In any case, we were no longer the “Polar Bears,” we were the “Himalayan Black Bears.” Black Bears. Sounds like old home week. Just paper-shuffling, but that’s what armies live on. Paper-shuffling and lines on maps. Maps don’t bleed, either.
Which is why thoughtful people like me prefer to be officers. Anyway, I had paid my dues. Ask me, I still have the receipt.
>>>>>>>>
I got my bandages changed again, looked a little less like an archeological discovery, more like a human this time. Lunch was more soup, my mouth was still plenty sore, but Su-mi was happy enough to cosset me a little. I wondered where the nearest milkshake was, but tried not to dwell on that thought. Australia, at a guess. Fuck it. Take a pill and get to work.
Work came to me; Alde wanted to show me the Cannon Ship in action, I checked with Peaches, she said she had everything covered, so off I went. We had a little dispute about me sitting in the copilot’s seat, I pulled rank and won. Jackson Toole was none too happy, but rank hath its little etceteras. They handed me some earplugs and a headset with no wires, I put them on, asked no questions. Some things are obvious.
They had dragged all the wrecked trucks from the battle a few months ago over to the base of a nearby mountain, as good a target as any. Alde, who had no fear, roared in on the deck, and cut loose as soon as she had a target lined up. Results were impressive. It looked like one tracer for every three explosive rounds, and rate of fire was a couple every second, call it two-hundred and fifty rounds a minute. Only a one pound shell, but enough to really tear up a truck.
Alde cut quite a swathe through the junk pile, then soared up, came back around for another pass. It was loud as shit. The steel tube probably channeled most of the blast out the front, and some thoughtful soul had draped blankets and what looked like asbestos or rock wool over the tube, for all the good that did. Still almost ear-shattering, even with the earplugs in.
Pom-pom gun my ass. No cheerleaders here. Little fragments kept flying up and rattling off the corrugated metal skin of the plane, occasionally pinging off the windshield. I kept flinching, for all the good that would do me. People sometimes assume I am brave, but what I am is petrified.
One more pass, and we were out of ammo, the back of the plane was littered with canvas belts and spent brass, the air thick with cordite, even with the windows open. I did not envy Toole back there, playing loader. Plus, he could not see the shit coming at him like we could.
That was all she wrote, back to the barn. Alde did not kiss me, but she did sneak in a good hug, which was most appreciated. “I think we have a winner here, Miles, you might as well go on back and rest up, you do look more than a little peaked. I have to do the post flight check, write a report, and sign the plane over to Toole. You think up more trouble for us to get into. This is fun.”
“For a given value of fun, sure. I’ll have Su-mi lay us on a celebratory feast. Champagne?”
“Don’t make promises you can’t deliver on, big guy.”
“Rice wine?”
“Close enough for government work. I’ll take it. Thanks.”
>>>>>>>>
My ears were ringing so hard, the quiet hurt. I managed to give my dinner order to Su-mi, slipped her a double eagle, and took another pill to bed with me. I just got to sleep when Alde woke me, brusquely shaking me. “Wake up, Miles, they’re coming!”
I didn’t have to ask who. “Where?”
“About four or five hundred miles the other side of Karamay. Some dump called Karaganda. They are past the capital of Akmolinsk, and are on their way, wide open.”
“Tanks?”
“And trucks; bombers are already pounding Karamay. We have to get back there!”
“Maybe we do, and maybe we don’t. I’m only a colonel. My job is with this train. You work for me, remember?”
“But…”
Her temper was up. I tried to placate her, best as I could. “But nothing. We are support troops. Recon and research. And I am officially on the wounded list. Let me get my shoes on, and we will go get the word from HQ. We have to find out where to send Toole with the gunship, and we have to get this train rolling. I have to talk to Bob Weeks about his crazy catapult cars, we have to get the rockets mounted and operational, and mostly…”
“Mostly? Mostly what?”
“We have to do what Hodges tells us to do.” She didn’t like it, but she took it. Crazy ass jazz baby. A fighter, no doubt. Just don’t fight with me. Fucking the boss does not mean you get to fuck with the boss. It’s in the rules. Rule One, as a matter of fact.
I didn’t have to go looking for a ride, a corporal and a staff car were right outside waiting for me. Shit was hitting any number of fans. We got to the HQ train, walked into a full-scale briefing, generals as packed three deep. Earhart and Stillwell were front and center, with the new guys, Hodak, Remus, and a few more in uniforms I did not recognize right behind them. Some were obviously Chinese, but there were two groups, one in blue-gray, almost obsessively free from insignia, and others in khaki that reminded me of the British and Japanese uniforms. Sort of a cross between them, to my uneducated eye. It was not hard to suspect that these were the Reds and the Nationalists; they were standing as far apart as the walls of the conference car would allow.
Hodges tapped the map board with his pointer, cleared his throat, and began in his dry voice. “The attack we have been expecting is now underway. Enemy troops, mostly of the Deutsches Heer, the Imperial Army, are leading the thrust, with scouting forces from the various subject provinces of Grosse Deutschland ranging perhaps a hundred miles in advance. The situation is fluid, to put it mildly, but we have spotted truck-borne troops as close as Karaganda, less than twenty hours from Karamay.” He paused to let that sink in. “My headquarters is moving up to Urum-chi as soon as possible, Ray Reynolds is cutting your orders, and we will expect you all to be ready to move by dawn, in…” He looked at his watch, “…in eleven hours. Thank you.”
He left through a side door, without fanfare, most of the senior generals followed. I looked around for coffee, but an aide came up, said, “The General requests the pleasure of your company, Colonel Kapusta, if you please.”
“I do please. Lead on.” If we had time for shit like that, I might have been flattered. At the same time, my suspicious bump gave a twinge; this was too much attention to a mere and bogus colonel.
The other end of the conference car was a dining room that had been pressed into service as a map room. Hodges’ usual décor, maps and more maps, completely covering the walls and the huge table in the middle of the room. A white-suited orderly brought me a cup of army coffee, somethings never change, even if the cups have gold trimmings on them. Somebody cleared their throat behind me, in an insistent sort of a way. Alde. She had followed me in, just like a privileged character, or something. “Another cup for Pilot Johannsen, please?”
“Cream, two sugars,” she said. We had time to take a sip or two, when Hodges walked up, in that deceptive gait of his that never looks like he is in a hurry, but covers a lot of ground in a short time. A country boy for sure.
“Miles, glad to see you brought your pilot with you. I want to personally thank both of you, four new weapons on the cheap is exactly what we need.”
“Thank you, General.”
“No thanks needed, just acknowledging your good work. Your sideways thinking comes through again. Now for the details. We are cutting orders for serial production of the gunships, as fast as possible. Most of our Trimotors ae being used to fly staff around, but that’s what we have radio for. All of that will be based at Xilin Gol. Send your ship and the pilot…”
“Toole, sir,”
“Correct. Jackson Toole. Right on the tip of my tongue.” He winked. “He is in charge, is now a colonel too. Send him to Xilin Gol, then forget about it. Not your problem. You need to test those rocket… clusters, appoint somebody to facilitate all that. Probably a job for the factories in Hong Kong. Major Johannsen…” She blinked at that,
did not speak, “You see to the test of the rocket clusters. That’s as good a name as any. See if they work, send me a report, and get back to work with Miles here. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miles, have your boy Weeks hand over the catapult cars to General Earhart, let her worry about all that. Good idea, but I have my doubts as to its effectiveness under fire.”
“Done. I need Weeks with me, he needs to show people his camouflage techniques.”
He smiled again, two accolades in one day. Amazing. “Correct. Great minds and all that. Have him start a school for that procedure. There are lots of theater people over here, as you well know. You stay here, in Jiu-quan, no need for Intelligence to be on the front lines, we have a Scouting Office for that. Actually, that would be General Hodak and his merry bandits.”
He remembered something that made him smile a little; “You know, I was in Mexico in ‘16, chasing Pancho Villa, and his boys were some rough characters, but Hodak’s Iron Wolves could have eaten them alive. Swallowed them without greasing their ears, as we used to say back home in Georgia. All well and good. Hodak is in charge of the snow-flyers too. He has used them before, there are a few in northern Siberia. His boys are demon mechanics; they can hack together machines quicker than anybody official ever can. A done deal. You keep the info flowing, Major Johannsen will organize your aerial surveillance teams, once she gets back from Karamay. You have a good start there, and if we all stick to our lasts, we might just get this job done. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir. Right on it.” Alde echoed me, even though she was in such shock she almost saluted Hodges with her coffee cup.
“Finish your coffee first.” A gleam of amusement showed for a second. “But thanks, I know we can count on you.”
>>>>>>>>>>
Well, there was fine howdy-do. A couple of full plates. We had orders cut to move Alde and those boxcars of fireworks to Karamay, when and if, then went back to harassing Weeks into doing four things at once, all at the same time. He just waved a salute, said, “Opening night,” and went back to work.
Right after dinner. Su-mi had saved our repast, baked chicken, western style, it was dry, but quite edible. My mouth was a lot better, but I still mostly had the rice and gravy. Su-mi was the world’s champion on gravy. Alde went to rack out, I went to the Radio Car. Peaches was on the job, seemed like a lot of stuff was hanging fire. Großdeutschen Rundfunk was all martial music and bombast, promises of great victories. It might have been worse than usual, but it is hard to tell.
Babs had been our best French speaker, but there were plenty of us old doughs who spoke enough to get by, some of the older officers were quite fluent. The French Canadiens have bad French too, not a problem. Norman French, not Parisian, they tell me. When I was over there, I almost never say any French in condition to converse with, to put it mildly.
That was taken care of too. The Battle of Sherbrooke was ramping up to be a full-scale engagement, at least two full armies, or the equivalent, with the Canadien Libéré skulking around the edges, sniping and salvaging, no doubt. Guerrilla warfare is what they call that shit. And it can get very shitty indeed. I had no personal idea, we didn’t play those games in France, but the Mexicans had lots of experience. Hodges had mentioned Pancho Villa, who drove Pershing nuts for nearly a year down there. Uncatchable.
One of the stories they always used to inflate Patton’s already bloated image was an exploit of his, where his unit roared off in their touring cars, against orders as usual, found some random banditos, shot them dead, and drove home with bleeding Mexicans strapped to their fenders like so many deer. Of course, that didn’t change anything, except piss the Mexicans off even more, but he got his picture in the papers, which was the whole point. That made him commander of history’s first mechanized force, and he rode that for all it was worth.
Will Rogers said he saw a headline that said, “Villa Escapes Troops and Flees.” He quipped that any Mexican who could escape fleas was uncatchable. Not very polite, but prophetic.
I wondered what had happened to Rogers; he had been doing fine until ’28, when he made the mistake of running as the "bunkless candidate" of the “Anti-Bunk Party.” His only campaign promise was that if elected, he would resign immediately.
Every week, from Memorial Day through Election Day, Rogers caricatured the farce of campaign politics in the Age of Patton. On election day, he declared victory and resigned. He had many good lines, some with more than a grain of truth, he said Prohibition was the major issue, "What's on your hip is bound to be on your mind." He called for a presidential debate, "A joint debate… in any joint you name," and explained his appeal to the common man; "You can't make any commoner appeal than I can."
After election day, he went on a tour of Mexico, and either never came back or was made to vanish, perhaps into some ritzy Federal Detention luxury hotel on a mountain top someplace. Made a lot of people in the arts and the commentary business shut the hell up, toot sweet. Others like me, were too stupid to read the writing on the wall, and wound up in exile.
Wool-gathering, but I had an idea that it might lead to something. Come to think of it, Barbara had told me that her grandfather, a very wealthy man, had also vanished. As much of a snob as Patton was, would he just have people richer than him shot out of hand? He would not ship them out here, anybody with international connections and money in Switzerland or someplace could get out of here as soon as they could get to a telegraph office. The last thing Patton needed was a colony of exiles off causing trouble someplace.
But that led to the thought, that there must be a bunch of people like that, rich Democrats, Jews, and affluent Negroes smart enough to flee. Where would they be? Not France for sure, perhaps England or Ireland, at least until King Eddie signed the Peace Treaty. South America? Not with a Spanish-American War brewing.
What did that leave? Not much. Australia, South Africa, and Brazil. Hmmm. Brazil. Not Spanish, allied with neutral Portugal, too big to fuck with easily. Self-sufficient in all but oil. Lots of exports, rubber, some gold, fucking brazil nuts. Who knew? Miss Britannica did.
That looked promising, all sorts of losers and exiles had moved to Brazil over the years, there was even a couple of colonies of Confederates there, some place called Santa Bárbara D'Oeste, and another named Americana. Maybe twenty thousand of them. And bully for them.
I knew that Spanish speakers could understand Portuguese, but did not like to admit it, much like the Russians and the Ukrainians and the Poles. So, find a Portuguese.
Nobody on this train would admit to it, Weeks had a guy who knew some, but was not very literate. A ship’s carpenter gone astray. I took him, was reminded that New England, where I grew up was full of Portuguese fishermen from the Azores. They were thick around Fall River, Massachusetts. Who did I know that was from New England, was of a nautical bent? Right in one; Commander Ed Epstein.
I sent a telegram, got an answer right back. “GOOD THINKING STOP HAVE JUST THE MAN STOP R OLIVERIA STOP EPPIE ENDS.”
That counted as a good day’s work. I rewarded myself with another bandage change, another pill, a cuppa tea with a slurp of plum brandy in it, and Alde’s company for the rest of the night.
>>>>>>
When I woke up the next morning, it was snowing. Not much, just a dusting, but enough to call it an omen. Alde was up bright and early, going to oversee Bob Week’s work on the rocket clusters, make sure she knew more about them than he did. I trusted the both of them to get the job done, while I lay slug-a-bed, letting my face heal. That’s my story, and I’m sticking with it. Eventually, or a little later, hunger drove me out of bed, and then to my desk in the Radio Car.
It was snowing in Sherbrooke too, rather more seriously than here, the CL Radio was full of hints, and cryptic instructions to code-named groups to go places and do things. Obviously improvised, but perhaps effective. Radio Freedom, Patton’s cheerleader network, was on the air, AM and shortwave, but it was almost as bad as the German State Radio.
The music was a little better, was the most you could say about that.
The Spanish stations were still full of the Panama City victory, real information was blatantly lacking, which was par for the course in this war. Any war, I suppose. Hiram W Johnson, staunchly isolationist Senator from California, said that truth was the first casualty of war, back in 1917. He was still there, still fulminating, for all the good it did him, or anybody else, for that matter. I thought I had heard he was a family friend of Patton’s daddy, so he got a free pass to say shit that would have gotten poorer people vanished into the dead of night. I guess it was all part of some half-assed routine to make America think it still had some free speech left. I grew disgusted with that train of thought, itchy waiting for the other thousand shoes to drop, so I went to find some kind of trouble to get into.
It wasn’t hard. I found Maggie White and Stan Gilliam lolling around in the dining car, waiting for orders, so I sent them off up north to see if they could find the enemy ground forces. Bob Oblenski, the machine gunner, was guarding the Trimotor, at least he was huddled inside the tiny bathroom with a thermos of coffee, so they were good to go. I was bored enough to think about going with them, but smart enough to suppress that idea. Age may not bring wisdom, but if it does not bring you caution, you don’t get any older.
It would take them the rest of today and most of tomorrow to make the trip, and I didn’t envy them the ride. It was right at freezing, the wind was from the north, and it had teeth in it. There was a cabin heater, but there were also big holes in the floor and roof of the plane. Not a very attractive prospect. I stood around yakking with Oblenski, he had been a union man from Scranton, all his people had been cleansed or worse for being Reds, until Maggie got back with the flight plan and clearances to land and refuel at Karamay and Urum-chi.
Things had been tightened up considerably with the attack, even though it was the best part of a thousand miles away. Nobody knew where the Luftstreitkräfte, the German Air Force might be, and nobody wanted to find out the hard way. The props were thrown, the controls tested, and off they flew into the gray lowering sky.
Black Bear Blues Page 12
