Polar Bear Blues

by Stephen Wishnevsky

  “Got it.” We went up in the roof, still no sandbags. Make a note. We could only see flashes in the dark, the Chinese had doused all their lights, but you could trace the line of the tracks by the flashes of fire and grenades. Occasionally a flare would light up a line of running soldiers, all headed to the north side of the city. Not much to see. The occasional bullet whipped by overhead, but I was not about to run out and join the fun, or try to go back to bed. You are the fucking reporter. Report.

  I did see Ruby Wilson and her girls double-timing to the fight, then Red Sovine or somebody that looked like him, and perhaps a hundred men, raced by in a fleet of DAT flivvers, they had to have their lights on. I counted twelve trucks, figure ten men in each. Life is sure interesting here in the Orient. Soon after that, the firing crescendoed, then fell off to scattered single shots. I knew what that meant. That was making sure the dead stayed dead. Been there, done that. Prisoners and enemy wounded are as expensive to your forces as your own wounded are. Every one of them takes four effectives off the line, taking the casualties to the Field Hospital, the POWs to the compound. Dead people can be left for the civilian cleanup crews, the penal brigades. Who the fuck gives a fuck about dead people?

  I was starting to get the shakes. This was not just skirmishing, this was getting too close to the real deal, and I know I could not handle the real deal. I unloaded the round in the chamber of my rifle, I felt my hand shaking. I did manage to press the live cartridge back down in the magazine, close the bolt, and stumble downstairs for a drink. Or nine.

  Aja was waiting for me in the kitchen. She didn’t say a word for the first two, but as I poured the third, she asked, “You sure you need that?”

  “To you it’s what?”

  “Remember you said you liked me, said it was all you had?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “You are all I have. You need sleep more than a drink.”

  “I can’t sleep when I get like this. The war. You know?”

  “You think you had it worse than me? You tell me that?”

  “Ahhh.” I had not been raped. A fact. I had not had to sell my ass for a place to stay. I had no idea what it had taken for her to get here, and in fact, I did the fuck not want to know. Fuck it. “Okay, mom, just this last one. Yes?”

  “Drink up. I make you sleep. I have the medicine for you.”

  “I hope to god you do.” I killed my drink, set the glass down ever so gently, and followed her back down the hall to my… our room. Medicine? Sure. Hit me.

  >>>>>>>>>

  It might have worked, but we were up at dawn anyway, to interview Ruby and Sovine, try to get an after-action report. “Not much to it,” she said, “They came down the line in those pump car things, thought they would be quiet enough to sneak up on us and blow up that big trestle right at the narrow part of the peninsula, a little east of where those barges were. But we, the Army, had sentries, stopped them, they blew up the carload of explosives they had, but the dumb shits blocked their own getaway. The doughs settled their hash for them, and we just played mop up.”

  “Piss poor army,” Red was disgusted. “Nothing to loot, poor assholes barely had shoes on their feet, old bolt action rifles from every country on the continent.”

  “So the Germans are not supplying them?”

  “Don’t look much like it.”

  I had a thought. “So two probing attacks in a week. Less. What do they think they are doing?”

  There was a long silence, until Ruby guessed, “They might be trying to distract us from something else they are doing.”

  I had to agree. “Sure, but what?”

  “Something big. Take out that Bradley guy? Make us look east and then strike west?” Sovine was unlettered, but no dummy.

  “Good. I’ll call Reynolds. You have been a big help. Best stay alert.”

  “Don’t teach granny how to suck eggs.” Ruby had the last word.

  >>>>>>>

  I ran back to the Ferry Landing, when I got there I was not sure I was in the same place. That ship, the H.R. Hayes was off the beach, being pulled parallel to the shore by one of the tugs, the other, under Captain Annie, was shepherding the five barges into a line, to double as a dock.

  I could see the freighters anchored offshore waiting their turns to dock, I borrowed a glass, a telescope, thinking I could read a few names, but the ships were too old and rusty for any such amenities. I counted eleven ships before the haze hid the rest. The ones I could see were lined, rail to rail with heads, soldiers, sailors, or Section Five guys, I had no idea.

  Make a note. I didn’t see Eppi, so, I cranked up the DAT and putted back across town on Dong-bei to the Salvage Dock. That joint was jumping too. There was a shiny new ship, a small one, but trim, out in the harbor. I could make out the red meatball and the rays, Japanese Navy for sure. Should I run back and tell Eppi? Hell, he was in charge. My job was reporting. Take notes. One note said, “bring binoculars, asshole.” There was a cluster of activity around the sunken dry dock, the Eiben was there, and I could see occasional burst of water out in the bay as more mines were detonated. Sterns and his boat were not evident. I could gain no more idea of what was actually happening without actually talking to somebody, so decided to consult my sources. The barflies at the Feniks. Things had changed. Big black Remus was togged out in a snappy uniform of US khaki, bore colonel’s birds on his shoulders. He still had a brace of Colts strapped around his wide waist, and the two blondes, or two more, were still in attendance. At least they were not hanging off him like leeches.

  Ivan Hodak. the Zheleza Volki, Iron Wolves, commander was even more dapper, had shinier cavalry boots, was the center of a bustle of his Mongol bruisers, they all had at least uniform caps on, insignia pinned to their shoulders. Hodak was a bird colonel too. They were being addressed by a wiry wry-looking brigadier. He was perhaps fifty, perhaps not. He looked familiar, somehow, but not in the flesh. I had seen his picture, but could not…

  I gave up woolgathering when he cut loose. “Gentlemen.” He said that word as if all the results were not quite in yet. “Thank you for being here. As if you had much of a choice. You do not know me yet, but you will get to know me quite well. If you follow orders, work to your best capabilities, all will be well. If you do not work as described, I assure you, you will get to know me a lot better than you would ever want to. My name is Joe Stillwell, and it is my job to turn you odds and ends into a fighting force capable and willing of stopping the limeys, the squareheads, and whatever chino scum they can scrape up and throw at us. I am a brigadier, as you can plainly see, but I am authorized to raise a full division. Ten to fifteen thousand men, I foresee three brigades. Colonel Hodak. How many effectives do you have on hand?”

  “Perhaps three thousand. Twenty-five hundred for sure. Armed and ready to roll.”

  “Transport?”

  “Our motorcycles. Quite popular in Siberia. We have a small surplus,”

  “See that rosters are kept, units organized, ration books issued.”

  “Sir.” Hodak snapped a crisp salute. Not an American one, or even a British one. Russian? Who knows?

  Stillwell fixed Remus with a steely eye. “And you?”

  “You gone call my name?”

  Stillwell chewed that for a while, then said, “All I have here, is ‘Remus’. Is that correct?”

  “That’s all they gave me.” He said, with a dangerous twist of his lips. “Ol’ Massa and them. In Georgia. All I got. I ain’t using his name.”

  “Very well, then. Colonel Remus. Your report?”

  Remus snapped fingers on his right hand, that side woman handed him a clipboard. Remus scanned it. “Delany give me all his niggers. Last count was fo’ thousand, three hundred and twenty-one.” He flipped a page. “All of them have Springfields, almost all have some sort of shoes on they feet. That and the clothes they stand in. That’s what all I got.”

  “How many have military training? How many can shoot?”

  “That’s two
different questions. I don’ got hard numbers, General, but mo’ than half have been in the Service Corps. I reckon every one of them has shot something at some time or another. “

  “A good start. Colonel. You find a place to bivouac, no more than a mile from here. Sort your men out, list their names, tell me what they need in the line of boots, uniforms, rations, all of that. You will need to organize messes, Quartermaster corps, all of that. If you don’t have the personnel, let me know, I will detail support troops to your command.” Remus’ shoulders went back at the sound of that word. Command. A strong tonic.

  Stillwell went on. “I will take over a building, run up my flag, and we will start sorting out the supply situation. Supplies and materiel and men will be flooding in here, starting the hell now.” He paused for effect. “Colonel Hodak, the same goes for you. We will all settle in as well as we can tonight, I will gather up crews in the morning, first light, and we will attempt to get organized. I do not think,” He almost spat bile. “Any such Quixotic pursuit has ever been attempted before in the history of the world. But we will do our level best. First thing in the morning. We will start out the day with a short, brisk run, and see who we can count on.” Hodak blanched a little at the word run, Stillwell noticed. “Running not your forte, colonel? Don’t feel like working up an appetite for breakfast?”

  “No, Sir. Just reminding myself to find a more flexible pair of boots, sir.”

  “Good save, Hodak, good save.” He cocked an eye at Remus. Remus just saluted. Good enough.

  That was more than enough for an edition. One for the road, and off we go.

  >>>>>>>

  The Bulletin Office on Xiang-zhou St. was jumping. A squad of Combat Engineers was there, tapes in hand, measuring the derelict building next door. Perhaps it had been a smithy or a small brass foundry, it was little more than a tile roof on tilted props and a couple of hearths and chimneys now. All red tile and crooked joists, obviously ancient, never repaired until the point of desperation had been reached. Fairly typical of what I had seen in the Romantic Far East, so far.

  A gaggle, perhaps a gaggle and a half of little newsboys were clustered around the front door, all chattering away in god knows how many languages. I had to push my way through, they were excited about something. “Isis? What’s all the excitement?”

  “Some of Chaing’s warlords have changed sides and are attacking the Japanese in Shanghai. We heard it on the radio. Extra coming.”

  “Good work.” I scanned the proof copies, looked good enough, then asked, “What’s with all the engineers next door?”

  “Who? I never… we were busy.”

  “Good enough.” Justine was at her typewriter. “Here are my notes from the harbors. The Jap salvage ship has arrived. Call Inahara, get the name, details, captain’s name, all that.” I handed her the rest of the scribbles. “The Ferry Harbor is almost operational, at least a dozen ships lined up. Looks like that Captain Annie Brennan is in charge, that place is jumping. There is a new General Stillwell in town, Joe Stillwell, looks like he is organizing a division of irregulars from the men on hand.”

  “A division? Is that a lot?”

  “Fifteen thousand men. Looks like three brigades, one black Americans, one Mongol motorcycle types.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Fucking Micks at a guess. They hate the Limeys the worst.”

  “You did say Mongol motorcycle types?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “A chill ran up my back.”

  “Yeah, well, wait until the fucking Apaches get here.”

  She tried to smile, didn’t quite make it. “I never know when you are pulling my leg.”

  “Honey, these days, neither do I. Reality is melting like candle wax now. I used to write stuff about a third this crazy as fiction, and my editors bounced it.”

  “On it. Aja is upstairs, napping, she said.”

  “Let her sleep. It will be a precious commodity starting right about now.”

  “What is going on, then?”

  “In a word? Mobilization. In another word, the Germans are coming.” She just stared at me until I turned and left. I went out the back door, the loading dock, and was able to avoid the mob out front. Needed to make a window or something to dish out the copies to the kids. Flip a page, find the maintenance sheet. Right under Bomb Shelter and Sandbags I wrote, Newsboy Window. Had to get with Ray or Hanson, and get rolling on this. Shit was about to get serious.

  I looked around for the boss, found an obvious Mick, set of plans on a stand up desk, soup plate helmet with captain’s bars. I introduced myself, he made a note, did not return the favor beyond a curt, “Flannigan.”

  “So what do we owe the honor and all that shit?”

  “The Fairy Godmother Department decided to shit in your pockets. The Army Printing Office in its wisdom is sending you a…” He flipped pages. “A Mergenthaler linotype, and a cylinder press. The Army needs a lot of paper work, forms and crap like that. Tag. You’re it.”

  “Uh…” I was dumbfounded. A new experience.

  He ignored my stammers. “The equipment is one on of those ships out in the harbor. Has been for a couple weeks. My orders are to clear a space, pour a foundation, set up the equipment, have you sign for it when it is operational. End of story.” He moved his unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “This a good place?”

  “Sure. I guess. You have the… footprints for the foundations?”

  “And the steam plant. Not a big plant. No big deal. It says here you need paper storage, something called ‘webs’…”

  “Big rolls of paper. I guess we will need a lift truck to move them with.” My mind was whirling. I had run a linotype, not well, but I had run one. A cylinder press? Who knew?

  “That should all be together. This is a prefabricated printing plant, the Army does this a lot. All in,” flipped pages… “Looks like ten truck-portable crates.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed it to me. “You want to copy this, give it back?”

  I took it. “Can do. Look, are you going get a bunch of sand bags?”

  “Sure. For the walls. Why?”

  “I need a few thousand. I need to make a bomb shelter, a guard post on the roof, line the street walls. We already have repelled a couple of attacks, a few bombing raids.”

  “I’ll get them, you hump them. Deal?” He made a note.

  “Thanks, Captain Flannigan. Be right back with your paper work.” He nodded, attention already elsewhere. “How soon till the presses get here?”

  “One day to pour the mix, one to let it dry, the third day we place the machines, pipe the steam. Three days. Four max.”

  “Thank you sir.” Holy fuck. I ran back, and I do mean ran, had Justine copy the inventory, and ran back with the sheets. Soldiers were drawing lines on the ground with lime, a few stub walls coming down already. I knew the Combat Engineers. Just get out of their way. They got this.

  >>>>>>

  After I returned the paperwork, I proofed the copy, pointed out a few places Justin could have punched up the prose, but no big deal. She was probably a better writer than I was, but too bloody literate. The radio from Shanghai was guarded, there was a lot of shooting, some incursions, but NKH mentioned that the Imperial Marines were on the job, so I suspected that this would soon be over. Again, none of this seemed real, probably more diversions from some main thrust coming soon. And there was only one way to get here, two, the TSRR and the Silk Road. Lots of damn territory and only a few ways across it.

  All that done, I took my tired ass up to bed. I could not roust Aja, which I thought odd, she is not a sound sleeper. I poked her, got no more than a few mumbles from her. There was a faint smell in the room I knew, but could… Then I could. I looked in her bag, found a short brass pipe, and a bamboo box full of black paste. “Really?” I said but she didn’t answer. I thought of hiding her stash, but on second thought, everybody gets to go to hell on their own steam. Easy come, easy go.

 
I pushed her placid body over to the back of the pallet, dropped my clothes on the floor, and fell the hell out. I didn’t even need my usual nightcap. Perhaps that was why I woke up so easily, late at night. She was holding a long match under her little pipe, pulling forgetfulness deep into her lungs. “You really need that?”

  “I need… We now have hope. Hope is a very frightening thing.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “You want some?” She aimed the pipe at me, smiled like Madonna. “This is clear quill. Very good.”

  “I’ll pass. Going to be a busy day tomorrow.”

  “You want me to get you a drink? You want me?”

  “I’m fine. Night.” I turned over and was out. I didn’t know what she did, but whatever it was, she was quiet about it.

  >>>>>>>

  Dawn was far from quiet. Marching boots and rattling flivvers were a good start, got me down to Su-mi’s coffee and buns, but the next assault was loud enough to pull us all to the windows. Tanks. What they laughingly call light tanks, they looked like Renault FT’s, but lower and heavier. Something new, and that meant something secret. The Renault came in at six or seven tons, had either a .30 machine gun or a 37 mm cannon in the turret. These tanks looked lower, heavier, more rounded, and had what my expert eye picked out as .50 caliber air-cooled on top. Some few, one of ten, had no turrets, but had heavier field pieces behind a shield between the tracks. 75 mms at a guess.

  There were hundreds of them, a couple of shiploads at least, they turned off Shu-gang Road, rumbled past us, then turned north again, headed toward the railroad tracks out of town. Really?

  The Combat engineers were right behind with their cement mixer trucks, they pulled off next door and set to work instantly. They must have worked most of the night banging forms together. Sleep your life away, asshole.

  I got downstairs, still swallowing, looked over the radio reports. “Justine, send somebody out, get us a blackboard, so we can keep up with all this.” She gave me a long-suffering “I’m busy” look, but Peaches stood and held out her hand. I put some silver in it, she sketched a salute and headed out. Points. Somebody knew how to act. I would not forget.