Polar Bear Blues: A Memoir Of The Endless War (The Endless War. Book 1)

by Steve Wishnevsky

  An aluminum gangway was lowered, the band attempted to play the national anthem of the Empire, Kimigayo, and a resplendently uniformed group of naval officers descended the gangway. They were escorted to meet Hodges and his officers, who looked like dun brown birds in the face of Imperial finery. They even had plumes on their gold lace trimmed hats. Looked like Navy to me. I made a note to look that up. Were the Imperial Army and Navy on the same page? Interesting question.

  The band trailed to a stop, Hodges and the Envoy exchanged a few words, proceeded to a line of limousines, which soon sped away. Well. That was exciting. I turned to go, but found myself face to face with Ray Reynolds and a Japanese guy in a new suit. It took a moment, but I realized I knew him. I did not break out in hail-fellow-well-met. This was too odd to be any sort of a coincidence. Ray stood a step aside, to introduce the newcomer. “Miles, this is Ken Inahara. Ken, Miles Kapusta. Ken is the press representative for the Admiral. Can I interest you in a drink?”

  Ken smiled and bowed, not letting on that he knew me. I followed suit. We had met in France, we were both in the Hospital at the same time. He had been hit by a truck, and I was a physical wreck, unable to sleep, down to a mere hundred and twenty pounds because I could not keep food in my stomach. A mess. I could not relax even in the hospital without morphine. Ken faked more pain from his broken leg, and slipped me the dope. You don’t forget somebody like that. If he wanted to play it cool, I was game.

  That renovated bank I had noticed before now displayed a fresh sign; “USAAS Siberia Headquarters.” The inside was still unpainted, but all the rubble was gone, the plaster patched, and a few desks and chairs were in place. One desk had four chairs around it, and a bottle in the center. Three glasses and a water pitcher. A set up. Ray indicated chairs, reversed one and sat. That always indicated defensiveness to me. Or a suspicion that somebody was afraid that somebody wanted to kick them in the balls. I guess I am just an untrusting person. It’s probably genetic.

  My deal? I grabbed the bottle, poured myself a healthy slash, sipped. Whiskey. The label was Japanese. Ken poured himself a frugal ration, added a lot of water. Ray took his neat. “I’ll bite,” I said, “What’s the deal here?”

  “No deal. They provided Mr. Inahara’s CV, we noticed that he was in the AEF. That means that you two have something in common.” Ken tapped his nose with one finger, accidental-like. Got it. “So a few drinks, facilitate communication between two allies in a time of upheaval and realignment. No big deal.” Sure, Ray, got it. A stereotypical set of wheels within wheels all churning busily away.

  Ken opened with; “I have, of course, spent a lot of time in the States. Grad school at UCLA, and a hitch in the AEF to help pay off my education. France was more educational than the university, I must say.” He sipped his drink. “And you?”

  “I was in the PBI. The poor bloody Infantry. An almost excessive amount of fun. Were you a dough?”

  “I pushed papers for Pershing. I did manage to slip down a muddy embankment and get run over by a truck. Not very heroic, I must say.”

  “Ray, what did you do, if I may ask?”

  “Nothing much. Logistics. More paperwork shuffling. And glad to get it. You doughs on the line had it rough.”

  “Tell me about it.” I slugged down half my glass, forcing myself to leave some. Talking about the front line with a glass in my hand is not a recipe for restraint. Change the subject time. “So, Mr. Inahara, what can you tell us about this, what did you call it, realignment?”

  “I can not violate any confidences by stating the obvious. We were allied with Great Britain and her Empire. We always have had great admiration for the British.”

  “But they are a spent force.” I said. “The Germans do not care to pay the butcher’s bill to invade England. So, alliance. That leaves half the world. Half the world’s colonies up for grabs. First come, first served.”

  “Again, I can merely state the obvious. India is in a state of revolt, the British lack the troops to repress the unrest. Burma is slipping away, Singapore and Malaysia were ripe fruit for the plucking. We plucked them.”

  “Hong Kong and Shanghai were a bit tougher nuts to crack.” Ray put in.

  “They are ours. Shanghai fell in a day, there are a few holdouts in Hong Kong, but they are gone.” He drained his glass, went to pour another, a bit stronger this time.

  “So Burma is next?” I asked.

  “That would seem to follow, although I cannot confirm that supposition.”

  “So, then,” I cut to the meat, “what do you need us for?”

  “We have a very small army, in world terms. Unparalleled in bravery and ability, but small. The Nationalists are…” He searched for a word…

  “Worthless.”

  “I would not say that. Let us use the term, ‘difficult’.”

  “A fine word.” I drank to that. “So you need us to hold the Germans. To keep them out of China. You need the coal, and the iron.”

  “The Eurasian land mass contains the oldest geology on the planet, and has never exploited by modern technology,” he said as if it was of only academic interest.

  “Interesting.” I poured another drink. Can’t fall behind. “So what’s in it for us?”

  “In a word, the Pacific. The Philippines, Siberia, perhaps Australia. The islands. Freedom of the seas.”

  “Safe passage for our ships. As long as we play ball.”

  “The Pacific is very large. The fisheries are most important. If the German Fleet controls the Atlantic…”

  “U-boats. Right. Got it. The Germans get the Mediterranean, the North Atlantic, the Suez Canal, probably they could spare a few troops to subdue India.”

  “At least the West Coast. That and East Africa would be a lucrative empire. Lots of trade. Spices, cloth, gold, diamonds, ivory, lots of unexploited land.”

  “I see. You think quite far ahead.”

  “I am a journalist as a profession, but my avocation has always been history.”

  “Mine was fiction, but it is getting harder and harder to tell from what passes for reality these days.”

  Ken almost smiled out loud at that. “Reality lacks editors. A major flaw. There is no one to say, ‘That couldn’t happen; that is illogical’.”

  “That is a very wise remark.” I admitted. “Frankly, I wish I had formulated that maxim.”

  “I meant it as a mere witticism. Perhaps I have had enough whiskey to drink.”

  “In vino veritas.” I poured another. “I am curious about your opinion on air power, especially today.”

  “Practically, you mean?” His eyes sharpened. He was nowhere near drunk. I knew that lots of Orientals could not hold their liquor. This one could. “A complex subject. Our Navy is more… I won’t say progressive, but they can see the virtue of airpower, much easier than the Army can. The Imperial Navy is far seeing. You might remember the Battle of Tsushima Strait, where Admiral Togo sank two thirds of the Russian Main Fleet, with the use of wireless telegraphy.”

  “I heard that mentioned recently. And you just won the Battle of the South China Sea with the use of airplanes, did you not?”

  “Indeed we did, but we did not advertise that fact.”

  “The wonders of modern communications. It was on the shortwave. I am not sure who broadcast that information. I could check, if you like.”

  “No real matter. The world grows smaller every day. A truism.” He sipped again, somehow his glass was empty. Reynolds was sitting back, watching us closely. I knew every word would got to Hodges, but I didn’t care.

  “Air Power.” I reminded Inahara. “The Army.”

  “The Army leadership are descended from samurai. They see Air as a subsidiary arm, useful mostly for scouting.”

  “Odd that they do not see air as the Europeans, do, as the last stand of chivalry.”

  “Our traditions are much different. But be that as it may, we need an Air Force on the continent. And we need it now.”

  “Do you manufactu
re your own airplanes?”

  “A pertinent question. We started with a hundred Gloster Sparrowhawks. The Army took thirty of those. We assembled most of the rest from parts shipped here from England. Then the Mitsubishi Corporation developed the Type 10, in the early Twenties, that was replaced, or soon will be replaced, by a new plane from Nakajima. Further details are more or less secret. The Type 3. It is also a Gloster design.”

  “Allow me to again state the obvious. Now that England is an enemy, you need us.”

  “Negotiations are underway with your Curtiss Corporation. Again, not a secret.”

  “I see.” The thought finally penetrated my thick polack skull, that if they had sent Ken here, if they knew that I was here, then all this was a message to me, one that could not be sent through channels. Wake up, cabbage head. The corollary was also obvious. If they knew I was here, and that I knew Ken, then their intelligence service was on the ball. And that meant that Ken was more than just a chance-sent old acquaintance who just happened to be a journalist. Deep waters, but nobody ever accused the Nips of being stupid.

  All I said was, “Obvious mutual benefits. I just run a newspaper, or will, as soon as I get one printed, but you can count on me to help. Survival is a strong goad.”

  He tilted his glass toward me. I clinked rims. “Here is to a long and fruitful association. I am assigned here by my paper, The Yomiuri Shinbun.”

  “I thought you worked for the Admiral?”

  “I wear, as your useful phrase has it, several hats. I will be stationed here for a few months, at least.”

  I just bet you do, I thought, but out loud all I said was, “I see. So can I count on you for access to official press releases?”

  “Of course. Naval technicians are setting up a teletype machine at your Headquarters, as we speak. Nothing could be simpler.”

  Simple as sliding down well-greased rails.

  >>>>>>>

  Then it behooved me to get out a paper. I got the correct names of the Imperial party from Inahara, ran the three of us back to HQ to raid them and the Train Station for paper, rations, such necessaries, and attacked the Print Shop. I needed a name for the paper too. Details. Name, masthead, staff, typesetters, reporters, editors, cleanup crew, guards, everything down to the bottle washer. At least I had a cook.

  No newsprint, but I stole a crate lot of bond paper. The Army may march on its stomach, but its road is made of paper.

  The shop was clean, my crew of women was monitoring the radio, as ordered, Su-mi had a pot of fish chowder stuff simmering, and a big bucket of rice to pour it on to. Under control. Who was I kidding? Myself mostly, no doubt. I can set type, if slowly, so I took the latest bulletin from Peaches, the blurb I had gotten from Inahara, and had Justine type it up on one sheet. Think of a name. “The Port Arthur Bulletin”. Find the biggest, most ornate type face I could find that would fit on the page. Two columns. One headline; “Imperial Envoy Visits Gen. Hodges”. Other headline, “Radio Reports”.

  Hong Kong had not fallen yet, nothing really new. Editorialize? No, not yet. Just list the facts. American troops trapped in France. Germany declares Great Germany. Peace treaty to give Calais to England. French North Africa to Germany. Japan occupies Indochina, Malaysia, and NEI. Loss of Billy Mitchell. Loss of US troop convoy.

  “All the news that fits, we print.” Once I got past the big type, it got harder. I remembered the plan, but my fingers were a lot older than they had been the last time I did this upside down and backwards in reverse crap. I was thumbing away, dropping type on the floor and regretting those drinks I had taken, when a couple middle-aged Chinese guys came in, walked right up to me and asked me something. “I’m sorry, I do not understand? Do you have any English?”

  The older, a man whose air of competence belied the rags he was wearing, repeated himself. Whatever it was, it sounded serious. I looked around, Frank’s eyes met mine. “Frances. Would you run up and get Su-mi? Please?”

  She put down her clipboard and ran upstairs. I waved at a couple of chairs, but the two Chinese ignored that, still at attention. Who were these clowns? Shakedown guys? They had all their fingers, not tong thugs. I was baffled. Su-mi clattered down the stairs, cleaver in hand, and fired off a burst of Chinese curse words at the two guys. To me, Chinese sounds like a riot in a hen house when they are being calm, when they get exited, I start looking for things to hide behind. A few more machinegun bursts, and Su-mi turned to me; “No problem. They used to work here. They want job. Very poor, no work. Feed family. You hire.”

  “What do they do?”

  “No words. I tell.” She fired off another salvo, the oldest guy bowed, walked over, gently plucked the composing stick from my left hand, glanced at the copy, and proceeded to set the line so fast his right hand looked like a blur. I could not believe my eyes.

  “Su-mi, what the hell does he think he is doing? How the fuck can he set type when he does not know a word of English?”

  “You no worry. Chinese hard, English easy. Want cup tea?”

  “Ah… Sure. Tea all around. What could possibly go wrong?” In that short time, he had finished the lines, filling the stick. His partner had a galley ready on the stone, the first guy had the block of type out of the stick and placed in the galley, so smoothly I finally got it, that he was a master. You can always tell. Never a waste motion. Fuck it. His buddy tied up the block with a bit of string from a bunch hanging off the end of the job case. I had forgotten that important step. Su-mi was back in a flash with the tea and a plate of cookie things, I thought to recognize some of those damned dried apricots, but how she managed that, I didn’t inquire. It was dawning on me, that this was their country, and they were well practiced in dealing with all sorts of invaders. Point taken. A cookie. Right. A composing stick. Live and learn.

  Between the Chinese and the Japanese, we would have to lock our lips to keep them from stealing the fillings out of our teeth while we talked. I remembered a couple of lines from Kipling.

  “And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of the late deceased,

  And the epitaph drear: "A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East."

  Well, fucking hell. I best let it roll. Live and learn. I could not swim home either.

  >>>>>>>>

  By the time the tea was gone, the galley was ready for proofing. There were a few typos, but when I checked, the only ones not in the original copy were in the few lines I had managed to set. I give up. I had Justine proof-read the original, then gave it to Number One Guy to have it reset. That was done so fast I would not have believed it, had I not already had my belief system reset so completely already. I handed the first guy a gold double eagle, and had Su-mi feed him. “Tell him to be here in the morning, him and his assistant. We also need an interpreter. Understand?”

  “No problem. Will do. His name Lu, other man name Won.”

  “Fine. Lou and Juan. Hired. Tomorrow.” Off they went, I decided that with the front page set up, I could run a few copies, then decided to write an editorial for the second page. So I did, basically welcoming people to the Bulletin, promising the world, in these desperate times, and offering advertising at competitive rates. Which was not a problem, having no competition. How nice being a monopoly. I was worn out, found Cookie snoozing in my, our room, sponged off before waking her with immoral intent. A busy day.

  >>>>>>>

  By the time I dragged it out of bed and downstairs in the morning, Lou had the second page set up already, locked into a chase, and was waiting patiently. He had bought a new shirt and an apron, and folded himself a hat out of paper. Juan was less splendid, but noticeably cleaner. He might have had new used shoes. I proofed the new page, no problems and had Su-mi tell them to run five hundred copies. That done, we needed a distribution network. No end to the work. I bundled up a hundred copies, had Cookie hand paint a sign for the front door, “Newspaper boys wanted,” in English and Russian.

  “Justine, you type up another bulletin, pad it o
ut to fill half the page, and when I get back, I’ll write a column on Eppi’s salvage works. Anybody wants to be a paperboy, tell them, the paper sells for a nickel, they get to keep a penny. Keep a roster, copies issued, sold, returned, all that sort of thing.” She just waved me off, ready to hit her typewriter. It passes for intellectual work, you know.

  I walked to HQ, past the Airfield. Walking was an old habit from my newspaper stringer days, you can get a good feel for the street, the average guy, walking. Plus you pass all the bars. A good place to talk to people, at least that’s what I used to tell myself. The street felt busier than it had before, only a few days ago. I saw two street venders moving into abandoned storefronts. Was that a trend? Make a note. More white women out shopping, I thought I recognized a few of Ruby’s girls, at least I was fairly sure that that slate gray cloth was from the Sisterhood building.

  The Airfield was showing signs of real life too. Amelia was out on the field, with a blackboard, giving a lecture to a dozen men and women, who were seated on the ground at her feet. A few mechanics were firing up one of the P-1s, tuning the engine, it looked like, others were assembling the last of the Pursuit jobs, pumping up tires, tightening wires. Make another note.

  HQ was slightly less crazy than usual. But from here, I could hear the blasts of mines being detonated in the harbor. Good for them. I dropped off my papers, mostly to show that I was on the job, then caged a meal at the Officer’s Club, just a room in the back, then caught a ride back to the Bulletin with one of the drivers. In the time it took to get there, the world changed again. I thought Hong Kong must have fallen when I saw everybody clustered around the radio, but a few words from NKH told me that I had underestimated Grosse Hermann yet again.

  Our time here was exactly twelve hours ahead of New York time, counting the date line and all that. It was nearly dark here, after six. At three in the morning, German U-Boats had launched synchronized attacks on Newport, Norfolk, and New York Harbor with torpedoes and deck gun fire. The bases were completely unprepared, most warships were on U-Boat patrol in the Atlantic, the carnage was almost total. Reports were sketchy, but several passenger liners had been sunk at anchor, the Naval Air Station at Norfolk had been heavily damaged, and even worse, one of our two Aircraft Carriers, the Saratoga, had either been sunk or damaged at her berth at Norfolk. The other, the Lexington, was supposed to be in the Pacific, but nobody was saying. Nobody was talking much here either. We were stunned.