Brown Bear Blues

by Stephen Wishnevsky

All this crap was putting pressure on Brazil to make up their minds to do something, anything, but there was not much they could do. They had no navy capable of crossing oceans, their army was mostly occupied in overthrowing what little government they had. Somebody named Getúlio Vargas, had lead a coup last October after his running mate had been assassinated. Vargas was supposedly supported by most of the military. Vargas and the military were supposed to assume power temporarily, but instead closed the Congress, extinguished the Constitution, ruled with emergency powers and replaced the states' governors with their own supporters. Goody for them. Not my problem.

  I felt strange. We were in the eye of the hurricane, a dead calm with roaring chaos all around us. We had almost been killed only once in the last couple weeks, an odd sensation. I should have been able to enjoy it, but I could not relax. The old fire horse not able to stand the quiet of the pasture. Hilda had been wounded, the most serious injury of her life, she said, but it was nothing by war-time standards. She couldn’t type with any speed, but she could run a blue pencil, was promoted to copy editor. She was good at it, even if she had to have a cheat-sheet of the editorial marks by her side. She was a prize, she applied herself to every task she took on, including being my helpmate.

  I knew that the fucking Germans might well try to break through the passes in the Rockies and get at us, but even if they did, it wouldn’t do them much good. Pacifica was just a series of enclaves, linked by water. The only way the Anglo-Germans could hurt us as a whole would be to send their entire fleet into the Pacific, and sink the Imperial Nipponese Navy, and whatever fleet we could put together. Good plan, but they had no bases, and no supply, they would have to bring every lump of coal and every quart of water with them to attack us. No way that was going to happen. So, what was gnawing at me?

  Was it the realization that we might just live through all this crap, and be forced to live happily ever after running a newspaper? Jeeze. Dreams coming true are scary mother-fuckers.

  >>>>>>>

  Just to add to my malaise, a kid in a blue uniform brought me a yellow envelope, always a little twinge of fear, it’s almost always something momentous. I ripped it open while the messenger waited for a reply. It was an overseas telegram from Barbara, very noncommittal, just saying that she and Janis had arrived safely in Dalny, and were taking up positions at the Port Arthur Bulletin. Justine sent her regards. And fuck her very kindly.

  I just handed the message off to Hilda. “What should I say? I’m at a loss here.”

  “Just tell here you are glad that she is safe, and to keep you informed as to the… ah… progress of the baby. That will be good enough. She did leave you, after all.”

  “True enough, but cussing them out would be childish. I will say she can count on me for child support. My kid, my problem.”

  “That is fairly grown-up of you. You’re a good man, even though you won’t admit it.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” I scribbled a few lines, handed the Western Union kid some silver, and sent him on his way. Somehow, that made me feel better, or at least good enough to look around to find the next problem to tackle.

  Oh, right. Getting a paper out. We had the Dougherty scoop, a long piece on Naval wives from Summers, and my report on the Hawaii slash US Navy story. Or would have, as soon as I buckled down and wrote it. I made a quick call, asked Arbuthnot how much of the hydrodome story I could tell, he surprised me by saying, “In the vernacular, Miles, splash it. Did I say that correctly?”

  “I can see I am a bad influence on you, James. Makes a man feel proud. Consider it splashed.” I wasn’t sure what had him so flighty, but I could bet it was good news. The Pacifica Navy gaining at least four capital ships might do it. I wondered if Admiral Epstein would make his home base at Pearl, but I supposed it didn’t matter. The telegraph went there too. So, that was two more stories. We had a solid set of columns for the second pages, and Pat and the Greek were on the job for local news and announcements for page three. Another quick call to the printers gave me the happy news that we had three and a half pages of advertisements bought and paid for, so we were up to at least six pages. I told the mob in the back room that we needed another couple pages of copy. Eng said he could hack out at least one of them on doings in Chinatown, and George Olsen said he had some human-interest photos, to fill up the rest.

  “Human interest?” I asked. “Cheesecake?”

  “Nothing rude. Pretty girls in the fashion district. Some of Demetri’s models double as fashion models. Or the other way around. Nice girls. And I have most of your Navy shots in the dryer now. Another hour for the prints.”

  “Good work. Let’s do this.” We had six hours until our midnight printer’s deadline, and even if we slipped a day, we would not shake the earth. We were still on “when and if” Extra Edition status. Dougherty got back from Crazy House, I gave him and Tommy the Cork my notes on the Pearl Harbor situation, and I ground down on the Hydrodome story. The more I wrote on that, the more I wondered what fucking Jimmie Arbuthnot had up his sleeve. The A. G. Bell was a big enough deal; you would have thought. The Cormoran had been raising hell with impunity all over the Pacific for years, sinking whaling ships, and harassing freighters at will. It had been armed like a cruiser, if not armored like one, and had no problem sinking the destroyer that General Billy Mitchell had been on. I stopped and looked that up; USN Destroyer USS Preston DD-327, Brigadier General William Mitchell. That had been a blow, but that disaster had given General Earhart her chance. Otherwise, no woman would ever have been given any sort of command, even by such an independent thinker as Hodges.

  And the HD-9s had sunk it so fast the lookout had not even had time to shoot a whole roll of film.

  Yeah, fuck it. Write it down. History. Parenthetically, I hoped Barbara was writing, at least. It takes hacks like me to recognize real talent.

  >>>>>>>

  We got it all rapped out, Charles was doing the paste-ups as fast as he could get the copy, we sent off the mock-ups by eleven, and were treating ourselves to a few well-earned knocks, when the Air Raid Sirens began to wail. Hate that sound. We had a shelter in the back yard, basements can be death-traps. We all trooped out, bringing the bottles, and settled in for a lightshow, at worse. I have been less wrong. The AA started banging, they were well north and south of us on the river and the harbor, we could tell that they were fuzed high, way high. The bursts were clearly visible, but their light, and the searchlights were showing nothing. Zeppelins then. Probably painted flat black to be invisible. It was too noisy to hear the drone of their engines, and if there were any of our planes up, they were invisible too.

  A few shards of shrapnel from the AA rattled down, air resistance usually slowed them enough to be harmless, but usually is not the same as always. And we didn’t have any tin hats either. Some of us got down in the shelter, most of us clustered on the back loading dock, it had a roof, so we could watch the show, without getting beaned by a chunk of hot steel.

  We didn’t have a clue, were just beginning to think it was a false alarm, when the waves of incendiaries started washing curtains of fire from the west right toward us. They were still miles away, but coming at a good clip. Something new, little tiny bombs, a pound or two, at a guess, hundreds and hundreds of them. I knew that zepps could carry sixteen hundred kilograms of bombs, thirty-five hundred pounds, which figured out to be a fucking shitload of bombs. “Hey! Listen up.” I yelled at the guys, “Incendiaries burn way hot. They don’t explode, but you can’t put them out either. Water just makes them burn hotter. Run the fuck away. Heroes are people who die young. Don’t be a hero.” A few nods, a lot of calculation.

  I had researched all this crap back in China when I was coming up with the rocket cluster idea. I learned more about incendiary bombs than I ever wanted to know. The Germen B-1E Elektron fire bomb, was ignited by a thermite charge, but the main effect was from the magnesium and aluminum alloy casing, which burned at over a thousand degrees Centigrade, the vapor that came off them
burned at almost two thousand. They had used them on us at one of the battles of Jiu-quan. Those had been a kilogram each, these looked smaller.

  The Krauts had had a plan to use the whole German heavy bomber fleet, flying in waves over London and Paris, dropping all the incendiary bombs that they could carry, until the two capitals were burned to the ground. That never happened, but it looked like they hadn’t forgotten.

  They had an even more insane plan to fire bomb New York with long range Zeppelins, but Admiral Scheer vetoed that idea. And here it was right in our faces. And getting closer. I didn’t know where their bass was, Saskatoon maybe. A thousand miles at a guess. I realized I was being entirely too calm about this shit. Our little shelter had a roof on it, more sandbags, but I was of two minds. I wanted to cower, and I wanted to run, both at the same time. “Let’s stay outside, until they get right on us. One of those bombs will suck all the oxygen right out of that shelter in a split second.” I took another look at my charges. “Greek and Charles, you are the fittest. If we need to run, you help Tommy the Cork. Mary? How’s your sprinting?”

  “I’m old, but not that old. If you can keep up with me, consider yourself in shape. I used to be on a couple of track and field teams in school, still do a lot of hiking.”

  “Fine, just checking.” The flares of the bombs were getting closer and closer, fire engines ringing bells and sounding sirens all over town. “Okay, guys, get ready.”

  Buildings were burning all to the west, they were mostly single houses in that direction, not liable to spread fast. The sea breeze was onshore, not very strong. Good sign. We needed all the help we could get. Still, the invisible enemy poured their invisible bombs down on us. They were a block away when George ran up the back stairs and started shooting pictures from the highest point he could reach. Asshole. But I didn’t waste breath yelling at him. I did think to go fire up the Dodge pickup, leave it running, just in case. And then we were in the shit. One bomb hit in the street, close enough for me to get a shadow image of it zipping down before it burst into hellishly bright white radiance. It was far too hot to look like a flame; it was like trying to stare directly into a limelight. You had to look away, shield your eyes with your arm, you could feel the heat right through your clothes. Hellish is an overused word, but it was understatement in this case.

  The next bomb smacked into the building catty-cornered across the back lot, it was a dry cleaner’s, it took just seconds for the carbon tet to cook off. Then there were flames a-plenty. We had to get out from under the roof, shelter behind the bunker. As quick as that, the shower of bombs was gone, headed east, at maybe twenty miles an hour. A lumberyard up the road caught a few hits, it was a raging inferno in a very few minutes. A fire truck roared up, but they could do nothing more that hook up a hose or two, and keep the office building from going up. A couple firemen came across the street to look at the dry cleaner’s, you could almost hear them shrug. Nothing to be done there. The roof collapsed a few minutes later, huge billows of sparks flew everywhere. They might have started a few small fires in other buildings nearby.

  I shook off my desire to keep sightseeing, grabbed Phil, he was in as good shape as anybody, even if he only had the one eye, and we ran back in the building. I knew where the ladder to the roof was, Dalny had taught me to know where that was in any building I occupied, so we grabbed a couple of brooms and scrambled up and out.

  There were a few sparks glowing in drifts of last year’s leaves, here and there, but they were easily beaten out. From up here, the attack looked a lot more successful, there were a lot of buildings on fire, and the lumberyard was working up into a major conflagration. I had covered enough fires in the States to know when things were getting out of hand, and this qualified. Good damn thing Vancouver was such a soggy city, the trees were real green, so that helped contain the blazes. From up here I could see that the bastards had missed the shipyards, and the docks, but they had beat the hell out of the residential areas. Our old neighborhood of New Westminster was one big fire, mostly wood construction and narrower streets down there. One or two fucking zeppelins, two or three thousand little bombs, and the city was literally aflame.

  The Air Raid sirens wound down the spectrum after another few minutes, all the fire engines were on the job and silent too. There were a few cop cars and ambulances, but all in all that famous Canadian phlegmatic calmness was holding forth. People were out on the streets, not many, probably storekeepers checking out their businesses. A carload of Chinese-looking people sped up, obviously a family. They piled out to stare glumly at what was left of their dry-cleaning shop. Chan and Eng walked over to commiserate in undertones. I went to shut off the Dodge, then had second thoughts, beckoned to Hilda. “You want to go check on Billy Chung’s?”

  “The printer? Good idea. We need either another bottle, or more coffee. Dealer’s choice.”

  “Hop in. It’s been a long night, and it’s not over yet.”

  “If we have a print shop, we have to get out another extra,” she said.

  “Yes, boss. Anybody ever tell you, you’re a slave driver?”

  “Shut up and drive.” It was just a few blocks, I had not seen any flames over there, print shops burn hot, but there was no damage to speak of, a few cars got toasted in the parking lot. Under control. Light industrial areas tend to have lots of open spaces, at least the newer ones do. I could see bright sky-glow from the downtown area, the commercial docks, but had no desire to go get in the way of the professionals. Send Dougherty, he was probably on first name basis with most of the cops and firemen anyway. His job.

  By the same token, no need to jostle Billy’s elbows either. He knew what to do. We found a bar that was still open, got a couple of jugs of rum, and headed home. Work to do.

  >>>>>>>>>>

  Back to the salt mines. By the time George got his snaps developed, Demetri showed up with a trove of pictures he had taken of the destruction downtown. That looked like the real target. He was good, no doubt about it. Say thanks and make sure he got a byline. “What’s your last name, Demetri? If you don’t want to say, give us a nom-de-plume.”

  “Kirov. Demetri Kirov. I can cash checks made out to that name.”

  “Good enough. Were there many casualties?”

  “A few idiots tried to stop the fires with buckets of water. No great loss to anybody.” He laughed a very Russian laugh. “Except their mothers.”

  I knew the answer to that. “Fuck their mothers. We have work to do. Mary? You want to cut Demetri a check?” I handed the photos over the Charles and Tommy, then set to hammering out a short story. This would not need many words, pictures would do. As bombing raids went, it was fairly mild, at least for old sweats like me. Other people were less hardened, Hilda was knocking back some stiff drinks, and she was not the only one. I made it a point to hug her, give her pets and kind words, I just got wan looks in return. She had been wounded a week ago, after all.

  The phone rang. It was James. “Hey, I was just about to call you. You have some numbers for me?”

  “No final totals. Perhaps ninety or a hundred killed, three times that wounded. The fire department registered four hundred and twenty-nine alarms. Only seven of those were three or more alarms, one of them was right in your area.”

  “The lumberyard.”

  “Exactly. We are assuming this is retaliation for the former US Navy joining Pacifica.”

  “A fair trade. We won.”

  “That is a bit flippant, but not far from the mark. Carry on.”

  >>>>>>>>>

  We didn’t quite run out of coffee before dawn, but it was close. We got the paste-ups sent off to Chung’s, and us old people and invalids, Hilda, Tommy, Mary, and me all hit the hay in the dawn’s early light. Let the young hotshots distribute the Navy Extra. That will learn them to be born so recently.

  Hilda was clinging and sad, but as she sobered up, she came back to herself, cynical and resilient. It does make you feel so hopeless, being under bombardment like
that. It’s so inhuman, mechanical, and there is nothing you can do to make it stop. Nobody can take it for very long, that’s a given. Everybody snaps, everybody wants to just crawl away someplace and cry, or else they do something stupid on purpose and get killed or wounded, just to make the pounding go away. And she had been slammed twice in less than a week. She was tough, but she was not a soldier, they train us to survive crap like that. Live fire exercises they call that. They shoot machineguns right over your head while you try to dig a regulation foxhole. Sometimes a barrel gets worn out, a cartridge has a little bit less powder than the specification, and some dumb ass recruit gets his head shot off. Just to encourage the others, you understand. The old Army game.

  >>>>>>

  We didn’t make the morning, but we did see noon as it whizzed past. Up and at’em. The deals were being done. Hawaii was applying for membership in Pacifica, San Francisco was right behind. Something was going on in Southern California, but what it was, was not clear. CKYZ was reporting mass migration of Anglos north by car, boat, any means possible. The Battle for El Paso was still raging, but there was no news from Santa Fe and San Diego, at least not in English. Call that a good sign. Mary took a call; it was Arbuthnot asking if we were there. Oh, goody. Another bombshell.

  What can you say? Say, “Sure, no problem.” When the Pierce Arrow showed up, it had a full house, Arbuthnot, Lupo, and surprise, Annie Brennan taking up a good portion of the back seat. She is an expansive type. I folded down the jump seat, and smiled hello. She just scowled around a big fat cigar. “Annie, I thought you were conquering San Francisco Bay for us?”

  “Fuck that. Them people conquered themselves. They never were too damn fond of the Feds anyway, not since the goddamn Gold Rush days, and once the Navy decided to flip, it was all over but the shouting. Jimmie here, he wanted a sea captain, sent a Trimotor down there for me, and here I am. Shit is really percolating now, no lie.”

  “Miles,” Arbuthnot asked, pointedly ignoring her rant, “Do you have your notebook?” When I pulled it out of my pocket, uncapped my pen, he said, “The attack last night was carried out by three Zeppelins. They came in very high, riding a high level easterly wind, and then, after the bombing, they reduced altitude to catch the westerly sea breezes back home to their base near Saskatoon. One of them, a rather famous ship, the Deutsches Luftschiff Zeppelin #127; Registration: D-LZ 127, The Graf Zeppelin, was intercepted by a flight of our Trimotor gunships, and destroyed, crashing in flames near our town of Kelowna, about a hundred and sixty miles west of here. There were no survivors.”