Polar Bear Blues

by Stephen Wishnevsky

  It all made sense, once it happened. Goering was trying to force us to sign a peace treaty, keep us out of the Asian War yet to come, and to make the Atlantic his pond. And there was damn all to stop him. His fleet had been bottled up behind the British fleet for years, decades, and…And… Holy Shit. I grabbed the phone. “Ray? Yeah. Miles. You heard? Tell me one thing, what is there to stop the combined British and German fleets from sweeping the Atlantic clean of our…”

  “You are the storm bird, aren’t you? You need to talk to your buddy Eppi. All I know about ships is that I get seasick on them. But thanks for the call. I’ll tell the General.”

  As soon as I set the phone back in its cradle, it rang again. “Yeah?”

  “Miles. Epstein. You have word?”

  “No good ones. German U-Boat attacks at NAS Norfolk, at Newport, Rhode Island, and on civilian shipping in New York Harbor.”

  “And?”

  “Not much more. The Saratoga damaged or destroyed at her pier.” I listened to the radio for a second. “They can see the flames from DC.”

  “Unlikely. That’s two hundred miles. They should be able to see the smoke, however.” He thought for a second. “More likely somebody is panicking.”

  “I am, for sure. I have one question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “If the Germans and British join forces, what is there to stop them from wiping out the US Navy in the Atlantic?”

  “Not one thing. Nothing. In that case, the only way to keep the fleet in being would be to run it up the Hudson, or into Chesapeake Bay, and leave it there. We have Costal Defense Batteries that might keep them out.”

  “Those work on U-Boats?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “Yeah. Not.”

  “Correct. Keep me informed. I have a harbor to clear. Ships on the way.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I don’t believe in luck.”

  >>>>>>>

  If he had work to do, so did I. I scribbled out a few lines, had Justine type it full width, set the headline myself, then handed Justine’s copy to Lou, he set it while I wrote a few column inches on the Airfield. We had a galley proof by then, I found the largest type we had, 100 point, set up EXTRA. Didn’t fit. Try 90. That looked good. Found some em quads, then moved the masthead down, put EXTRA across the top. Lou had the type ready, we tied it up, ran a proof. I saw Su-mi in the crowd, had her tell Lou to run a thousand, then sent Cookie out on the street to find us some paperboys.

  No shortage of half-breed hungry kids with enough English or Russian to get the plan. I shoveled the copies out the door as fast as she brought me kids, then sent Justine off in the flivver to HQ with a hundred copies, and a request to find me a Chinese translator, toot damn sweet. “Peaches, you type?”

  “Let me at it.”

  “Just a minute.” I scribbled an editorial concerning the probable strategic ramifications of this strike, mentioned the slaughter of our troopships, and the unknown fate of our AEF troops still in France. As I wrote, it dawned on me how screwed we were. We had no Army, we had no Navy, we had no bases in Europe, whatever forces we had in England were as good as gone, and we were facing all-out war with our oldest ally after France, Great Britain. The unspoken bottom line was, that as soon as Goering got his ducks in a row, we would be fighting for our lives, with no place to retreat to. Have to talk to Epstein and Hodges about that. They were probably way ahead of me, but still. So fucked. And no ass grease at any price.

  Could we trust the Japanese? As long as we were of some good to them, sure. After that? Hell to pay, and no pitch hot. Fuck buckles. “Here, Peaches, type this up and give it to Lou here. Second page.”

  I needed a drink. But I didn’t have time. It was dark now, perhaps I could pick up a skipping station from home. Worth a try. I got lucky. Got a clear channel AM station, WABC out of New York, they were part of Columbia Broadcasting, and were of course talking about the disaster in the port full time. One of the ships, the USS Artemis, had been a German ship, seized in the first days of the War, had been empty and at dock when hit. Of the three hundred crew, fifty seven were known to have survived. The other, the brand new USS Manhattan, had just loaded more than a thousand passengers for Rio de Janeiro, before it was struck by three torpedoes in the Verrazano Narrows, and sank almost instantly. No life boats were launched, and survivors were described as “very few.”

  A few miles off the streets of the largest city in the word. Nice. The Hun was back to his old tricks, even worse than the Lusitania. The only real thought in my brain, circling like buzzard, was “how bad can this get?” I knew I didn’t want to find out. I also knew that I would. The inevitable equations of fear. The phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “You forgot to say the name of your paper.” Ray teased.

  “I’m new on this job.”

  “Look, a word to the wise. You have a basement?”

  “We haven’t had an air raid for a wh…” My voice trailed off. “You expecting trouble?”

  “You forget there is a war on?”

  “Yes. I think I might have. What’s the scoop?”

  “The General thinks that Goering has proven again and again that he can move a lot faster than everybody thinks he can.”

  “I get it. But two thousand miles?”

  “You are the unconventional thinker. You tell me.”

  “Ray, I…” Brain churning away. “The Japs are not protecting us, are they?”

  “They made that clear. We are supposed to protect them. Their Army has to occupy a lot of places that are worth a lot more to the Empire than China is.”

  “Which is a dead loss with no insurance.”

  “As of the moment, correct. And then?”

  “You are full of questions. I will find or make a bomb shelter. I suppose you want me to warn the other civilians, the Sisterhood, Machine Shop, the Cannery, all that?”

  “As you say.”

  “I’m on it. You want to send over a few crates of Springfields?”

  “Those we have in abundance.”

  “I’ll put out an extra.”

  “I know you would catch on.”

  “Eventually, Ray, eventually.”

  >>>>>>>

  First things first. Never see shit unless you look for it. The rooms had steam radiators. Of course, it got cold here. Start opening doors. All the way in the rear, a stairway down to a basement. Coal boiler. Coal bin. Hot water heater, also coal fired. Well and proper. Even some coal left. “Peaches?”

  “Yeah, boss?” That was the first time anybody ever called me that.

  “Peaches, the shit might be coming to rain on us. Bombs at least. We need a bomb shelter. I don’t have to draw you a map, do I?”

  “Not a bit of it.” She surveyed the cellar. “I’ll get with Su-mi, clean this up, get some pallets down here. Blankets. Buckets to piss in. Water. I’ll try to fire up the hot water too.”

  “Good deal. I’ll be back, I have to go spread the joy.”

  “If you go to the Cannery, get us a stooge. I’m too old to shovel coal all day. We need a strong back. We need some men anyway. Too many women together get crazy.”

  “I thought you were all…”

  “Lesbians. Say the word. But still, it’s true. Too many women in one place, and all our periods get in step with each other, and life gets seriously fucked up.”

  “Live and learn. I’ll take your word for it. I have spent a lot more time in all male establishments, but I suppose we are all crazy by definition.”

  “You said it, not me. But trust me on this. I was going to say something…”

  “But it’s a little nuts tonight. I get it.” On the way out, I looked over Justine’s shoulder. She was writing, “Greater Germany declares unrestricted submarine warfare in the Atlantic.” Thanks for the warning, assholes.

  “Justine, we have just received warning of a possible attack by the Germans or some of their pet warlords. Write that up, and get Su-mi to get Lou to set
up an extra. Get that out on the street as fast as possible. Okay?”

  She just nodded. Good. The less back talk the better.

  >>>>>>>

  I took Frances, she said she could shoot. I wanted to ask her what the hell her story was, but I could not just ask her what the fuck a guy with a penis was doing pretending to be a woman, and how the hell the women put up with something like that, but somehow it never came up in conversation. We made the rounds in my flivver, we warned everybody, had Red send a couple of strong back types to the Bulletin office.

  On the way home, we dropped in on Eppi at the Salvage Dock, he was running all night, god knows when that guy slept. He had another Mystery Maru coming up, the women divers were working off of inner tubes with lanterns on them, tagging mines with little half pound explosives, and there was some activity father out in the bay, all I could see was the lights, hear the pounding of big compressors. Under control. I gave Stearns the word to prepare for bombing, he just nodded and made a note. We were used to worse than this, us old doughs. Actually it was better here, without a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears looeys trying to tell us what to do. We knew. We had seen the goddamned elephant, as the old timers used to say. Back to the ranch. Papers to put out.

  Ray had found us some newsprint, we could now print two pages at once on our bigger press. Su-mi had dinner waiting, and even better, had an interpreter. A woman. An odd woman. Her name was Isis, or so she said, she might have been Egyptian, or half black or half Chinese or Malay or… God knows what. She was small, slight, had long black hair, hanging straight, wore silk pajamas and a crocheted white scarf that might have weighed five pounds, and carried a matching handbag that sagged like it just might have a serious pistol inside.

  Oh, goody. More trouble. I noticed Cookie staring daggers at her, but Su-mi and Peaches were deep in conversation with her, one in English, the other in Chinese, so I just let it be. I talked to her for a few minutes, she was remarkably noncommittal as to her antecedents, I didn’t bother pressing her for facts. We were here on the frontier, a war zone, you get to be who you say you are. They had tilted the whole continent, and all the debris, the odds and ends had wound up here, with no place else to go. Cookie was a Serbian, I was from Odessa, so who the hell knows? I switched from English to Russian in the midst of a question, she never blinked. “How many languages do you have?”

  “Three dialects of Chinese, some Japanese, Russian, French, German, English. I am literate in those, I can be understood in Mongolian and a few Siberian native languages, if you want to test me.”

  “I have no idea how to do that. You are hired. Su-mi vouches for you, fine.” I scanned the eyes in the room. Curiosity from most, hate from Cookie, bland interest from the rest. Juan and Lou looked smitten already, good. Keep her out of my hair. “Su-mi, find her a room. One by herself, if you can. Isis, you want somebody to ride you to pick up your stuff?”

  “I have a trunk at the Station.”

  “Frances? You and Lizzie want to make the run?” They just shrugged. Sure, why not.

  They took off, and a truck from HQ showed up with a couple crates of rifles, three dozen soup plate helmets, and few thousand rounds of .30-06. They even brought a jerry can of solvent to clean the creosote off the rifles with. Good enough. Use that for type wash too.

  First order of business was getting the rifles working, and teaching the ladies how to at least load and fire them. Have to find a backstop first thing in the morning, and run off a few rounds for all hands. The fact that Ray had sent the rifles so fast meant that Hodges was worried. If Hodges was worried, I was downright scared.

  I had the women scrounge up all the rags they could find and we set to a creosote cleaning party in the press room. The radio was still on, so we all could pitch in. “First thing, everybody gets a rifle. Not a gun, a rifle. This weapon is your new best friend. The M1903 Springfield, formally the United States Rifle, Caliber .30-06, Model 1903, is a clip-loaded, 5-round magazine fed, bolt-action service rifle. Your buddy. You never walk off and leave it alone, you keep it within arm’s reach at all times. At all times. You go to the bathroom, you have it leaning up next to the commode. You sleep, and you keep it right next to your bed. I can’t make you learn the way we were made to learn in the Army, but trust me, you do not want to let me catch you mistreating or neglecting your rifle.” I had their attention at the very least. “First thing, we take rags and solvent and get all this greasy crap off the outside of the rifle. We can do that right here. Every case of rifles will have a few cleaning kits in there. We will learn how to get the bore and the action clean, free and lubricated. Any questions?”

  Justine, of course, had a quibble. “What is the reason for all this haste?”

  “Because there is a war on. For the sake of discipline, for the sake of self preservation, and because, if you do not follow these simple orders, I will run you the hell out of this cushy billet, and you can go back to the Sisterhood and pedal a Singer all day long. Clear?”

  “I see.” I was not completely sure of that, but carry on.

  “I hope so. This may well become a matter of life and death. I do not exaggerate. Life and death. And you will not have to worry about rape, with one of these in your hands. If nothing else, they make dandy clubs.” She hefted that rifle in her hands, reluctantly nodded.

  >>>>>>>

  It took the rest of the night, until midnight, but we got them all cleaned, practiced dry firing, nomenclature, getting the sight picture, all the basics. Peaches and Juan had handled rifles before, you could tell just by noticing how they held them, so they got promoted to squad leaders. Frances also knew one end from the other, I asked her, “You played with these toys before, right?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged, with passion. “You and me been to the same school together.”

  “The AEF?” She just nodded like she didn’t want to talk about it. I guess she was an inch or two over the minimum height of five foot nothing, but… Fuck that. She and Peaches were two more effectives than I had counted on, and the two guys they brought back, Jeff and Isley, with me made six. I thought Cookie knew more than she wanted to admit about these games, but that was not her job. I had her job waiting for her.

  I tried to talk to her about her life in bed, but she clammed up, found ways to distract me from my inquiries. The more I got to know these people, the deeper I found them. That’s a common problem, but these guys were special. Special pains in the ass, for sure.

  >>>>>>

  I had no alarm clock, but I rousted up as soon as light came in my window, slurped down a cuppa, and went out looking for a firing range. There was a hillside a few blocks away, only a few ruined houses, mansions on top, so I huffed my fat ass up there, found no signs of habitation. Nice day, looked like it might actually resemble spring by noon. I could see the whole town from up here, even saw a couple of plumes of water from mine detonations in the harbor. It looked like Eppi had lifted another hulk out of its grave, there were for sure two gray-black ships tied together side by side near something that had to be the Eiben.

  Even more heartening, I heard a roar from the airfield, which was not all that far away, and got to see one of the P-1s wobble into the air, describe a circle, and come back for a landing. Made me feel pretty damn good.

  Back at the ranch, Su-mi had something between an omelet and egg foo young for breakfast, and rye bread toast. A feast. The only news on the radio was the fall of Hong Kong, which was a disaster, but not our disaster. You get cold in war, and if it does not hurt you right then and there, then screw it. And fuck the Limeys, anyway. I scribbled a few words, gave them to Justine, she and Isis had their heads together from the start, so I left them to get out a story typed and feed it to Lou and Juan, while I took the first half of the women back to the hillside for firearms training. At least we had lots of paper for targets.

  That went well enough, nobody got hurt, at least, and a few people could hit the broadside of the hill. Peaches and Frances and Isley could reliab
ly hit the paper targets, so I left them in charge, led the first batch of sheep back home, traded them off for the rest, Isis, Justine, Su-mi, and the two typesetters. That counted as a day’s work in my book, so I stayed at my desk, running the radio dial and making notes for the next edition.

  I was debating whether writing a story about the flight I saw would be a breach of military security or not, when I heard distant shooting. Lots of it. Check the time. Three thirty. Call HQ. The phone rang before I could touch it. “Miles, Ray. Get your people on alert, we have enemy troops north of the city. I think they are trying to cut the railroad line, maybe reach the Airfield.”

  “Who?”

  “No idea yet. People with guns. Get ready.”

  “Thanks.” I looked around. Cookie, Ilda, Celia, Lizzie. No help there. Su-mi. Not likely. “Jeff? Trouble. We got infiltrators. Run back to the range, bring everybody back here on the double. Be ready to shoot at all times.”

  “Who are the bad guys?”

  “I don’t know. Anybody not in USA uniforms. Go!”

  The phone rang again. “We are sending Hanson and a squad to you. Have them check in here when they get there.”

  “Thanks.” I looked at my army. They looked scared. “Anybody know the way to the roof?” Blank looks. “Fine. Lock the doors front and back. Ilda, you take the front, Celia the back. Liz, you answer the phone. Cookie?”

  “What?”

  “Come with me…” I noticed she didn’t forget her rifle. She checked the chamber as we headed for the stairs, worked the bolt to chamber a round, clicked the safety off, then on again. Right. Thought so. One side of the second floor was blank, no windows, but there were large ones on the street. Su-mi looked worried, I told her, “You keep your head down, but look out the window. You see troops on the street that are not Americans, you call me. Cookie, take the back.”