Sidney went off to find a field kitchen while I got a few thousand words, and after we ate whatever it was, sandwiches or something, I packaged it all up, and we went off to find somebody that knew something. HQ was a flag, a radio truck, and a tarpaulin over a couple of tables. We waited until somebody had time to notice us, handed my report over, and went back to the Lincoln for a nap. All around us, below us in what was left of the town, soldiers were building a base, clearing rubble from the highway, hacking out an air field from some farmer’s wheat field. It looked like we were here to stay for a while. Suits me.
>>>>>>>
I got up a little before dark, found the mess tent, ate what they had, stew and bread, I think, and went looking for somebody to tell me what to do next. I found that Major Walker after an hour or so, he told me that they were going to set up a strong point here in Medicine Hat, and that in the morning, they would cut me orders to head up to observe the Saskatoon assault. “That’s the big show, but we had to do this first to threaten their flank. The Saskatchewan River flows northeast, so we are above them on the river.”
“You going to put some those Loon hydrodomes on the river to fuck with them?”
“We might. Saskatoon is only two hundred miles away, the Northern attack is over the Alberta border, near a place called Kindersley. We will send you there, with an armored escort.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be, we will be transferring a lot of the lighter armor up there to beef up the attack. Better get as much rest as you can, the route you will have to take will be closer to four hundred miles than two, dirt roads all the way.”
“Yes sir. I’m up on the Heights, but I suppose you know that already.”
“I can find that out. Good evening, Major Kapusta.”
“And you, Major Walker.”
>>>>>>>>
Life is easier if you just follow orders. They woke us up at oh ack emma, and off we went. Maybe a hundred armored cars and light tanks. We jogged around that grid-pattern road network, trending north and west for quite a while, then got to the main drag, Route 7, in a place called Cereal, which seemed appropriate. Route 7 was being ruthlessly widened and improved even while convoys were rolling over it. Sappers do not fuck around. They don’t get much credit, but they know that victories, the very existence of the army, depends on them, and they take their job seriously. When they tell you to move, move fast or get bulldozered.
The CPRR set well north of us, from Edmonton, so we were on our own. I found a map in the papers they gave me, and we would have to take Regina to get to Saskatoon from Medicine Hat. Not today. We rolled into Kindersley a little before dark, were shunted off to a car park a few miles back from the town, almost out of earshot of the battle line, and took ourselves to the Officers Club for drinks and gossip.
This mob was mostly transport troops, they looked pretty damn road-worn. It was six hundred miles as the crow flies back to Vancouver, at least a twenty-hour run, and these guys looked like they had eaten dust every mile of it. The drivers probably looked worse, but this batch of lieutenants were earning their money in spades. The scuttlebutt was all shop talk, but I found a table of older captains, introduced myself and asked them why the advance was slow up here. “You’re from Medicine Hat? I can tell you in one word. Railroads. We don’t have any. There is a line from Edmonton, but the Jerrys have bombed the piss out of it. Every goddamn stick of butter, every goddamn cartridge has to come over Route 7, and there is only so much a truck can take. A twenty-ton truck is a big one, but a box car can carry a hundred tons.”
“So a boxcar is five truckloads?”
“At least. And a locomotive burns a lot less coal than a truck burns gasoline per mile. A lot less. I could work it out, but take my word for it. A lot less.”
I nodded. “I understand. And those armored trains carry guns, troops, and even airplanes. Tough babies.”
“Airplanes?”
“Yeah, I saw them with my own eyes. They have like steam catapults, shoot these little pursuit jobs right into the air in split seconds. The krauts never saw what hit them. Teals, they call the planes.”
“Something new then?” The head honcho asked. He was a battered old captain with a million miles on him, looked to have come up through the ranks.
“They call them canards, have the motor in the back. I don’t know how much I am supposed to say about that, no offense.”
“None taken. I wish we had more support up here. No place to hide on these goddamned prairies, fucking dive bombers can spot you a hundred miles away. It’s a real slog up here. Not as bad as France, but no fun at all.”
“You got those Rocket Clusters?”
“Yeah, they help, make those bastards flinch, but it’s the stress, the wear and the tear on the troops. Ten hour shifts driving, dust, smoke, all that crap. That and trying to keep an eye open for those tricky bastards, it wears you down. But fuck it.”
“There is a war on.” Always ready with a cliché. And a drink. I signaled to the orderly, bought a round. Part of the job. And a good way to get people to open up and talk. Some tricks always work. Didn’t get much more factual information, we wound up talking about women and the trouble they get us dumb ass men in. Typical bull session.
I passed out in the back of the Estate Wagon not long after, Sidney was racked out in the front seat already. He snored, but it didn’t let that bother me one bit. The traffic and the sound of distant artillery was as good as a lullaby, as tired as I was. I fell asleep trying to figure what percentage of my life I had spent within the sound of guns. Close to twenty percent, as best as I could figure.
>>>>>>>>
The morning was up and at’em. We grabbed a plate of eggs, motored up to get our papers checked in at HQ, and get whatever they used for a press pass. Major Walker had been there before we got there, the rails were nicely greased for us. Somebody had a day-old copy of the Express, Hilda had sent back some shots of the Colombian Canal, a bit touristy, but not badly composed. No word from George, but Hilda had the PAS to run her reports back, George was probably on a motorbike someplace in the fucking desert.
We went on up to where we could get a sniff of the battle; it was a slog, as reported. Tanks spreading out over the Prairie, leaving long stringers of dust in the air, filthy infantry dragging their asses back out of the shit on foot, fresh troops being trucked into the battle. A chatty MP sergeant told us, “The doughs are just consolidating the gains, entrenching, digging bunkers, all that shit. The zepps are a pain in the ass, but they don’t amount to much in the big picture. We can’t stop them, but they can’t hit anything that’s moving, except by accident. The dive bombers were more effective, but there are not as many as there were, I don’t know what the story is on that.”
“We do. They got the shit chopped out of them down in Medicine Hat. You should be getting relief soon, as soon as they get consolidated and dug in down there. You building any air fields up here?”
“Beats the fuck out of me. All sorts of shit happening, but my job is just keeping them rolling. You gonna put my name in the paper?”
“Lefcowitz, right?”
“Abe Lefcowitz. From Brooklyn. I want those bastards to know some of us Jews are still alive and are coming for them.”
“You got it, Abe. Carry on.”
>>>>>>>>>>
I had a thought, stopped at a NAAFI, Brit for PX, picked up a few things, then found a field hospital, talked to a couple of doctors, found a bunch of walking wounded slurping down Salvation Army coffee and doughnuts. They were eager to talk. Mostly infantry, a couple of tankers. Tankers get killed more often than they get wounded. These guys were lucky. Hurting, but lucky. A lieutenant covered in bruises and bandages wanted to talk. “We got blown right into the air by a bomb. We landed on the turret, but managed to scramble out before she brewed up. It’s no picnic out there.”
“Tanks?”
“Yeah, and dive bombers are the worst. I never saw what hit us, just boom, and
there we were upside down like a turtle. Might have been a zepp. They hit hard, when they hit. It was last night, so I guess a zepp.”
“I hate fucking zepps.”
“You played these games?”
“Too often. AEF and the Polar Bears in China.”
“This is my first rodeo. Live and learn.”
“If…”
“Yeah. If.” He agreed.
“What kind of tanks are they running out here?”
“Mostly Brit Medium Mark Cs and Vickers Medium Mark IIs. We are using those Jap Renault copies. They are a lot better than the French one, but too bloody light for this sort of business. We need more air.”
“Don’t tell anybody I said so, but it’s on the way. They just stopped German Heavies down in Medicine Hat, and I am guessing they are on the way up here.”
“Dive bombers?”
“Something new. I can’t say more.”
“I understand. Thanks. Buy you a doughnut?” I knew they were free, Sally is a good deal, but I accepted with grace. Good doughnuts. Nasty coffee, but that’s the way they like it. Black and sassy. I ate my doughnut, wished the looey well, and went looking for an infantry man. They get all the shit, have the worst attitudes. But I found some guys that were ever better. Sappers. Combat engineers. A squad had been bounced around by a bomb, and were recovering in back of the Aid Tent. Recovering with a bottle, you understand. I had taken the precaution of filling one pocket with packs of cigarettes, so I was able to make friends quickly.
“It’s a fucking mess. No high ground, no river banks, feel like a fucking bug on a fucking table. At least the ground is soft. It’s easy to dig, and you fucking need to. Those goddamn dive bombers are on you like stink on shit every time you stick your head up. And if they don’t get you, the fucking zepps will. I hate a land without trees.”
Another one groused, “All these lakes everywhere. Nothing to make a defensive line out of, roads so straight artillery can range for miles, line of sight. No place to hide, it’s like being on a checker board.”
“So we are in trouble?” I had to ask.
“Naw, we got this shit,” The first one replied. “It’s just fucked. A royal pain in the ass. We have shorter supply lines, and better morale. And we are fighting for our fucking country. They ain’t.” He didn’t sound much like a Canadian, but point taken. I thanked them and moved on. I asked dumb questions until I found the air field, hitched a ride there. It was back east a few miles, and was bustling. As I watched, a flight of Gunships arrived from the west, piloted by women, mostly. Not all of them were white, some looked suspiciously Oriental, too big to be Japanese. Chinese or Siberians at a guess. Volunteers for the Air Age from Baikal? Who knew? I could have been nosey, but I decided that even newspapermen have to mind their own business occasionally. They were far from home, and the chances for miscommunication were just too great. A tough-looking bunch of babes, in any case.
So, I located the Officers Club, went in, introduced myself, and found somebody that wanted to bend my ear. It was the table in the corner, farthest from the bar, where the outcasts cluster. Don’t ask me how I know that. Three men and four women, and they didn’t look like they were going to wind up in bed with each other, if you catch my drift. None of the females wore lipstick, but one of the males might have. Not my problem, but it did make me wonder where Frankie was these days.
“Hey, mind if I join you? I’m from the Express.” Blank looks. “The newspaper in Vancouver?”
“Sure,” the most assured of the women said. “Pull up a chair. What are you drinking? My name is Bets Carlisle. From Seattle. This is Ron, Chasbo,” another woman, “Sue, Kevin, Will, and Prudence.” Prudence was a redhead with shoulders wider than mine.
“Just beer for me. Let me buy you a round. You all pilots?” I knew they were, they had little propeller badges on their collars, but play dumb. Tricks of the trade.
“Sure. We fly transport. Waiting here for the new Fives. Hate waiting.”
“I rode out to Calgary in one of them. Sweet ship.” That broke the ice, they talked numbers for a while, I smiled and nodded and tipped the orderly to keep the drinks flowing. Eventually they got down to talking shop, I primed them with a few dumb questions about the Fokkers, that got them going.
“Not seeing many of them anymore. They have concentrated on the BFW M 23. It used to be a racer, a monoplane, then they made it a dive bomber, and now it is the new pursuit job. It keeps getting faster and faster,” Will explained, “It’s a bitch. A sweet bitch, but a bitch.”
Bets was not bothered by that word. “Word is that Goering is having production problems, they refuse to use women as anything but brood mares, so no factory work for them. They have to concentrate on a few models, there has been a lot of sabotage, in England the Labor Party has been forced underground, and the Russians are just impossible.”
“I don’t suppose the French and Italians are any too happy with their overlords either. They used to have strong Socialist parties.” I put in, mostly to show I was paying attention.
“My folks are still in Scotland,” Will explained, “we get word in roundabout ways about what is going on in the UK. Or what used to be the UK. The Germans are running roughshod through the whole country, King Eddie is the most hated man in the Isles, no doubt about it. But the whole point is that airplane production is in Germany, mostly, and they have run out of German workers.”
“All in the army.” I said.
“The ones that weren’t sent off to penal divisions and slaughtered in Russia and Siberia. That was rough, what they tell me.” Chasbo bummed a cigarette from me and lit it from Prudence’s butt. The way they handled that trivial transaction told me a lot about their relationship. Interesting, if irrelevant. “I’m glad I missed that one. I was in Toronto learning to fly on the weekends.”
“I didn’t miss it.” I said. “Count your blessings. It was an excessive amount of fun for a growing boy.” I didn’t mention that I had been the world’s worst pilot, crashed three times, lost a wife and quite a bit of skin off my ass. “So you think that Fat Hermann wants Detroit and the Ford plants to make another air force for him?”
Bets growled, “No doubt about it. Hong Kong and Japan and now Sydney… Australia are cranking out a lot of airframes. I hear that my old home town is converting factories to airframe production, but that’s all pretty hush hush. Lots of rumors, no action.”
“There is action. I was just down in Medicine Hat, and there are some very interesting developments. It won’t be long now. I can’t even hint, but I will say that it won’t be more than a day or two before you see some action.” That kind of killed the conversation, the pilots sunk into the depths of their brains, cogitating away. A dirty trick to play on transport pilots, the fighter jocks probably already knew the score on the Teals, but the aerial truck drivers were the last to know. It was not my job to educate them, either. Anyway, that story about the Labor troubles in the British Isles was worth a few rounds of drinks. Call it an investment.
>>>>>>>>>>>
I had done enough of my job for one day, I got a lift back to the Estate Wagon, set up the Royal and started rapping out the story. It didn’t take long, but it was well dark when I was finished, saved the original, and bundled the carbons up to send back to the Express, by dinner time. An important occasion for us fat boys. Wouldn’t want to waste away, would we now?
I ate a real decent steak, and was almost back to the Wagon when the bombs started falling. Nobody was on alert, no sound of Zeppelin motors overhead, they may have pulled the old trick of finding a high-level wind to take them where they wanted to go, and bombing on the way back. Not very accurate, but this thrust was big enough to be called a Front, and it wasn’t moving very fast. A perfect target for those damn incendiaries. We got our share.
They weren’t as effective against an army encampment as they had been against civilian housing back in Vanc, but Kindersley got plastered good and solid. I had to fire up the Lincoln to get
it away from the car park, which was brewing up nicely, the krauts got lucky and hit a gasoline tanker, the flames spread and cooked off other gas tanks. Pretty exciting half hour, rushing silhouettes of people black against the flames, lots of screaming and bellowing of orders, but we knew how to cope with this shit. Sidney showed up after the excitement was pretty much over, he had been across the camp, playing poker, he said. Sure, why not. He looked like he might have sneaked into town and got a piece of ass, but none of my business. I was missing Hilda, but that was none of his business either.
>>>>>>>
The town of Kindersley was still burning in the morning; the wheat field fires had burned out of sight. The air was thick and nasty with smoke, but casualties had been remarkably low. I listened to myself, remembered what had come out of my yap last night, and had Sidney drive us to the air field for breakfast. My official orders were remarkably vague, I could go anywhere I liked, and the Pacifica Air Service was already well known for treating their people very well. I can cope. I managed to cope very nicely with waffles and sausages, and was kibitzing outside the control tower, when the first flights of Teals landed.
It was remarkably low key world-changing event. The tiny planes with their hundred horsepower engines made little fuss. They landed, taxied to the sides of the field, the pilots climbed out, handed their clipboards to the mechanics, and went to the mess tent. Business as usual. Not even a band.
A casual crowd gathered to marvel at the Teals, speculate wildly, and scratch their heads in disbelief. The Teals had flown in without their rockets slung below their bodies, probably for fuel range, so they just looked spindly, and a little silly. Some wiseacre near me said, “They look like mosquitos, we got plenty up here already.” Cruel but accurate. The poetry of the vernacular. While we were standing around, chewing the fat, trucks started arriving, headed right for the line of Teals. They parked, crews jumped out and started changing the oil, plugs, strapping on rockets, refilling fuel tanks, pumping tires up, all the usual pre-flight maintenance.
Brown Bear Blues Page 18