Black Bear Blues

by Stephen Wishnevsky

I found Frankie in the dining room, resting with a cuppa, playing solitaire. Well, sort of. Doing card tricks was more like it. I resolved to not play her for real money. “Hey, Frances, I got a question.” I didn’t quite know what to ask, so just dive in after it. “Look, you know that I know your history, right?”

  She looked up at me slunchwise. “You mean my sex?”

  “Well, sort of. But not completely. You been in the Army, you been in prison, you been exiled, you been labeled an Unnatural, all this crap. So, what do want?”

  “What do you mean, what do I want?”

  “If there was no war, what would you want? Want to do?”

  “Shit, who knows? What does anybody want? I’m just another guy, you know?”

  “I don’t know. If you were an average jerk, you would want to get married, get a job, get fat and comfortable, raise some kids? You see where I’m going with this?”

  She kind of glared up at me. I was on thin ice; I could see that. “Hell no. I really don’t. You’re kind of making me nervous, talking like this.”

  “I don’t want to upset you. I want to know what you want. What would make you happy?”

  “What would make me happy? The impossible thing is the only thing that would make me happy. I want to not be a freak. I want people to not hate me for who I am. Can you see that?” Her voice raised, some people at another table were peering at us.

  “Let’s go someplace private. Want a jug?”

  I saw her eyes light up, then she looked away. “Naw. Just talk?”

  “Yeah. Talk. We have a problem. Not you and me, all of us. Who the fuck are we? Are we just going to fight until we die out here? Who cares? What are we going to do if we live through this shit? You see where I’m going with this?”

  “Maybe. Maybe I do. Let’s go to my room. Peaches might be there; she needs to hear this too.”

  “Lead on, McDuff.”

  >>>>>>>

  I did get a jug. And we did find Peaches reading quietly. “So look, we are fucked, right? A long way from home, we literally cannot get any farther away from the States without getting closer back the other way. So, we either all die here, we win here and make a country out in this god-forsaken desert, or we get back home. Right?” Nods of approval. “Either way, unless we all get killed, we have to become something. A nation. An army. A fucking people. How do we do that? How do we become a people?”

  “You mean,” Peaches said, “Like the slaves in Egypt became the Hebrews.”

  “I would never have thought of it that way, but sure. Like all the fucking losers in the colonies became Americans. All sorts of trash, mixed up and blended into something new. Fucking gumbo. Irish stew. Like, you know, New York City.”

  “Wait here. I’m going to get a few more people to help us scheme. We need a straight bitch too. I wish Babs was here, she has a good head on her shoulders.”

  “Get Stan and Maggie, if you can pry them out of bed. I think they decided to do the dirty. That last run was brutal.” Off she went, was soon back with Olga, Lupe, and Stan and Maggie.

  Once they were all settled, drinks in hand, I stated my case; “I don’t know if you noticed, but I just saw a few thousand fresh Australian and Filipino troops headed to the front. That tells me we are going to win this war. The Germans have to be running on empty. Even in France, most of their troops were not pure Germans any more, they were getting pretty thin on the ground when I was over there, ten years ago. So, if we win, once we win, what then? Can we go home? Do we have to stay here? Do we have to fight all the way to the fucking Atlantic? Do we try to settle Siberia? Persia? Any of that sound any good to any of you?”

  Frances spoke first. “I can vouch for your observation. I was a scout between the lines in ’22 and ’23, and they were pretty damn beat up. The corpses we found were malnourished, lots of Ukrainians and Turks and Spanish, all sorts of riffraff. Lots of them didn’t even have socks to wear. You know that’s fucked up. No socks? They have to be in worse shape now. As what to do? I don’t have a clue. We sure can’t trust the fucking Japs. They would wipe us out like bedbugs if they decide they want to.”

  Lupo had the next comment. His English had gotten noticeably better over the last few months. “I understand. We are all sorts of people, enemies in the States. Irish, Mexicans, union toughs, rednecks, Negroes, all sorts of people. Big problem. No unity.”

  “I agree.” Maggie said next. “Not even counting the Unnaturals, no offense. We have been trained to hate each other, but now, as long as we have one enemy, we are good, but once we don’t have that to unify us, then we might fall apart, start fighting each other. And, I might add, we are way short of normal women. A lot of soldiers will have to find Chinese wives or do without.”

  “I don’t fucking feel fucking abnormal, Maggie, but I get your point,” Peaches rasped. “I’m not about to become the little woman and pop out babies and go to church for some dumb-ass male bastard.” She calmed herself. “But I get it. Nations are made of families. Babies make families. That’s nature, and you can’t fight nature. But I can’t fight who I am either, none of us can. So, what’s the plan?”

  My cue; “The plan is unity. We have to find some way to speak to the Micks and the rednecks and the Mexicans and… And fucking everybody. I don’t know how to do that.”

  Frankie actually held up her hand, like a kid in school. “I know. Music. That’s how. Music touches everybody in their guts. Music. I used to sing, when I was a kid, before I got drafted. I was hoping to be on Broadway… But... Fuck it. Music. We get a bunch of people, all sorts of assholes, and we make music. We show them that we can work together and create beauty, and we get them singing corny old songs, and we do this. John Phillips Sousa and Stephen Foster and Scott Joplin and all that crap. I bet, I know, that there are plenty of professional musicians exiled over here. They are a bunch of rebels anyway, right? I just know it, we find them, and we make some music, and we start putting together a nation. Yankee Doodle and the Battle Hymn of the Republic and Aura Lee, and all that shit.”

  “Si.” Lupo said. “I play guitar. I know some cowboy songs, and Mexican, of course. No problem. Sad songs. We do this. Fun. Make a few dollars. Good.”

  “I think we have part of a plan. I remember that band at the Fenix. Anybody else hear them? God knows what kind of music that was, but it was good. You could dance to it. Yeah. We can do this. Some of Remus’ guys have to be able to play music. You all remember that Patton hates mongrel music. He must have exiled a ton of people… Jazz musicians, and all. We have a plan. And once we start, this will snowball. We don’t try to control it; we just push it. Shit, everybody here must play a little something. I took piano in school. God knows where we can find a piano, but fuck it. We can do this. Maybe I can find an accordion. Russians love accordions, right? I remember Maeve, we got shot down, wound up in some little hick village someplace in Siberia, she sang them “Danny Boy,” and they loved it. Not much entertainment out here, that’s a fucking fact. Let’s all work on this.”

  “In our fucking spare time?” Peaches, of course.

  “Whatever it takes. What could happen?” Never ask that question. You will be sure to find out.

  We made arrangements to meet tomorrow evening, spend some time tomorrow beating up the thieves markets finding instruments and sheet music. I sent a telegram to Babs asking her to do the same in Dalny, chances were better there, in the old Russian colony. I thought there might be some things in missionary churches, if there were any this far out. I didn’t know much about Chinese music, except to know that none of it would do us much good. Maybe some drums or something along those lines. A start.

  >>>>>>>

  Which good intentions were delayed by the return of Alde and Bob Weeks on the Eastbound. It had been delayed by the troop train, of course, and there were more coming all the time. It was a wonder that there were that many Aussies left after France and Gallipoli and a few more Mid-Eastern adventures of a similar sort. They had the notion that the Briti
sh Empire was prepared to fight to the last Australian. I had heard their toast; “God Bless the King, God Damn the English.” Or “the Pommy Bastards,” depending the number of previous toasts. Once I got a good look at these new troops, they did not look like the stalwart men of yore; most of these were a lot younger, barely old enough to shave, only a few were old lags, obviously battered and beaten in previous conflicts. But the powers that were had to convince Patton that they were worthy of being Americans, and that meant cannon fodder. And here they were. Better them than me, was all I could find for an emotion. The Flips were in better shape, still inexperienced enough to think they were off on some great adventure. Bully for you guys.

  >>>>>>>>

  Alde and Weeks got off the Eastbound at another platform, and were decanted back at the Recon Train in a rickshaw. Alde was a bit battered, on crutches, but chipper enough, Weeks tried to be sympathetic. “I shot her down. I didn’t plan it that way, but it all worked just perfectly, too perfectly, and she smacked down pretty hard. Hell of a pilot, though.”

  “My fault. I just got too close. I thought I could buzz Bob. Make him lose timing, but he’s a little too cool a character for games like that.”

  “Are you hurt bad?” I had to ask.

  “I bunged my ankle and knee up pretty bad, then got my butt toasted when the fuel caught fire. I hit hard enough to collapse the landing gear, wrote that Curtiss off. They were not amused.”

  “Fuck’m they can’t take a joke. I got my ass burned the same way. As long as you are all right. You rest up for a few days, I think we have this under control. Weeks, you did bring back a few rocket clusters?” He nodded, I went on. “So you see to that, mount some of those on this train, the tender and the crummy, then get back to work at your camouflage school. I’m not sure what they have planned for Alde, but she can keep your books or something for a few days, a week.”

  She nodded in turn, then said, “I might as well bunk down in the Cammo Car, with Bob. You don’t mind?”

  “Actually… No. I don’t mind. I was going to talk to you about that. But let’s just let that be, if that’s good with you?”

  She reached over and hugged Bob’s waist, said, “We are all grownups here. We will work it out. I could lay off flying combat missions without damaging my sense of self-worth, if you get my meaning.”

  “I understand perfectly, Alde. Combat is for kids. Stupid kids. Once you see the goddamn elephant, you don’t need to...” I was trying to think of a way to say, “you don’t have to marry the motherfucker,” but she got my drift.

  “I’ll get by. Give me a week, and we can find more fun to get into.”

  “You could fly photo operations, but our last flight, with Maggie, got shot up pretty good, one dead, one wounded. You paid your dues, Alde, we need pilots, but we need intelligent people too. Not saying…”

  “That pilots are stupid? But we are paid to do stupid things, and I may be getting too old for this crap. There are old pilots, and bold pilots…”

  “But no old, bold pilots. Yep. Words to live by. You take care, and we will talk in a few days. We are off on another tangent. Bob, you have any musicians in your gang?”

  “Must be a few. I can strum a banjo…”

  Alde admitted, “I can play a mean sax, and sing torch songs, if I get half a buzz on. Why?”

  “We are going to do a little morale raising. You are both hired. Now if we can find any saxophones and banjos…”

  “Dalny, if anywhere. Vlad. None of us exiles brought anything, except the clothes we were standing in.”

  “Stan, you got that right. The Unnaturals didn’t even have that. They stripped some of them naked and threw them in ship’s holds.”

  Maggie winced, “Don’t remind me.” She realized what she said, then explained. “I’m not a lesbian, but a lot of my friends were. That and being half Jewish. That’s what got me here.”

  “I heard you took the wrong pictures and had the nerve to get them published.” I said.

  “That too. Those Klan pictures they published were just an excuse. How did you get here?”

  “Same way. I was stringing for some small papers, somebody got pissed and I got drafted.” I admitted.

  “At your age?”

  “I already served a hitch and a half, ’20-’23. Yeah, I got off easy. I even had a bunk on the way over. I saw how you all were treated, but I guess you were on another ship than the one Ruby and Justine and all those people were on. That was the first one into Dalny. It was fucked up.”

  “Fuck that shit. So now what?”

  “We go about our business, you four relax, see if you can find us some musicians and instruments, and we will wing it from there.”

  Alde pointed out the window. “Musicians? There’s one now.” We looked out, down at the end of the platform there was skinny kid in a blue shirt, no coat, had a black cap at his feet, seemed to be dancing and singing and playing harmonica, although we couldn’t hear anything through the glass.

  “He looks cold,” Maggie said. “He’ll freeze.”

  Stan shrugged and said, “Okay, mom, I’ll go rescue his scrawny ass. On your head, be it.” He grabbed his flight jacket, grumped, “Puppies and kittens and street waifs. Such a soft touch.” Maggie just pushed him out the door.

  Stan was back in a few minutes, it looked like he had to slip the kid a few coins to get him to leave his begging spot, but they were soon back inside. I had taken the obvious precaution of ordering a cup of coffee and some rolls, the kid could barely wait to nod before ripping into the bread. After he finished off the rolls, he looked up, Maggie asked, “Fried or scrambled?”

  “Thank you, mam, you saved my life, I reckon. Either way is fine. My name is Woody. And yours?”

  “Maggie. Maggie White. This is Stan, Alde, Bob Weeks, and the boss here is Miles. We all work for the Army.”

  “Thankee, mam. You hiring? I can do a job of work. Turn my hand to most things.”

  “We need musicians, kid… Woody.” I said, “You been playing long?”

  “All my life, what little of it there has been. French harp, guitar, banjo, I can screech on a fiddle, most of those things. I’m not real great, but I’m steady.”

  “Steady is good. All you have is that one harmonica?”

  “Yes, sir. I been doing some hard travelin’.”

  Stan was on track. “What they exile you for, Woody?”

  “They didn’t. I done it myself. I didn’t want them to catch me, beat me until I gave up, so I stowed away. Got across the ocean, then I rode the blinds out to here. Cold out here.”

  Could I believe that? “You exiled yourself?”

  That made him peer up at me sharply. “You could call it that. I knowed I couldn’t trust myself to keep my big mouth shut, thought I best get the hell out of Dodge. I knowed some fellers in the Merchant Marine, they ain’t run all the commies out of the Marine yet, so…” The eggs hit the table, he was polite enough to finish his sentence. “I would rather have gone to Mexico, but that was not the way the ship was sailing.” He dug in with both hands, I waited until he came up for air, asked, “What do you know about Mexico?”

  “It’s a fucking mess. Begging your pardon, ladies. Them Juárezistas are not going down, and they are not giving up, and they go no place else to go. They ain’t going no place, no way.”

  “You speak Spanish?”

  “I’m from Oklahoma. I got a little Mexican. Good folks. Tough as rawhide.”

  I looked in the kitchen, the indefatigable Olga was at the stove. I waved her over, said, “This is Woodie, you want to find him a bunk, put him to work in the Radio Car for the time being? He has some Spanish.”

  “Si, no problema, gracias.”

  I dug in my pocket, found a handful of silver, a little gold, handed it to our new recruit, said, “Hired. Get kitted out, Olga will find you a place to sleep. We will find some instruments, whatever we can do, but you are the new band leader. You can read music?”

  “I can’
t sight-read, but I can puzzle it out. Yes, sir.”

  “Good enough? Alde? You are assigned to keep this rapscallion under control. See what he can do, let’s get this band routine rolling? Good?”

  “Sounds like more fun than burning my ass off.” She shrugged, modified it with a winning smile. “Come on, kid, finish your eggs, and let’s get to work.”

  “Yessum.”

  >>>>>>>

  Which should have been enough trouble for one day, but the Germans had other ideas. They hit us with Zeppelins this time. It was getting near dusk, but they screwed up and hit us a little too early, our pursuits could see to get off the ground. The zepps might have had a tailwind they had not counted on. It would have been a perfect set up for one of our Gun Ship Trimotors, but we didn’t have any yet.

  The ground was falling into the shadows, but the sky was mostly clear, scattered clouds, red in the setting sun. The planes could get airborne; landing was another matter. Standing around watching was yet another. The sirens went off, belatedly, we all grabbed blankets and headed for the trenches as the ack-ack cut loose. All of a sudden the air was thick with unhealthy crap. We needed bunkers, not just slit trenches, but fuck it. Take what you had. Mostly cover.

  A few sticks of bombs walked across the yards, a water tower exploded in a shower of white foam, a line of gondolas got unlucky, and went up explosively. No telling what they were full of, but it burned with enthusiasm. I hunkered lower, found myself half wrapped around Frankie, which was not where I wanted to be, exactly, but who has time for qualms when jagged metal is humming through the air like demented bumblebees? Cower and be grateful for somebody to cower with.

  They only made one pass, but two bombing attacks in one day was not encouraging. The krauts were going for all the marbles. If they could get through the Wall, they could hook around through Mongolia, cut the Line, and link up with whatever Reds and Whites were left up in Siberia proper. We could stop them, more accurate to say the Japanese army could stop them, but it would be a bloody mess. The Chinese would find the truth of the old proverb, “When the elephants fight, the grass gets trampled.” And we would be fertilizer. Face it, we had nowhere to go, and nowhere to be if we could even get there. Which we couldn’t. Like they say in Vermont, “You can’t get there from here.” We won, or we died.