modicum of history, you know. Even if I am a woman.”

  “You do not have to take any passing compliment as an insult, if you please.” That might have been too close to the bone, so I pressed on. “And Hermann Goering was a fighter pilot ace in the early days of the war. An actual hero. He loves his airplanes. He might want to use them in the East. This could be fun. For a limited value of fun.”

  “That gross fat pig was a hero?”

  “He shot down thirty-one Allied fighter planes in single combat. He commanded Jagdgeschwader 1, the primary fighter corps of the war. An arrogant bastard even then. He porked up after being wounded in the groin in the ’23 Beerhall Pusht. The rumor is that he was gelded.”