Brown Bear Blues

by Stephen Wishnevsky

  There was a little incoming artillery, but I had seen that there was no big stuff out there, so it was scattered, and well in front of us. The trucks around me, the support troops, were held in place, they had no need to be anywhere until the attack progressed. Or didn’t. More coffee, more doughnuts. War is hell.

  There was plenty of hell in front of us, we could tell from the noise, if nothing else, but as soon as the sky got light enough, the Gunships, the dive bombers and the Teals could fly, and fly they did. There were a lot more of them than I ever had expected, Mitsubishi Hong Kong must be cranking them out by the shipload. It got a lot noisier in front of us, and long streamers of smoke were blown south and east by the prevailing winds. More good planning for us, it kept the air clear for our attacks, blew the smoke in the faces of the enemy AA and pilots.

  A half hour later, a couple flights of zepps showed up to bomb us, it must have been a desperation move, and it didn’t work. They were lower than usual, they hadn’t had time to rise to normal altitude, and were sitting ducks for the Teals and Gunships. They didn’t fall from the sky, they burst into invisible flame, the biggest pieces were the engines. Those fell, but not dramatically. Too far away, and too fucking bad for them. Those rockets didn’t leave a whole lot of debris. And once the hydrogen ignited, that was all she wrote.

  The ground crews at the air fields must have been working like Trojans, there were always planes in the air, a regular production line of destruction raining on the Germans. I could have felt sorry for them, if they hadn’t been such bastards for so many years. All I could see at this range was the blots of smoke getting further and further away. About ten, they gave the word and we mounted up and moved out. Slowly, but we moved.

  >>>>>>>>

  Once we got up a couple of miles, into the battle zone, it looked like every Holt and Caterpillar tractor in the Plains was working dragging smashed tanks and ruined artillery off the right of way. I was glad to see they were mostly German. Other crews were filling holes in the road, rebuilding bridges and culverts to let wheeled vehicles pass. The tracked armor had gone where they had wanted to, across country, but us support troops had to stay on the roads, even if they were gravel.

  There were roads being cut across the fields; it was plenty dry up here, I noticed that we were trending south east, even though Saskatoon was north east of here. Interesting. It looked like we were headed toward the States, and I wondered what they were doing in Medicine Hat.

  I tried to look north, and there were smoke clouds up that way too, so maybe we were the southern prong of a two-forked attack. I grabbed a map, actually an old school atlas that Major Walker had packed for me, saw that Medicine Hat was about a hundred miles south and west of us, tactically behind us. The next place that was worth a shit was Regina, two hundred miles the way we were going. That would put us on the railroad main line again. After that, it was another three hundred to Winnipeg, Manitoba, and four hundred more to Thunder Bay, where the Anglo-Germans had launched the Mississippi Thrust. But we didn’t have to go there. There were a bunch of big ass lakes in Manitoba, above Winnipeg, that narrowed down the corridor to a hundred miles or less. But North Dakota was wide open, and if any of those damn cowboys wanted to take back America, they would have to join us.

  Come to think of it, there were lots of Indian Reservations up there. I didn’t know much about them, but it was a safe bet they would not be allowed to join up with the Master Race. I didn’t suppose there were enough of them to make much of a difference, but at least they could deny land to the enemy, cover a flank.

  What was left of the States was another matter. They had New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan and parts of Illinois, which was a pretty damn big country by European standards. They were on defense now, under Hoover and Curtis, keeping real quiet. But the one thing known about Herbert Hoover was that he was a master organizer, had lots of friends and admirers, or at least he had before he wound up being a front man for John E. and Patton. Could he redeem himself? Was he going to try? Time would tell.

  >>>>>>>

  They say that the Army is all “Hurry up and wait,” we had been waiting, then suddenly there were MPs on motorcycles waving us on, down the road. When in doubt, do what they tell you. Sidney dropped it in gear, let out the clutch and we were in the advance. The Sappers had bulldozed a new road diagonally across the fields, following the tank tracks. We made good time, but the battle line still seemed to be receding ahead of us. The Air Service was barely visible now, they were striking so far in advance. I guessed we had achieved a break-through, and were on our way to where the fuck ever.

  The farms were laid out on a grid pattern, looked like one-mile square blocks. The land rolled a little, but nothing a Yankee would call a hill. Lots of nothing. Windmills, silos, very occasional farm houses, and more nothing. We came to a riverbed, but it was eroded only a few feet down in the soft brown earth. I was getting that bug on a plate feeling, and didn’t like it. If the Germans had any airplanes left… But they didn’t. We just kept rolling south and east, half-hidden in dust from the rapidly drying earth of the new-cut road.

  We detoured around lakes, they looked manmade, had some square corners anyway, and kept on puttering along, hitting twenty occasionally. We weren’t seeing any more smashed kraut armor, and there was no more bombing, no more smoke to the south of us. There was some to our north, but a long way away, ten miles or more, probably on the road to Saskatoon.

  After a couple three hours, it wasn’t even close to noon yet, we hit a north-south paved road, Route 4, and picked up speed through untouched farm country. There were occasional smashed and burning kraut vehicles pushed to the sides of the road. Another two hours at nearly forty, we came to the town of Swift Current, and were directed into a field north of Route 1, ordered to set up camp and await orders, while the armor from Medicine Hat in the west rumbled by. They were Vancouver troops, Pacifica regulars, whatever that meant at this point, but they were dusty, battered and seasoned. I heard a steam whistle, checked my atlas, and found we were back on the railroad line, and the big boys were on the job.

  There still didn’t seem to be a whole lot of opposition, which was fine with me. I had decided to devote my life to dying of old age, and this was a good start. We found a place to park, even under a tree, and I went on a scout. I had been taking notes, of course, now I needed some brass to put this into context, let me know what I was actually seeing.

  MPs and Engineers were hammering signposts and raising flagpoles, you might not think those would be high priority tasks, but they are essential. All the blood and guts and élan in the world won’t win a single battle, if the troops don’t know which way to go, how to find the HQ where the vital message has to be sent. It’s the detail work that wins battles.

  Everybody was too busy building the instant city that a Division requires, I was in danger of getting trampled, but I did find a Field Kitchen, and promoted a stack of ham and egg sandwiches and a quart of milk to take back to the Lincoln. Close enough for government work.

  >>>>>>>

  As it happened, I needn’t have worried, a messenger on a bike found me, gave me a lift to Front HQ, where I found Major Walker and Frankie, of all the ubiquitous people. HQ was another barn, a tin one this time, but it was all business. “Ahh, Miles. Do try to not get out of pocket again. It was hard enough finding you. I have these press releases for you, and your mail drop is over behind that counter.” He pointed, it was as he said, even if the “counter” was planks on two barrels, and the mail drop was a wagon bed full of labeled nail kegs. “We hope to be here in Swift Current for a few days, at least. We have cut the Anglo-German supply lines up Route 4 to Saskatoon, the Trans-Canada is broken in Regina, and although we cannot progress, neither can the Anglo-Germans. It is not quite a hundred and fifty miles to Regina, and we are willing to take our time.”

  “Can’t you just bomb that Regina place?”

  “We certainly can do that; however, Regina is our
city, its citizens are our citizens, and we are not barbarians. The Zeppelin base in Saskatoon was not heavily fortified, it was meant to harass Vancouver, but little more. We find that although the English desire dominion over Canada again, the Germans have much bigger fish to fry.”

  “Texas and the Confederacy. Cotton and tobacco and manpower.”

  “Well done. The Southerners are much more sympathetic to the Reich than we Canadians ever will be.”

  “And the French Canadiens are probably still not willing to play nice.”

  “Indeed, they are most recalcitrant. Sub rosa, I can tell you that the average Englishman has little interest in prolonging the war. They see little profit in any of that. They have been decimated several times over, and are most war-weary.” He was a bit pedantic, I guessed that being away from us Yankee barbarian louts for a few days had stiffened his upper lip a bit.

  “I talked with a pilot who had people in Scotland, he said the Labor Party had been crushed, and there was a lot of unrest and even sabotage in the munitions factories.”

  “He was well-informed. It is an unstable situation. The Reich is spread very thin, but we see no profit in sticking our heads in that particular lion’s mouth. We, as Canadians, as Pacificans, need to concentrate on defense.”

  “And the best defense is a strong offense.”

  “A truism, but applicable in this situation. We in the West have little hope of freeing Toronto and Montreal, we have a full plate as is. Winnipeg is perhaps an achievable goal, but not a vital one. You understand.”

  “I do. I will have an article in your in-box, or keg, in a few hours. I assume unit designations and commanders’ names are in these.” I fanned out the releases he had given me. “I minor point, but if you could find me a sign-painter? Put the paper’s name on the Lincoln?”

  “I’ll make a note. Good evening.” Off he went, I looked at Frankie, she looked back. “You want me on the radio?”

  “Take your time. Finish your story, come find me, look for the antenna…” She pointed east. “Over that way a half mile. I’ll buy you dinner, and we can go on the air.”

  “Deal. I wish I had not left the Chevy, this job is going to take a lot of walking.”

  “It’s good for you, Miles, no offense, you could lose a few pounds, you know.”

  “Hey, Frances, fuck you.” She cracked up, and I said, “A couple hours. Alphonse.”

  “Oh, fighting dirty are we? Fine. Ya big lug.”

  >>>>>>>

  Do your job, do your bit, follow orders and the world goes around. I remembered that the ancient Egyptians thought the sun was pushed across the heavens by a giant invisible dung beetle. Like that. Push the shit, the crops ripen, and we can all have beer in the fall.

  A fun idea, file in the back of your mind, in the drawer marked “Fiction Ideas, If I Live.”

  Meanwhile, back in reality, crank out your story, invite Sidney Thomas to come help scrounge dinner from Frankie, and trek back across the tundra… plains. In the few hours I had been nose to the grindstone, night had fallen, progress had been made, lanes and roads established, signs and sentries posted. Lanterns had been hung in lieu of streetlights, they had done everything except line the walkways with white painted rocks. They probably had the paint, but rocks seemed a little scarce up here. That was another thing that struck my Connecticut soul as unnatural. Then I realized that my tired old brain was taking a break from constant danger by wool-gathering, just like the olden times three whole years ago.

  Just as I had that happy thought, the eastern sky flared up for a second, in the unmistakable light of a flaming Zeppelin. So, they had a few left? One less. Fuck them.

  The Officers Club was a masterpiece of improvisation; they even had table linen. It didn’t match, it wasn’t pressed, but it was there, and it was clean. Justine was there with Frankie, but she had little to say. None of us did, too tired to chatter. We had beef. At least it wasn’t salmon. Sidney was a bit taken aback, I hadn’t told him about Frankie, but his native farm-boy politeness got him through the dinner without incident. As we walked to the station trailer he whispered, “He’s one of those unnaturals, isn’t he?”

  “She.”

  “She who?”

  “Frankie. She wants to be called she. She fought for the right to be called whatever the fuck she wants to be called. She.”

  “Okay. Just asking.”

  “Sidney, you live through as much shit as Frankie has, then you get to decide who and what you are. Get me?”

  “Sure. I guess I don’t much care, one way or another.”

  “It’s a new world you are getting to grow up in. Pay attention, it will make life a little easier. Not easy, you know, but easier.”

  “I hear you. None of this stuff is very damn easy.”

  “Lesson one.” Good kid, Sid.

  >>>>>>>>>

  We did our little radio bit, I found myself suppressing yawns halfway through the take, which set Frankie off too. It was so silly, I nearly broke out in giggles, which would have killed any trace of professionalism, so we turned the show over to Justine, and retired to an awning they had stretched between the station truck and the two caravans. They had acquired a few metal porch chairs someplace, we sat and sipped a few beers, watched the moon rise.

  “So, Frankie, we going to win this fucker? You hear any word from Olsen or Hilda?”

  “Nothing today, but we have been busy moving and setting up. We have not been monitoring CKYZ like I should have been. And I have to teach Justine the radio business. Writing for broadcast is a different ballgame from print journalism. But she is catching on fast. A very intelligent woman.” I noticed she was speaking better than she usually did, but then, so was I. At least I was trying. And she couldn’t say fuck on the radio. No blue pencil for broadcast. Justine signed off for the night, came out and sat with us for a while until the yawns overtook all of us at once, and Sidney and I headed home. I noticed Justine had been sitting rather close to Frankie, but what the hell. Home, Jeeves.

  >>>>>>>>

  I took a day off the next day, found the Officers Club, ate bacon sandwiches and drank coffee all day, listening to the radio and reading day-old newspapers that had come in on the train. They had tomatoes, but no lettuce. War is hell.

  Everything was still hanging fire, but there were a few notes of interest. The Kurds claimed to have taken Aleppo in Syria against very little opposition and were advancing on Jerusalem. What they would do with it, once they had it was an open question. None of the European Powers had bothered to colonize it, it was widely regarded as not worth the bother of administration it, the Ottomans might as well keep it. If the Reich wanted to take Jordan, they could, but nobody expected them to bother. They had the Suez and some oil fields in Arabia, and that was sufficient.

  The Suez Canal was still going to be opened “any day now” and still being bombed from the so-called Persian base in Karachi. Where the Persians were getting the planes and the pilots to fly them was another of those little mysteries that make life so interesting. The fine hand of Admiral Yamamoto might be seen maneuvering the puppet strings in a bright light.

  Brazil announced they were sending “peace-keeping” troops to Angola and Mozambique in Africa, again, that depended on the INN providing clear sea-lanes for their ships. Another brown empire in the making?

  On this continent, El Paso and Albuquerque were officially “liberated” and La Liberación del México Ocupado was well underway. I didn’t need a Spanish dictionary to translate that. There was still a suspiciously vast silence from the Caribbean, all to the good. The shit had not hit that particular fan yet. Up here, there was a whole lot of nothing in action. We could no longer hear the rumble of artillery beyond the northern horizon, I just sat there with my ears flapping, trying to pick up a few tidbits of information. Hell, I would have been happy for gossip.

  The map told me that El Paso was about thirteen hundred miles away, as the crow flies, and that therefore, Denver might be an imp
ortant place pretty damn soon, at least for an air field. I didn’t have anybody I could ask about that, and anyway, what were those damn Mormons up to? They had been awfully quiet, and like the toddler in the other room, when they were quiet, they were up to something. Or else I have a nasty suspicious evil paranoid mind. Russian, in other words.

  I was about to give up and go rack out with an Agatha Christie book, when who should walk in but Major Walker. He looked a lot more relaxed, even his speech was freer. “Ahh, Miles, how would you like to take a nice airplane ride?”

  “Major, I nearly got my ass shot off the last time I took you up on one of your invitations. What now?”

  “That was the time before. You had a milk run the last time, didn’t you? This is non-combat, and you can call me Hiram. We are both majors, after all.” Beware, beware, people are being nice to you. “You look a little dubious. Don’t worry, I’m going with you. We have to ferry a couple dozen Gunships and Fives down to Albuquerque, I thought you might want to observe the action down there with your own eyes. We are planning no serious actions up at this end, we are going over to the defensive. We wanted to neutralize Saskatoon, that is all but accomplished.”

  “And you need more co-pilots.”

  “Not at all. You can ride up front if you prefer, but there is plenty of room in one of the Fives. There is another objective, but we do not anticipate any action.”

  “Shoot.”

  “We have negotiated landing rights at Denver, and wish to impress them with our organization and reach.”

  “And firepower. I was just thinking of Denver. It is obvious that you need it.”

  “Anyone with a map can see that. An acquaintance of yours is handling the preliminary negotiations. Z. Smith Reynolds.”