Black Bear Blues

by Stephen Wishnevsky

  “Sir!”

  Which left me and Barbara. She looked scared, but willing. “Honey, I need something to eat. A lot of something. Soup or a couple of sandwiches. I’ll be in the Radio Car. Love you.”

  She just smooked my cheek, and ran off. I went, changed my socks and ran to the Radio car. A whole lot of shit happening in a big hurry.

  I took over the old bunker for the radio crews, it was at least near the power. By the time I could lift my head and pay attention, we were set up, at least a start had been made on trenches and bunkers, that railroad sergeant was right there with his crew, dirt was flying, and I noticed that all the incoming trains and planes were being held here for reinforcements. Somehow they had dragged that burned-out tank away someplace. I went out for a walk-around, things were pretty much under control, or getting there. Good bunch of people. When I got back, it was well past dark, Babs, bless her heart, had a bed made up in a corner of the Radio Bunker, at least a couple of wood pallets with blankets and a trunk to hold some spare clothes. I tried to thank her, she kissed me, and pushed me on the chest so I nearly toppled over. “Lie down before you fall down, you big lug. We have this.” I tried to argue, she just kissed me again, knelt to unlace my boots. Love a sensible woman.

  >>>>>>>>

  I didn’t sleep well, but I did sleep. I needed it bad after being hammered by that frigid wind for two days. It was almost normal to be awoken by bombing, I knew the skies had cleared before I got my boots on. Babs was right beside me, she had slept in her clothes too, coveralls, actually. Sensible woman, or did I say that already? We were already in the shelter, no need to run, no need to look out. We were safe from anything but a direct hit, so we stayed put. I found I was not as petrified as I used to be. How fucked up is that, when my main fear is supplanted by other fears? Count your blessings.

  The radios were working, Lupo and Bobby-O and Peaches spinning the dials, trying to listen through all the racket. Nothing was close to us, except our AA, of course, and we were under layers of sand bags. There were just two entrances left, a lot of work had been done while I was slug-a-bed. I must have slept harder than I thought. Fuck it, up and at’em.

  The firing slacked off, the bombs had been small and scattered, erratic, probably zepps. I stuck my head out, and found I was right. Same old deal, hit us at dawn, before the pursuits could gain enough altitude to intercept the zepps. But, that meant that their chances of hitting anything were just that much smaller. Harassment was all that was. Now that the sky was open, high clouds, our planes were lifting off, headed out hunting. I did a quick inspection tour, they must have worked all night, like beavers to get all this done. I saw that sergeant, he was sagging, but he was standing. “Well done, sergeant. By the way, what is your name? I apologize for not asking before.”

  “Johnson, sir. Jack Johnson. You know, you are the first white… man to ever ask me my name?”

  “Sergeant Johnson, Jack, we are both in the same place, at the same time, in a load of shit. My name is Miles. Miles Kapusta. Silly name, but it’s my name. Sarge, you better take ten, you look like your ass is dragging. I have a rack in there,” I pointed, “If you want to lay down.”

  “You offering me your bed?” He shook his head in wonder.

  “No, my bed is back in the train. This is a rack in a bunker for anybody who needs it. You need it. Just take your boots off, if you please.”

  “Damn. Thanks, but I better not. Those bastards have got to be real close. I’ll just get out of the light, and rest my eyes for a minute.”

  “Suit yourself. We are all in this together. And if the Germans win, it won’t matter what color we are.”

  “That’s a damn fact. Thanks.” He went inside, I didn’t bother to look and see where he settled.

  My crews were well dug in, the AA crews getting there as fast as they could hump sandbags, and I saw gangs of coolies headed back toward HQ to get more orders, I suppose. Other gangs were unloading field pieces, tanks, and car after car of rocket cluster drums. The cammo squads were not bothering with the trains, they were setting up tarps and flats to hide artillery emplacements from the air. I finally found what those secret furnace things were, they all had fires in them, and silk and paper hot air balloons over the flues, tugging at their hold-downs as the air inside got warmer. I noticed neat coils of rope and wire beside each one, and deduced that these were antiaircraft weapons. Propellers on planes chew through ungodly amounts of air, and if there was a wire in that air, it would just be too bad for the pilots. Good. I didn’t expect them to be too effective, but just like the rocket clusters, every little bit of diversion was a plus. And fuck them on general principles.

  Anyway, what the hell, paper and bamboo are cheap enough.

  >>>>>>>

  They had built me a little sand-bagged observation post on top of our bunker, so I had a ringside seat for all the action. We had a few more hours before the Gothas bombed us. It did not work all that well for them, our pursuits were up high, hanging out in the sun-glare, and they got at least three of those big slow bastards. I wished we had a couple of Gun Ships, that would have given them religion, but we did all right. The dive bombers were right behind them, as if we hadn’t figured that out from all the other times they had done this to us. Fucking krauts, sneaky but predictable. They had not planned on us having pursuits up and hot, they may have figured on the rocket clusters and the AA, but those silly hot air balloons took them by surprise.

  The furnace crews had enough time to inflate their flimsy constructions, a few dozen were bobbing at their moorings when the dive bombers roared in on the deck, barely clearing the Wall, dipping even lower for the attack. That got them under the AA bursts, under the exploding heads of the rocket clusters, but duck soup for the ground rifle fire and the balloons. Shit got real hectic there for a minute or two. There were dive bombers crashing everywhere, fouling each other, and any that chickened out, jettisoned their bombs and pulled out, flew right into the sights of the diving pursuits. A fucking mess. I went back to cowering.

  When I dared to stick my head back up, there were black columns of smoke everywhere, but just as I was feeling a little upbeat, the next wave of dive bombers hit the hastily constructed fortifications at what had been the Railroad Gate in the Wall. I was thinking that Stilwell had missed a trick, they got plastered hard. But, the pursuits pounced the stragglers and those that did not make a clean pullout from their bomb runs.

  One of the German dive bombers crashed into the side of the Recon Train’s engines, there was a lot of fire, but they did not have steam up, so no boiler explosion. No bomb either. Still too close for comfort. I was starting to feel like a jack in the box, and I had no business up here, but I had to look. History has killed better men than me.

  Far back in the yards, a locomotive was getting up steam, black coal smoke billowing out of the stack. I supposed some valuable cargo was being pulled out to save it, the locomotive was at the far end of a long line of gondola cars, headed east. The dive bombers were gone for reloading, we had a few minutes to grab a drink, refill the ready boxes, and get set for the ground attack. They could not be far away now. Our pursuits were landing now, reloading and refueling as fast as the crews could possibly work. A couple of pilots had been wounded, they were lifted out of their seats and helped away to an aid tent. Other pilots climbed into the bloody seats, the props were thrown, and off they went. Nut-cutting time.

  >>>>>

  We did not have long to wait. The first blow was artillery, long range and not very accurate. Small stuff, 57 and 75mm tank guns I guessed. I should have cowered, but I was down with a massive case of the fuck-its. I had nothing else to do but listen to the radio, and I was supposed to be an historian, wasn’t I? I wanted to climb up on the Wall, and get a good look, but I’m just crazy, not stupid. Most of the artillery was aimed at the top of the Wall anyway, only the stuff that missed high hit the Yards. I expected our tanks to run out through the gates and attack the Germans out in the plain, but
they just waited, well back, motors running, but immobile. I was beginning to feel like a primer about to get hit by a firing pin.

  Then I heard the growl of unmuffled diesels, they were coming. The Sturmpanzerwagen AVs are huge, forty tons, thirty feet long, ten feet high, with a crew of twenty men, more or less. They can carry 75mms and any number of smaller cannon and machine guns. The krauts don’t do subtle. A solid wedge of the big white-painted bastards hit the new Railroad Gate, smashed it aside like match-sticks, and roared into the Yards, spewing shells in all directions. Right behind them were lines of Überlandwagens, Troop Carriers, each with about thirty Sturmtruppen on board. They jammed up at the gate, but they were still coming. Our tanks were still not moving, our emplaced guns mostly silent. I began to entertain a suspicion, that became a certainty, when I saw that mysterious freight train vent steam, and start rolling. West, not east. Rolling right at the Gate. Fast. Fuck you, Vinegar Joe, you sneaky son of a bitch.

  My brain finally started working, I slid down the ladder, yelled, “Get the fuck down! Cover your heads!” I was the last one to follow my own advice, and I thought fucking worlds had collided. Sometimes profanity is just not strong enough. Nobody could have heard me anyway. The fucking earth moved. We felt it. Sandbags toppled from the walls, the bunker was instantly filled opaque with dust and smoke. We were bashed, deafened, and battered, and we were a half a mile from the gates. I wanted a nap. Right where I lay would have done, but somebody kept poking me, asking me stupid questions; “Miles, are you alive? Answer me?”

  “Babs? Is that you?” I tried to say, but I could not understand the words even when they were in my mouth. I expended enough energy to move your average mountain, managed to push myself to hands and knees. “I’m all fucked up. What a hit.”

  “Let’s get you outside in the air. I can’t breathe.”

  “Yeah. Safe?” I managed.

  “Safe? That’s a joke?” She helped me stand, another somebody supported my other side and we stumbled up and out. There was still small stuff falling out of the air, sand and dust. There was a big hole in the Wall where the Railroad Gate had been, there was a shitload of scrap iron scattered everywhere, a few chunks of flesh, and some smoking debris. And a whole army, engines running, waiting for the word to roar out and smash what was left of the invaders.

  Three green flares burst over the Wall, a whole lot of clutches were engaged, and the Black Bears headed for Urum-chi. I watched for a while until my brain started working again; “What hit me?”

  “A couple of sandbags.” It was Frankie, she had been on my right side, Babs on my left. “We need to get you to a doctor. You are bleeding.” She looked me right in the eyes, said, “Your pupils are the same size, but you are all fucked up. If you can get out of bed tomorrow, I will be amazed.”

  I took inventory of my aches and pains. “Yeah. Me too. Let me sit down, you find a flivver or something. I’m fucking had it.”

  “No shit.” She said. “Barbara?”

  “I’ll watch him. No problem. Please hurry.” Off she ran. She still ran like a man. Good. They run faster. Peaches showed up with a water bottle and a wet cloth, she swabbed some of the crap off my face, let me drink. The water was stale, warm, and better than my chances of salvation. Lived through another disaster. I vaguely wondered what had been in those gondolas, but I didn’t care. Shit that went boom. Good enough.

  I sat and watched a few hundred trucks and tanks move out west, and tried to feel how I felt. I decided I felt alive, which was good enough.

  >>>>>>>

  The next day they decided I was fit for light duty, and home I went. The Yards looked empty, I guessed they had worked like Trojans to fill the crater and re-lay the tracks through the blast zone, but I didn’t care. I tried to get my eyes to focus on the radio intercepts, but it was a losing battle.

  I crawled into bed, and let the rumble of even more west-bound trains lull me to sleep.

  >>>>>

  In the morning, we had orders to move up to Urum-chi, that battle too was over, the Germans and their allies had overextended themselves and been smashed. Had been allowed to smash themselves, more like it. We had another day to load up and get another locomotive hooked on, re-emplace the AA guns on top of the cars, but all I had to do was stumble around and say, “good job, well done, carry on.” Conductor Earl and Bob Weeks did all the hard parts. I was still weak as a kitten, and nowhere near as feisty. My bell had been rung good and solid. I might have been the oldest twenty-eight-year-old in history.

  Somehow, though, once we got rolling, I could allow myself to feel better. I could just sit by a window in the Dining Car, sip tea, read the Radio Logs and feel like I was actually accomplishing something worthwhile. My ears were still ringing, and every part of my body hurt, but motion is a balm in itself, especially to us asshole Americans.

  The scenery was not aesthetically pleasing, but it made my flinty heart glad; it was all wreckage of German war machinery. Norman Rockwell might not have approved, but he wasn’t here. Some of the wreckage was still smoking, and the nomads were already reaping their harvest, and good luck to that. They sure wouldn’t have to buy much ammunition for the next century or so.

  I would have been happier if I hadn’t known we were rolling from the frying pan into the fire. We had accomplished so much, pulled off so many miracles, and there was no end in sight. Would we have to get all the way to Calais to be done with this shit? The radio reports were not encouraging; Burlington in Vermont had fallen, apparently so had Montreal, at least there were troops coming down from there toward Burlington and Lake Champlain. There was a suspicious lack of vainglory concerning the Detroit-Toronto area, and the Mexican War reporting was obviously propaganda. Lupo said, “If Patton keeps advancing like this, he will be invading Houston next.” His English was getting a lot better, his attitude was getting even worse. Mine too. We chugged on, quite slowly, we were pushing a few flat cars to trigger any mines, and behind them were a couple of heavy gondola cars full of Combat engineers to make doubly sure we didn’t wind up in a trap. There were trains in front of us, of course, but there was no telling who might find it amusing to booby-trap us, for fun, loot, or glory.

  The weather was getting no worse, we were coming up on March now, I had been here almost a year, and never had even stopped to wonder if I would make my anniversary. And here it was, starting me in the face. Not a good time for reflection, but I could do little else.

  >>>>>>

  It took more than a whole day, thirty hours, to get to Urum-chi, it was two madhouses and an insurrection there. Trains were jammed in sidings as tightly as they could be packed, while construction crews seemed to be headed out in three directions, north to that Kumul place, northwest to Kazakhstan, and west to Persia, or hell for all I knew. A lot of them were Japanese Army troops, god knows how they got there, and the rest seemed to be Americans and Red Chinese. No matter, it was Hell on Wheels and the Tower of Babel all at once. And bless its little heart. It looked like a whole shit-load of iron was being spiked down, for a fact.

  As soon as I was situated, I got orders to report to Hodges’ HQ, ASAP. I spruced up as best I could with the aide waiting impatiently and we were in front of Hodges in a very few minutes. He didn’t even offer me a cup of coffee, waved the aide out of the room, closed the door gently and said, “Miles, what I am going to tell you is Top Secret.”

  “It can’t be good.”

  “It’s not. Patton has stopped all shipments of men and material to us. No oil, no ammo, nothing. We are on our own.”

  I knew it was coming eventually, but eventually is different from right the fuck now. “So, what now? More precisely, General, what do you want me to do? I thought we won this war?”

  “We have. Our men, people, have been superlative. We won every battle. The Germans are broken. They cannot attack China again for the foreseeable future. Now, we just have to survive. The Japanese can take over this operation, they will keep us in fuel, food, and some muniti
ons for a limited time. They don’t want us here, but they want to fight us even less. This is very sub-rosa, but there are two treaties about to be signed. First an armistice with the Germans, they will have to withdraw to the Caucasus, giving them and the Japanese most of what they need. Oil for the Germans, coal and a settled border for the Japanese. A done deal. We can live with that.”

  “And the other?”

  “Is between the Nationalists and the Eighth Route Army, the Communist forces. There will be a cease fire. Perhaps a truce, and hopefully a coalition government. Perhaps not immediately, there is a lot of bad blood, but they really have no other choices.”

  “A truce enforced by the Japs.”

  “Exactly. They have been backing Chiang for years, but, by the same token, they know what a weak reed he is. This Mao, and his second in command, Chou En-lai are a couple of tough cookies, smart, cold, and competent. Another done deal. There will be lots of nut-cutting, of course, but that’s not our problem.” He waited, giving me a cue.

  I took it. “Our problem is where to go.”

  “And?” Another cue.

  “We don’t want to stay here in the ass-end of nowhere. We can go back to Dalny and try to live on salvage or trade or something, we could just join the Germans, as being officially white and all.” He nodded. I went on. “We could take over Vladivostok and as much of Siberia as we could stand, and play lumberjacks and miners. That could work. We have tradesmen, union miners and such. There is fishing. There is a big-ass island we could take over and be more or less safe.”

  “Sakhalin. Cold, wooded, and has only a hundred-day growing season. But, you are correct. We could take it over. There are only a hundred thousand people on the island, as far as anybody knows, and most of them don’t care who runs the place. Convicts and Coreans and some sort of people that sound like Eskimos.”