Black Bear Blues

by Stephen Wishnevsky

  I made my rounds, our end of the train was slightly perforated, we had lost only a couple of people, a few more wounded, the boxcars that had been thrown by the glider bomb had landed on an empty troop car and one of the Cammo Squad’s workshop cars. It looked like Woody and them would have to promote another piano or two, theirs had been smashed to flinders on the platform, but all in all, we got off easy. Conductor Earl was making his rounds too, he agreed. “We could fall in a cesspool, come out covered with diamonds, this keeps up.”

  “Let’s not tempt fate.” He just shook his head, ruefully, spit three times to take off the hoodoo. Whatever magic you have, use it. I kept my back to the cleanup at the Wall breach. There was nothing there I wanted to see, and anyway, there were plenty of bodies being picked up everywhere you looked. When I did lift my eyes, on the way back up the platform, I was shocked to see how low the sun was in the west. I didn’t feel much like eating, but I could take another belt or two and try to lie down. I had earned it. The hard part about being an officer is not fucking up, and I hadn’t. Viva.

  As soon as I saw how late it was, fatigue hit like a sandbag. I stumbled to the dining car, shot down a drink of something, stared at a cup of soup. The soup won, I went to bed.

  >>>>>>>

  I was awoken with a kiss in the dead of morning. I thought it was Peaches or Alde, but fortunately didn’t call anybody’s name before the light clicked on; “Babs!”

  “Me,” she said, ungrammatically but accurately. “You stink. Was it rough?”

  “It was not fun.” I looked her over, she looked tired and worn herself. “You had trouble?”

  “A few bombs. They missed. Zepps I suppose. We only ran at night after that, that’s why it took so long to get here. Let’s hit the showers, and get some clean sheets. We have a few hours before dawn.”

  “Sensible damn woman.”

  “Sorry about that. I’ll make it up to you.”

  >>>>>>

  We did make breakfast, and settled back into our routine. The war in Vermont was not going well for the so-called good guys, even though all the Micks in New England were raring to go at the Brits. Reading between the lines, it was easy to see that most of our better-class materiel was over here or in Mexico, while the National Guard in New England was stuck with shit equipment. Likewise, the Brits here had old crap, while we had the new stuff. I suppose they were not shipping Japanese trucks and tanks back to the States, were they? When things go bad, they snowball out of control. Law of nature or something like that.

  Bobby-O was turning out to be a good investment; once he got the Portuguese stations sorted out, he could schedule the American refugee shows, they were in English, so other people could monitor them. They were the proverbial fount of information. A lot of them were professional radio men who had lost their Stateside jobs for being too liberal, or Jewish, or both. And they had nowhere else to go. Brazil was the only option, but crossing an Atlantic full of U-Boats was risky to impossible.

  They were saying that the war in Mexico was going very badly for Patton, it was not his kind of war, and he could not cope with an enemy who would not stand and fight. The Juárezistas were a ragged-ass bunch of hillbillies, all they had was serapes, rubber-soled sandals and old rifles, but it was their country, they knew ever rock and cactus by name, and nobody was going to winkle them out of their home mountains without a hell of a fight. They could not win, but they could not lose either. Patton could not win either, but he could definitely lose.

  There were reports of soldiers smoking marijuana, drinking any kind of poison they could get their hands on, and screwing Mexican whores against all orders. Sometimes senorita would jam a long hatpin through the satiated fool’s ear and into his brain, to teach him respect and better manners. There were even tales of putas somehow putting razor blades up in their pussies to discourage frivolity. Seemed unlikely, but who knows? I would put nothing past a pissed-off woman, even if there was not a war going on.

  Happy thoughts.

  However, the Portuguese connection finally gave us a decent view of the situation in Africa. The Germans had made the Belgian Congo their main thrust, up the largest river in Africa. Belgium was part of Größe Deutschland, of course, so with the Congo and German East Africa, they had the continent spanned. Above that had been almost all French and British, they might have kept the names, but that was about all. There were a few small Spanish possessions on the west coast, but all the rest of it was under German control.

  Below the Congo were Angola and Mozambique, both Portuguese, and below that was the more or less independent South Africa. Liberia and Ethiopia were both independent, as if anybody gave a runny shit.

  All well and good, the Germans, with Brits for mentors, were hiring native troops, reopening mines, restarting lumbering, getting plantations up and running, all that good stuff. The old colonial game. The only problems were the same old colonial games, keeping the native-on-native atrocities down to a dull roar, and trying to keep the white predation at the merely exploitive, not bloody enough to kill any golden geese that might still be alive.

  Meanwhile, there was a dandy little war here, right outside our windows. We got a call for a photo run, Maggie went to see if she had a plane left.

  She came back to report that they had a plane, a two-seater, but no pilot. Would I like to fly the bastard?

  “Hell no, fuck no, and no.”

  “The mission has to be flown. We have to find where the pass through the mountains these sons of bitches are getting through to attack us.”

  “I hate you.”

  She looked at me for a long time before saying, “Does that mean no?”

  “That means yes. I will do it. But I hate the very idea. I am about the worst pilot in the world. But on your head, so be it.” I so hate this shit.

  “I knew I could count on you. Let’s roll.” I hate fearless women.

  >>>>>>>>>

  Not being complete idiots, regardless of the evidence, we did pore over the maps we had on hand. They were inadequate, sketchy even, but it was clear that there were damn few roads through the mountains north of us. There was a place named Kumul, which was famous for melons, the books said, but there was damn all else. “We will have to refuel in Urum-chi, and head north. This Kumul place is about two hundred miles north. But I can’t see how they can get to there to attack us.” Maggie pointed out.

  “That dump makes the ass-end of no place look like a metropolis.”

  “Agreed. Ready?”

  “Fuck no, but let’s do it. Bring lots of film.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Sometimes you just have to say the stupid stuff, Mags.” She didn’t point out that I was real good at that, so fine.

  Kiss the girlfriend, put on a few more layers of clothing, pack a few things that might help if you have to walk home in a soft bag, and fucking go for it. I had to ignore a few tears from Babs, but that’s the war business. She knew it, and I knew it.

  Five hours and more to Urum-Chi, a desolate landscape dusted with snow and dotted with wreckage. We could plainly see the attacker’s tracks, they had come down from the north-east, from the direction of that Kumul place, but then again there was just nowhere else they could have come from. The question was how had they gotten to Kumul. It got rough up there. Six hundred miles to Urum-chi, two hundred more to Kumul. One thing at a time.

  Urum-chi was packed with materiel and troops, tanks parked everywhere they could be parked. If the Jiu-quan attack had been planned to cut the railroad, stop the buildup in Urum-chi, it was too little and too late. Urum-chi was the last place that was worth a name going east, just like Jiu-quan was the last place that was a place going west. The big buildup to strike up into Kazakhstan was on the trips, just waiting for the word. Nobody actually said it out loud, but our job was to make sure there was not a flank attack from Kumul once the main forces were rolling. It was hard to imagine they had that much left, but Grosse Hermann had proved himself one tricky bastard t
ime after time. Go and look.

  >>>>>>>

  We were the tits on a boar; Hodges had plenty of photo-recon planes out there, but I guessed that Stillwell wanted a double-check on his double-check. Belt and suspenders and another belt, that’s the way a cautious general does things. If you have a job for five guys, you send ten out, and then another ten behind them, just to make sure. And you keep a couple guys with telescopes watching the first two teams, and a damn rescue squad ready to roll. Just like the “old pilots and bold pilots” deal. Shit happens. Never stops. We had enough daylight for the mission to Kumul, if we didn’t dawdle, so we didn’t.

  It was miserable. Some more weather was blowing in from the north and west, snow on the way, cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. There were scattered clouds, I stayed as high as the machine would let me, we were blue with cold and thin air, dodging in an out of clouds all the way. I didn’t see any zeppelins, the Gothas were below us, and the dive bombers and pursuits well below them. We saw battles all the way, the Gobi was one huge, scattered battle, groups of a few dozen vehicles chasing each other’s tails across the snow-covered gravel. Fortunately, everybody was focused on the ground action, we just stooged along, freezing our asses off and clicking film.

  Kumul was at the head of a narrow valley, even more of the ass-end of nowhere than the rest of this god-forsaken landscape. Any self-respecting deity would have fled eons ago. This was a good place to starve a coyote, if they had any.

  We took a quick look, a few pictures, and yes, there was a new road going up over the head of the valley and winding back into the mountains. You could see new bridges and excavation scars, piles of spoil not yet completely covered with snow. The road trended back toward that Abakan, Republic of Khakassia, place, but we had no desire to go check it out. As soon as Maggie shot her last roll of film, I cranked the Curtiss around and headed to the barn. We made it, with no incident, and landed in Urum-chi just as night was setting down. They had a sauna, a Russian custom and a blessing. Maggie took one with me, I was too tired to even ogle her. There were another three or four bodies in there too, so that was just as well.

  They showed me to a rack in the BOQ, and I don’t even remember lying down.

  >>>>>>>

  I remember being kicked awake though. Some sergeant the size of Paul Bunyan slapped the end of my bunk with a size thirteen, and said, “Begging your pardon sir, orders are, you to report to the flight line immediately.”

  “Whhaaa.” My eyes opened enough to see he was in full combat gear, including helmet, rifle in his hands. Ahhh… That explained the foot salute. “Yes. On the way.”

  “I have a bike outside.”

  “The Germans are coming.”

  “They are here. Sir.”

  “Fucking Jesus.”

  “Yes, sir.” Communications established. Drop your cock and grab your socks. Three pair. Two sets of woolies. Flight suit. Buckle on your .45. Grab the rest and run.

  It was cold outside, snowing, wind from the north, strong and steady. There was rifle fire from the distant north, muffled by the snow, but ominous. I hopped on the pillion, the sergeant straddled the idling Indian, and off we roared. When we got there, Maggie was sipping coffee; waiting for me, and a crew was swabbing whitewash on the upper wings and fuselage. An older lieutenant was supervising, he didn’t even wait for me to ask, “What the fuck?”

  “Colonel Kapusta, sir. General Hodges’ compliments. He apologizes for the risk, but the enemy cut the telegraph lines in the recent sortie, and the General has urgent dispatches for General Stillwell. The air staff says the flight path has been cleared of all but stragglers, and all enemy planes should be grounded. Air suggests you fly low, the white camouflage should protect you from enemy observation. Simply follow the rail line south to Jiu-quan.”

  “Simply. Right. I love it. Fine. How is the battle?”

  “Just skirmishers, irregular infantry so far. Under control. Oh, and the dispatch case contains a thermite device. The red handle triggers the device. It is imperative that these dispatches do not fall into enemy hands. There are duplicates traveling other routes, but you should act as if the whole battle was all depending on you. Understood?”

  “Yes, of course.” I saluted, the painters were finished. I did my walk-around, no major parts dangling. Check. I wrapped a scarf around my neck, just like a dashing knight of the air, and clambered my fat ass into the pilot’s seat. Fuck this for a game of sojers.

  Maggie took her position, a crewman checked her machine gun, I tested the controls, the prop was thrown, and off we went into the night.

  Of course, we took off into the wind, north, gained a few hundred feet, and banked south. The sheer stupidity of this venture was absolutely astounding. The sun was coming up behind the clouds, it was gray enough to see the horizon line, if little more. I found the rail line, it was sort of cleared of snow, trains were running again, shuttling men and materiel up to the big battle. I got smart and flew a quarter mile or so to the left of the tracks, so no trigger happy ack-ack crew would mistake us for a dive bomber. Not that they could hit anything, but why take even more chances? There were enough chances you had to take every day to satisfy me.

  The snow was coming down hard enough to destroy visibility at any distance, but I could fly. It was not all that thick, after all, it was a desert out here. Might get an inch or three of snow, just a flurry back in Connecticut, but quite a bit out here. Fuck it. Keep your head down, and burn a hole through the snow. No problem.

  >>>>>>>

  About an hour into the flight, I got an idea; if those assholes were coming back for another try at Jiu-quan, they would be coming from the north-east, my left. We hadn’t seen any big formations of troops or tanks or tracks on the flight out, but a few white sheets and a little snow and they would be invisible. Holed up in some gully or dry riverbed someplace. Hanging with Bob Weeks was giving me all sorts of bad ideas. Check it out. I had a compass, and it wasn’t like I could miss the fucking Great Wall of China. Right?

  I eased over five or ten miles, and saw nothing. I told Maggie to keep an eye peeled, and kept on churning through the flurries. Another hour, and nothing. Repeat ad nauseum; cold, chilled, thirsty with that tickling thirst you get in the driest part of the winter. Boring. Danger just makes boring more boring. My eyes were blanked out like Little Orphan Annie’s, so Maggie had to yell at me over the intercom. “Miles!”

  “Huh?” All of a sudden, I saw it. Them. Lots of them. An arrowhead of tanks headed for Jiu-quan, and not those obsolete Renaults either. The big boys, the AV10s or 12s with a screen of armored cars, Panzerkraftwagen Ehrhardt, fanned out in front. Lots of them. “Maggie, take a few shots, don’t linger. Deep shit.”

  “Too much snow for a good count…”

  “Fuck that shit.”

  “Agreed.”

  I cut across their line, once and once only, there were tanks as far as I could see through the snowflakes. Who needs an inventory of how fucked you are? One pass, and I turned back to the southwest, away from this shit-storm. We made it, if they fired at us, I never saw the flashes. Good enough. Wave bye-bye.

  >>>>>>>>

  Another cold boredom period, I picked up the tracks, followed them to the Wall, then gained altitude and circled the field while Maggie dropped a few red flares to signal innocence. They responded with three smudge fires of old tires to mark wind direction and force. We landed, and I just sat there, letting the frozen sweat and sleet melt on my face before she helped me up out of the cockpit. “Come on, grandpa, shake a leg.”

  “I feel like two grandfathers laid end to end.” Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it was the way I felt. A fuckup, there was no one official there to meet us, but the ground crew did have a thermos of coffee they were nice enough to share, so all good. We rode a flivver to HQ, got warm, handed over the dispatches, and got an attaboy from the captain in charge. Close enough. I told him about the tanks, I guessed they were still a day out, three h
ours in a plane is at least ten hours ground speed, and I supposed they would not want to show lights at night. That news lit a fire under him, Stillwell came out from his office, called me the bad penny, and had me guess where I saw them on the big tactical map. “This is just a SWAG, sir, Scientific Wild Ass Guess.”

  “Understood. Well done, I appreciate your initiative, Colonel. Go warm up, and get your troops ready for another round. We were damn lucky the last time.”

  “A word to the wise, sir.”

  “Carry on.” Yeah. At top speed. We stole that flivver, they could sort that shit out later, and putted at maximum speed back to the Recon Train. It was still only early afternoon, so we had perhaps a whole day before they got here. But you can’t count on that. We could have easily missed a whole other army out there in all that crap. Peaches was waiting on the platform with big mugs of tea, which we sucked down before we got all the way up the steps. Babs was there waiting. Looking worried, but I could spare her no more than a quick hug.

  “Peaches, we have another attack coming. A big one. Get more trenches dug, have the engineers and railroad crew move and emplace the AA in the ground. Get everybody’s asses below ground level, find enough ammo.”

  “And then?” She might have been sarcastic, but probably not. She had seen the fucking elephant too.

  “Some kind of a stove in a safe place for Olga and anybody she needs to keep the grub and coffee coming. This is going to be a bitch. I’ll get the radios and the telegraph guys under cover.”

  “Plan.” And off she went.

  “Maggie, you get your people, Weeks and what’s his name, the musician…”

  “Woody.”

  “Him. All of them digging a safe bunker. Send that flivver back for sand bags and more 30-06s. You know.” She saluted and ran. Conductor Earl was right there, waiting. “You know what to do, Earl. There are hundreds of Germans coming, lots of tanks. Deep shit.”