Polar Bear Blues: A Memoir Of The Endless War (The Endless War. Book 1)

by Steve Wishnevsky

  She somehow had managed to get dapper in the few days since I had seen her last. She wore a tailored Army uniform without insignia except for the eagles on her shoulders. Whip thin, she carried herself like… one would like to say like a queen, but queens are never in as good shape as she was. You could hear her motors humming across the room. An athlete. She faced the audience without a smile, simply said, “Thank you for your trust. I will do my best to be worthy of that trust. We will establish an office at the airport to be, and we request any person with any flying or mechanical experience to join us there for training. Effective immediately. Thank you.” She nodded and went to stand against the wall.

  Bradley took center stage again. “We are all in train here. Commander Epstein is working on clearing the harbor, at least one harbor, and the airfield is under construction as we speak. We have the highest priority from Washington, the War Department. Supplies and reinforcements are on the way. You will receive orders as you leave this meeting. Good day.” Not one to waste words, was he? As I turned to go, an aide saluted, said, “Captain Kapusta, the General would like a word with you.” I followed docilely enough, back to where Bradley and Hodges were sipping coffee, and flipping through papers on a high table. Hodges looked up, had another aide fetch me a coffee.

  “Captain, I wish to express my gratitude for the fine job you did getting us the word of the Japanese attack. And you have done well with the Machine Shop. Epstein tells me you are keeping a diary for him.”

  “I need to bring that up to date. I am falling behind.”

  “You were a novelist and a journalist in the States?”

  “I sold one book. I was a stringer for some small papers. It’s true. On a minor level.”

  “Well, Miles, we are not on a minor level anymore. I want you to start a newspaper. I was pleased that you took the initiative to circulate a newsletter. And you have a staff in place?”

  “Six, no, seven women.”

  “We have the remnants of a print shop, they tell me it has Chinese, Russian, and English type. You are fluent in Russian?”

  “I was born in the Crimea. Sir.”

  “Excellent. We have a budget for you, the aide that brought you, Hanson, will be liaison with me. Find an office, I suppose the one you have is too limited?”

  “Yes, sir. It is.”

  “I want you near HQ. Hanson will take you by the print shop. It is not far from the airport. You have a supervisor for the Machine Shop?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Very well, Captain. Very well.” Two very wells? I must be doing something right. And I damn well better keep doing it, too, if I knew what was good for me. I saluted, waved Hanson to take the lead, and off we went.

  >>>>>

  The print shop was in a two story building, they had two job presses and a Heidelberg, a strange press like a windmill to print fancy cards. That didn’t look real useful but it was cute. And heavy. I decided that there was no chance of moving all of this crap, people are a lot more portable. Upstairs were two apartments, a warren of little rooms, two kitchens, two baths. Heaven. “I’ll take it, we need a phone, water, electricity, ASAP.” I told Hanson. “Want me to drop you off at HQ?”

  “I’ll go with you to the Machine Shop, use your phone. This won’t take long. You want to swing by the Airfield on the way?”

  “Lead on, McGurk.” The airfield was a hive, an anthill of activity. A block of buildings bordering the park was being torn down and hauled away by coolies, while the very assorted Americans were ripping out statues, filling a few fish ponds, patching the pavement with rubble. Leveling the ground as much as possible, all pick and shovel work. A few crews of uniformed men were gutting a big bank building , I guessed that would be AAS HQ. I noticed Peaches and the other women filling one of the fish ponds with bricks, they were not slacking.

  “Peaches, we have a new place to live. It seems we have a newspaper to run. You know any of your people who know anything about it?”

  “Shit.” She wiped her face with her hand, leaving a big red smear in the sweat. “I don’t… So what do we do right now?”

  “Finish this, load up your people, and come back to the Machine Shop. As soon as we get power in the Print Shop, we will move the radio, make nests and fall out. This is going to be seriously crazy.”

  “Yeah. That sounds about right. What else is new? See you in a few.” She bent back to her brick pile. Good guy. But I knew that before. Army Nurse Corps? Yeah. The best. I saw Cookie, she was as dirty as all the rest, tossing bricks with a will. I caught her eye, blew her a kiss. She made some grimace with her lips, maybe a smile, probably not. I was tempted to take her with us, but… No. Follow the plan.

  >>>>>>>

  The shop was turning over with a minimal crew, some of the women had been pressed into service turning handles, carrying stock, sorting parts. Justine and Frances were on the job, had a long list of notes. I scanned it while Hanson called in to HQ. Hong Kong was holding out, American troops in France were reported seeking asylum in Portugal and Switzerland. That told me a lot. They were not crossing the Atlantic. Not now, not ever. They would be lucky to not be interned in Germany. And what about our POWs over there? Oh, crap. Ugliness. All of them were hostages for Patton to sign a peace treaty. As if he would ever surrender. British and Commonwealth Forces were leaving France as fast as possible, civilian ferries and private yachts jamming the ports of Northern France. Calais was to remain British, according to leaked versions of the peace treaty, “For historical reasons.”

  The big news, although it did not directly affect us, was that Germany had invaded Denmark with only a few shots being fired, and had assimilated the Holy Roman Empire, as it was laughingly called, Austro-Hungary, and the Ukraine. All were now part of Groß-Deutschland, along with the new province of die Frankreich. France to us lesser races. There would be blood. But perhaps that would give us a few more weeks to prepare for the onslaught. Germany needed Siberia, and they needed the Pacific. We were right in the damn way. Like a bug on the railroad tracks.

  Hanson finished his call, I took the phone for my report, then realized I needed to check in on Eppi. Hadn’t been down there for a day or two. No time like the present. You are a journalist, so fucking journalize. “Hanson, guard the phone. If Peaches and them come back, tell them to wait for me. And I can tell you, don’t get your hopes up about Justine and Frankie here.”

  “Why not?”

  “If they want you to know, they will tell you.” That earned me a very narrow-eyed look from Justine, but un-screw her. I took a pad and made sure I had a pencil or two, and off I went. I went into the Feniks first, grabbed a drink and a bowl of noodles, checked out the customer base. I mentioned to that Anna that we needed typesetters, were starting a newspaper, and did she want to advertise? She looked at me like I was mad, but I’m used to that. While we were talking, a steam whistle blew, followed a few seconds later by a massive explosion. Most of us dived for the floor, vodka spraying in all directions. I realized that we had not been bombed for a few days, and just about the time I got control of my shaking, I heard cheering from outside. Words were spoken, as I scrambled to my feet. Short, pungent words.

  The water in the harbor was still agitated, a foamy flat place a hundred yards off the dock was still bubbling, and Eppi’s crew on the docks were cheering and waving bottles in the air. Out in the bay, the Eiben’s decks seemed to be covered with naked women, also cheering. The steam whistle on the ex-ferry blasted again, and another huge explosion blasted a sold column of white water a hundred feet into the air. More cheers. I walked up to the dock, the water taxi was tied up, Stearns at the helm. He saw me and waved me closer. “The commander wants you on board the Eiben right away. You got his message?”

  “No, I just happened to be here. Is there any danger?”

  “We might get a little damp.”

  “Lead on.” He held the boat steady while I clambered on board. Clambering is about as graceful as I get. He pulled the
rope, the engine puffed to life, and off we went to the salvage ship. Just before we touched the side, the whistle blasted again, I noticed everybody covering their ears with their hands. I can take a hint. This explosion was farther out in the bay, but still a few drops of sea water fell on us. When I looked up, one of the women was throwing me a line. Yes, she was naked, except for a belt with a knife in it. It was cold, but it didn’t seem to bother her any more than it would bother a seal. All my fault, and proud of it. Eppi bustled up to help me on board.

  “I’m so glad you could make it Miles. Find a roost, two more to go.” He waved at a rating, who pulled the whistle cord. Eppi walked to a bank of five switches, threw the next to last one. Another geyser erupted, even farther out. Another pull of the cord, another blast on the whistle, and one last eruption. More cheering. Bottles were shared. Rice wine, I think. As soon as people stopped slapping Eppi on the back, I had a word. I told him about the paper, he promised to have his secretary keep carbons for me, allow me to copy his notes, when and if. I thanked him, and he introduced me to the leader of the dive women. “Ming, this is Miles. He is the newspaper man.”

  I’m sure she had no idea if what he said but we bowed to each other, smiled and said words the other did not understand. “We have these little ladies swim out, attach a quite small charge next to one of the fuse horns, then we trigger them electrically. Cheap and easy. If you only knew how hard… But this was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  “I should have taken out a patent.” He laughed and slapped my back. I guess that was my reward. I’ll take it. It made me feel good, actually. He offered me another bottle, I slugged it, but this one was vodka. Jeeze. You might warn a fellow. But I slapped his back, bowed again, made a few notes and took Stearns’ water taxi back to my flivver. It was only mid afternoon, but I felt like I had done a good day’s work.

  The girls had other ideas. They wanted to move, right now.

  “There is no electricity. Probably no water. The building is filthy. And I need to find some typesetters.”

  “We don’t care. You said there are private rooms.” Justine said. “We have not had any privacy for months and months. Not since we were arrested.”

  “Our job is monitoring the radio. No electricity, no radio.”

  Hanson said, “I can get us a generator.” I was a little surprised at the word “us”, but let it be. Go with the moment.

  “Fine. Hanson, take my flivver and Frank here, go line up a generator, hook it up. Justine and I will guard the fort. When Peaches and the rest get back, I will keep a couple here, until you get the power up and running. Is that okay?”

  “I’ll make it work. Thanks.”

  “You’re in charge.” Just what I needed. Another adventure. Peaches and the rest arrived, just a half hour after the others left, I gave them directions, off they went. I kept Peaches and Cookie, Peaches because she was the best man we had, and Cookie for selfish reasons. They sluiced off the dirt and brick dust in the washroom, they had a big sink, of course, then we got Su-mi to dish out a few thousand calories to the troops. I asked her if she would like to cook for a smaller group of people, in a real kitchen, I thought she was going to kiss me, but she just nodded, said, “Of course, I get no younger.”

  A remarkably focused individual. All that done, we settled into feeding our faces and trying to find some new information on the radio. It seemed like a holding pattern, things were moving, but undercover. There was something about “Financial Reorganization” of the Suez Canal, something else about withdrawal of British troops from Palestine, for “re-equipment and redeployment.” That gave me an idea, I ran the dial looking for Australian and Filipino stations. It was a truism that the Brits were quite willing to fight to the last Aussie, but I could find no dissenting voices from the south. If the Filipinos were pissed, they were being pissed in Tagalog, which none of us understood. Seeing as the unrest had been pretty active up to a generation ago, it was a safe bet that the Moros were ready to cause any amount of trouble, given half a chance. Would the Japanese be interested in stirring up trouble there? So many good questions, so few answers.

  >>>>>>>

  We made it through the night without alarm, Hanson was there bright and early to help us move. I was sorry to leave my little cubical, but Billy and Darrell were overjoyed to inherit it. Good for somebody. Privacy is important, at least for Americans, pantywaists that we are. The Print Shop was not cleaned, but it was settled, they had saved me the best room, the boss always likes to have his ass kissed, I set Cookie to settling that, while I did a first sort of the print shop. The type cases hadn’t been pied, there were still jobs locked up in the forms, in all three languages. The Chinese type cases were most impressive. I have no idea how many characters they use, but it is a lot. A whole fucking lot. That type case took up one whole wall of the shop. I just leaned those forms against those cases, freed up the composition stones and set to seeing if the presses worked, by hand, checking if there was any ink, paper, all that. I seemed to be flat out of type wash, but gasoline would probably work, if nothing else was available. I found a form on one of the stones, looked like a flyer for a sale at some store. I found the quoin key, locked it up, lugged it over to the smaller press and ran a few copies, turning the wheel by hand. Looked okay, so far.

  Justine had the radio hooked to the generator, and Su-mi was rattling pans upstairs in the kitchen. In business. I found Cookie, and we tried out my new bed. Musty, but functional. I was short on sleep, so took the opportunity to fall out for the rest of the morning. I was not sure when the Imperial Envoy was arriving, so take your rest when you can. You learn that fast in the Infantry, although to be fair I never had a bunkmate like Cookie before. She half woke me, with a mission. “We need sheets, I need clothes. You have money?”

  “Sure.” I gave her a double sawbuck, rolled back over.

  “You trust me?”

  “If you come back I will.” I said, and fell out again. The next time I was awoken, it was the Signal Corps with the phone. I checked in, read the radio reports, got the word that the Japanese envoy was expected in two hours, at four. Up and at them, journalist. Urine-a-ist, more like it. My eyes felt like two piss holes in snow, and my mouth tasted like the inside of a rubber boot. Tea.

  Su-mi was on the job, she even had coffee, I gave her another twenty to feed us, Cookie was not back yet, but screw that. When and if, baby, when and if. More women here than you could shake a stick at, and my stick had been thoroughly shaken, thank you so much. Another one of those sweet rolls, I was ready to travel. I sorted through my duffle, found my suit coat and an honest to god civilian tie, that and my Army overcoat would just have to do.

  Cookie came back, wonder of wonders, she even brushed me off a little. I surprised the both of us by kissing her goodbye. Who knows what my brain is up to? Everybody knows you are not supposed to kiss whores. But then again, if it was not for ladies of negotiable virtue, I would have no love life at all. I am, I have noticed, less than handsome.

  Never mind, I was on the job. I didn’t feel I should wear my officer’s hat. Never have a fedora when you need one. Press on. Hatless, I cranked the flivver, headed to the airfield. I was amazed, it looked almost completely like it should have. All the rubble had been packed down flat, the buildings had been painted, and somebody had artistically thrown dirt and dust on the wet paint in places to make them look old. Not quite the right places, but it counted as a good try. I used to hang around with artistic types, including set designers for the local theater companies in New Haven. Their work struck me as being more honest in its fauxness than the contrivances of the actors and directors, so I tended to do my drinking with the backstage crews. A matter of taste, I suppose.

  I got there in time, the troops were spit polished, drawn up in serried ranks, they even had a band. I hoped the Envoy was not completely familiar with western music, I recognized a few of the musicians from the Feniks, and the music they were playing was far more bordello than martial. The In
vestigation Bureau had repressed “Mongrel” Jazz music back in the states, but it seemed to be thriving here in the Old World. Of course I knew it from my childhood in Odessa, where they called it Klezmer Music. I suspected that some of the exiles from the States had been musicians, one way or another. No matter, just my ‘satiable curiosity.

  At this end if the field was a far more impressive sight, a dozen Curtiss P-6 Hawk biplanes, neatly lined up and polished looking. I focused closer, and it looked like a few of them in the back lacked propellers, and for sure some had no wheels on their landing gear. Ahhh. Potemkin village time. These had to be the crated planes from the H.R. Hayes and it must have taken a separate and distinct miracle for each and every one of them to be here. A few men and one woman were lined up in front of the planes, and I thought I could tell that the leader was Amelia, slim and trim in khaki.

  We waited. An aide roared up on his Indian, spoke to the General, who turned to another member of his staff, who ran, not walked, off to a cluster of ground crew. Orders were issued, people took their positions as the drone of engines grew louder from the east. A beautiful silver and red zeppelin hove into view, the sides of the bag decorated with bright setting suns, their rays wrapping around the longerons stiffening the silk of the main fuselage. It slanted down toward the field, forcing itself lower with its elevators. Crew ran to meet it, as long ropes with knotted ends fell down from the main cabin, the nose and tail. The crew grabbed the ropes, each adding ballast to pull the huge craft that much closer to the ground.

  The engines throttled down, more men ran to pile on the mooring ropes. I knew this was vastly dangerous, a gust of wind could lift dozens of men into the air, with nothing but their hasty grips to save them. But this time, all went well, the men hauled the zep down, secured the ropes to hastily summoned cars and convenient trees, the engines were cut off, and the great airship hauled down until the cabin nearly touched the ground.