There was not much shrapnel, the gliders were wood and fabric, but shit just vanished in raving domes of black-gray smoke. It was ugly beyond description. I counted, five waves of three, it was over in maybe a minute, surely not two whole minutes. Then the hot steel from the AA guns and the wires from the rockets came clanking down all around us. And the screaming began. That horrible pause between the explosions and the screaming is one of my least favorite times of life. I looked over at Hilda, and she was on her knees, snapping picture after picture, as calm as if she was shooting a dog show or a race meet. Fuck her. I crawled up on my pins, found my notebook and pencil, started taking notes. Something fluttered down out of the sky, I snagged it without thinking. A piece of a flag. White, with a few charred threads of gold braid on one edge. California, maybe, or Dalny, or who gives a fuck? A rag. I stuck it in my pocket, and lumbered toward the carnage to see if I could help.
No, I couldn’t. There was nothing to help. Soldiers from the gates and the barracks, servants from the untouched servant’s quarters, a few journalists who had been slow like us, were all running toward the chaos. Most of the glider-bombs had been long, had hit the mansion, it was just gone, reduced to a smoking rubble field in few minutes. The dignitaries had been in front of at least one bomb, they had been blown forward across the ellipse, and looked like bloody rag dolls scattered on the perfect lawn. A few were struggling to their feet as we ran up to them, soldiers with first aid kits were right there, slapping on gauze pads, tourniquets, winding bandages around head wounds. Lots of head wounds. I saw Timmons, our PM and that Alaskan woman, Caudle, they were not getting up, and were not going to either, not this side of Judgement Day.
I heard somebody cursing and puking at the same time, it was Hilda, but she was still managing to not get any on her camera, it was open, she was changing film. Damn, what a girl. I wished I had a bandanna, then remembered that rag from the sky. I pulled it out, swiped her mouth, got a muttered “Thanks” in return.
Ken’s body was a few feet away, something big had nearly chopped him in half, but the woman bending over him was a bigger shock. “Aneko!”
“I’m not hurt.” She said, callously, but relevantly. She turned to the next body, he was showing signs of life, but his beautiful mauve suit was bloody tatters. He lifted his head, saw Aneko, managed to get out. “We fucking kill them all. Bastards.”
“Yeah, we got that,” I said, “Relax, you need some sack time, Hodak.”
“Fuck your mother…” He sagged back down, but I knew it would take more than that to kill that son of a bitch. Magically, Arbuthnot was there at my side, he had a squad of elite soldiers with him, they set right to work, bandaging and evaluating people. Triage is what that’s called. Walking wounded, wounded, and dead.
“James. I suppose you want our film?”
“I want you to fucking splash this fucking story as far and as wide as it can go. The three people above me in the government are all dead. I’m the Prime Minister now, and I want to say, you may quote me on this, ‘fuck this happy horseshit. We are going to make Fat Hermann pay like no despot has ever paid before in the history of the world.’ Close quotes.”
“I hear you. Consider it done. Prime Minister, consider it a-well-told-fucking done.” He slapped my back, and ran to the next cluster of pain. I always wondered what it would take to make him curse. “Hilda, you heard the man. Shoot that roll of film, get the mansion, and let’s find a set of wheels. We have an extra to get out.” She kissed me with foul lips, and off we went.
>>>>>>>>>>>>
Our old Buick was where we left it, dusty but undamaged. We stopped by our room, grabbed our shit, washed our faces, gargled with Listerine to get the stink out of our mouths, drank some water and headed for the big city. When we stopped shaking, we stopped someplace and had something to eat, whatever it was. I wanted a drink, but I knew I would never stop if I started. That had been rough, even for an old dough, and I didn’t know how Hilda kept from falling apart on the spot. More of that grown-up woman stuff, I guess. I guess real women get more serious when the shit comes down. And speaking of real women… Aneko? Surfaced again? And one of her minions was out of the game, another wounded? It came to me that it was time, past time, that Cookie and Isis were sent out to explore an ice floe in the fucking Artic Circle someplace. The whole game had been changed, and it was time to sweep the wild cards off the table.
The Express was at full alert, they had heard the news on CKYZ, of course, Tommy the Cork was pounding a Royal for all he was worth, I tossed him my notes on the way to the phone, called Demetri, told him I had some hot shots to develop. “On the way.”
I sent Pat and the Greek back up to Eagle Mountain with a camera and a notebook, told them to do what they could, and started pounding out an eyewitness report.
The headline was easy. “PM Says You Can Quote Me; ‘We are going to make Fat Hermann pay like no despot has ever paid before in the history of the world’.”
I had Hilda call Frankie up at Crazy House and dictate her story to them, and then take a damn break. She said, “Let me take a shower and change my clothes, and I’m good. This is the biggest story in the history of big stories, it’s going to be all hands on deck, right? And who can rest with all this shit happening?”
“When you are right, you’re right. We will need some Man on the Street stuff. Where’s Dougherty and Summers?”
“Not here, but I’ll find them, or do it myself.”
“Good deal.” Demetri showed up, on a motorcycle, a Brough Superior, no less. Guy had some hidden talents, and a lot more money than I had suspected. He took the film, and roared back to his darkroom. On his way out the door, he said, “You ever think of making newsreels?”
I just waved. Enough trouble for one day. Mary O’Brien and Charles were editing with both hands, it looked like, Tommy finished his radio report, asked, “That Arbuthnot is the new Prime Minister? Who the fuck he is, anyway?”
“Fucked if I know. Ex-military for sure, probably RCMP Intelligence Branch or whatever they call it. He never talked about himself. I never looked him up. Why don’t you take the Dodge to the Library, see if you can find anything? Bring back a load of lunch, why don’t you? And ask Chen and Eng to go do man on the street interviews in Chinatown, you don’t mind?”
“On it.”
Hilda came down, all fresh and beautiful, gave me a big juicy kiss, said, “That may not have been the best-timed piece of ass in the history of the world this morning, but close enough. I’m on my way. Need anything?”
“Some groceries. Tommy is going to bring lunch back, but I think we will be eating with one hand for a good while yet.”
“Good thinking. I’ll get some wine and beer too; we are going to need to relax one way or another.”
“Check the coffee too. Love you.”
“Did you ever say that before? Fuck it. Love you too.”
“You forgot to say, ‘you big lug’.” She didn’t even call me an asshole, just took off.
>>>>>>>
Tommy got back before Hilda did; “This Arbuthnot guy is in Who’s Who, but there is not much. He did win the DSO, the Distinguished Service Order, which is a big deal. Majors and higher. He got his in Palestine, they don’t say why, but they don’t come in boxes of Cracker Jacks. He is a local, went to school in England, Oxford, with honors. History, I believe, if I read the alphabet soup correctly. There is a lot less than there should be, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure. What’s the problem?”
“There is a Canadian Who’s Who, but it was published in London, in 1910. So, nothing there. The British Edition is terse, and only published triennially.”
“So, nothing, with nothing frosting on the top.”
“You got it. There is a little in the papers, but not much. His father was a Chief Superintendent in the Mounties, that’s the fourth highest rank, so that’s pretty much of a big deal. They are so reticent, being fucking Canadians and all, it’s hard to ge
t anything straight. I guess they figure that if you need to know, you will know already, and if you don’t, fuck you.”
“Politely.”
“You got it.”
“Fine. Let’s put this to bed. If they want us to know, they will tell us. You have DOB and all that? Write it up, and find something else to do. There is plenty. Any foreign reaction yet?”
“I’ll check. The usual suspects should be checking in, any minute now.” And so, it was. The Germans were gloating, the BBC was almost chucking with glee, Radio Home was cold and factual, VEUAC was raving mad, from what we could tell, the Richmond Virginia station WRVA was cautiously congratulatory, and the Portuguese stations were irate, if not surprised.
The Official English branch of NKH, the Japanese state radio, Radio Japan, was predicting “unforeseen consequences,” which seemed a bit of an understatement. I got smart finally, and called that number I had for contacting James Arbuthnot. A non-committal voice answered, I told them who I was, and asked if they had a casualty report. The guy said, “A messenger will deliver that data as soon as possible. Thanks for your interest. Feel free to contact this number at any time.” He didn’t give me a name or an organization, but I felt a lot better. Somebody was in charge. I wondered if the mysterious Mister Phelps, who we had met when we first came to Vancouver had been Arbuthnot’s superior, and if he had been killed in the bombing. So many questions, so few answers. Fuck it. Write it down, edit it, proofread, paste up and get it to the printers. We better hire some heavies to help us distribute the papers tomorrow. “Hey, Tommy?”
>>>>>>>>
Hilda got back a little later, we hacked and chopped and sliced, got the copy ready, sent it off with Buster. Then, of course, had not a single chance of sleeping. Thank god for coffee. Hilda took me aside about one, said, “I found a guy to sell me a few muggles. That’s what took so long. You want a whiff? It might help you relax.” She showed me a Luckie’s pack with a few hand-rolled cigarettes in it.
“Shit, who knows? I’ll try anything once. You bring enough for the whole class?”
“I…”
“The boss should never hide his vices from the ranks.” I looked up, people were paying attention. “Anybody want any of this crazy weed?”
Tommy stuck up his hand, and Eng stepped closer. “I’s a viper from way back. Jazz me, gate.” He winked, and I remembered again to never take people for granted. He took one puff, made a face, said “We Chinese do know our herbs…” Then he pulled a tiny little pipe out of his inside coat pocket, and a little silver snuff bottle, filled it, and offered Hilda the first draw. She hacked half a lung out, but smiled and took another whiff.
I can take a hint. Time to let your hair down. CKYZ gave up on all news all the time, and had Dippermouth Armstrong play slow blues for an hour or three, with occasional New Orleans funeral marches for relief. It was most welcome. The local Vancouver station had been broadcasting casualty lists, funeral home notices, with occasional string quartet dirges when they ran out of gloom. It was their job, they had to mourn, but it looked like us old exiles from the states had got off easy. Easy at least compared to the other shit we had gone through in China.
I took a couple of pulls on that little pipe, my troubles did not evaporate, but they moved back a little from the foreground of my mind. We had not gone down into the carnage that must have been inside what was left of the mansion, it had been bad enough where we were. No memory to treasure.
The messenger from Arbuthnot’s office arrived, and the first thing that became obvious, was that we needed to start on another extra right the fuck now, muggles or no muggles. Almost two hundred dead, the list of named fatalities was two pages long. There was another sheet listing the local government casualties, and a very brief release naming the replacements, James Arbuthnot Prime Minister on down.
At least this issue would write itself. More of a copying job than reportage. I handed that mess to Charles and Mary, hammered out a quick bio of Ivan Hodak, another with what little we knew of Arbuthnot, got that done just as Demetri brought back the photos Hilda shot. The scene had been too chaotic and smoky for a good overall vista, but she had nailed usable snaps of Timmons’ and Caudle’s bodies, Arbuthnot on the scene, and one great photo of Aneko bending over Hodak. That would cover the front page. A four sheet would do for a story this big.
We had usable copy by dawn, and our messenger to Chung’s must have passed the truck with our papers on the way. No rest for the weary. “Hinda, you lay down, that’s an order.” She bristled, then sagged and smooked in my general direction on her way upstairs. “Pat and Greek and Buster, you come with me, and Phil, you man the phones. The rest of you rack the fuck out. This ain’t over yet.”
>>>>>>>
The streets were full of quiet people. You could smell the anger in the air, like distant smoke. Pacifica Army and Navy Recruiting kiosks had sprung up overnight, there were lines of men, and women too, in front of every one.
People were very polite taking our papers, no jostling, no mob scene. A lot of them paid with whatever coin came to hand, and did not wait for change. As soon as the papers were in their hands, they became oblivious to anything but the print. We never got to the newsstands, all our copies went as fast as we could pass them out. I was too tired to feel elated, all I wanted to do was to flop. So, I did. I had to physically shove Hilda to her side of the bed, she was out cold. She didn’t even grumble at me.
I dragged it out of bed about two in the afternoon, but it took a metaphorical earthquake to do it. Hilda was shaking me, and crying, “Wake the hell up, Miles, that Smith guy is back! Big story! Get up!”
I managed to not sound too much like a grizzly, and thank god, she had a cup of coffee in her other hand. I still had my clothes on, so I slugged down the coffee, rinsed with Listerine, and made it down to the break room, where Chan had scrambled eggs and a stack of toast waiting. Smith was there already, with Libbie, they both looked dragged through knotholes, and more than slightly battered. Smith had a grubby bandage round his head, and Libbie’s right arm was bandaged shoulder to wrist, with serum and blood leaking through the gauze.
“Okay, Smith, what’s the scoop?” I asked between mouthfuls of breakfast.
“Well, I settled in back home, in Winston Salem, kissed ass on my family, swore to give up my playboy ways, marry, and take a position in the family firm. The tobacco business. They did not love the fact that Libbie is Jewish, but they needed somebody willing to travel overseas, to sell our products to Europe and Asia.”
“The krauts and the Japs.”
“To anybody who could buy cigarettes. They could care less, as long as the money is good.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Those…” Words failed him for a second. “Hot heads up in Richmond. North Carolina was a very reluctant participant in the Civil War, the First Civil War, I guess, but being in between Virginia and South Carolina, we have to mind our Ps and Qs. So, the legislature hemmed and hawed, playing for time, but Lejeune was having none of that. He sent troops to Raleigh, from Virginia, and into Charlotte from South Carolina, and forced our hand. A lot of the hillbillies up in the mountains were not going for that, they are an independent lot, and they started shooting. I was, we were, up in our family’s mountain place, in Roaring Gap, and those ridge-runners decided to run the rich folks down off the mountain. I had my ship, so we flew down to Reynolda, our town house, just in time to walk into a full-fledged insurrection down there.”
“This is all news to me. We never heard a word of it.”
“Well, you wouldn’t. The Richmond station and one in Atlanta are the only ones still up, and they have to walk chalk.”
“Or else.”
He didn’t even bother to acknowledge that. “There were troops coming down from the Shenandoah Valley, coming up from Charlotte, and west from Raleigh and they all met up in little old boring Winston Salem. My father had difficulties hiring local people to work in his tobacco companies, it’s a l
ong story, but he decided to hire negroes, and pay them decent wages. There was a growing negro community there, they had not been treated as badly as others had, and there was some jealousy.”
“So, somebody fired up the Confederates, and they went on a rampage.”
“How did you know?”
I just said, “I have heard this tale before. Then what happened?”
“One of our big factories downtown went up in flames. A couple of my brothers organized an armed group to protect the rest, and a war broke out. The Moravians, they live in Salem, they are like the Quakers, or something, but they were defending their hill from the Confederates, shooting broke out. I really don’t know all the details, it all happened so fast, but a mob came riding up Reynolda Road, looting and burning. I had my plane on a private lake on the grounds, so I bundled up Libbie, and took off. We made it to Memphis that night, had enough cash to fill up again, then the next leg was to someplace in Colorado. We slept there, it was way out in the middle of no place, then we hopped to Boise. We managed to fuel up, it took our last cash. We were taking off, and some local Mormon militia wanted us to stop. I just kept going, they shot, and got lucky enough to wing Libbie and nick me on the head. It might have been just one bullet, I don’t know.”
“I had my arm up, I was giving them the bird, and the bullet went right up my arm. Hurts.”
“Let’s get you a doctor first thing, and settled down, then we will take down your stories, and see what we can do with you. You want to go to Crazy House?” Mary heard my words, picked up the phone, and dialed “O.”
Brown Bear Blues Page 14