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

by Steve Wishnevsky

  “You are?”

  “Miles Kapusta. I run the newspaper in Dalny.”

  He recognized me, shrugged. “A long way from home.”

  “Exactly. I need to get back. You know where the next working station is?”

  “You are out of luck. No trains east. The war.” He shrugged again. “And the Tedeski have bombed some of the bridges. We are waiting for them to come through the tunnels.”

  “And then?”

  “And then? We will see. People will die.”

  “We all have jobs. Mine is to get back to General Hodges with my information.” I tapped the messenger bag, just as if it had anything important in it.

  He considered, asked, “And this woman?”

  “A pilot. Lieutenant Brendan. Our plane was shot down. We barely survived. We were at Angarsk Airfield, the Germans landed troops there, we left. I don’t know what the status is now.”

  “Lost. Tanks. Irkutsk, the Paris of Siberia, is not lost yet, but the situation is desperate.”

  “You are from there?” Something in his pride in that title told me that.

  “Our family lands were on the Irkut River, from which the town takes its name. That is a smaller river that joins the Angara right there. Perhaps you noticed.”

  “We were a bit preoccupied.”

  “No doubt.” He made up his mind. “I can give you three riders. I have dispatches for Hodges myself. You are riding double?”

  “We took this bike from a dead messenger.”

  “No doubt.” He repeated himself. “A flivver would be too slow. I will give you another bike, an Ace. You can ride?”

  “I will learn. Or die.”

  He did not crack a smile. “Yes, you will. Rest, eat. One hour.” He turned away. Decision made. We had tea, shchi, and kasha, tried to relax.

  A woman all in black came up to stare at us. She was literally draped with magazine belts, carried a Thompson as if it was her baby. “I am Aneko. I will take you to Dalny. Three days.”

  “You are Japanese?”

  “My heritage was Karayuki-san. Japanese prostitutes and merchants made up the majority of the Japanese community in this region for seventy years. I am Siberian.”

  “Very well. What do you want us to do?”

  “Go to Ozbeg. In the lorry.” She pointed with the muzzle of her sub-machine gun. “Get long arms, a thousand rounds each. Canteens, hard rations. We ride in one hour.” Ozbeg looked like a troll’s grandfather, the lorry was a huge FWD with a box on the back that would have taken out a city block if it ever caught fire. We each took Thompsons, with pouch-belts of the thirty round magazines. As ordered. He had some old saddlebags, Maeve still had the ones on her bike, I took a pair, loaded them with anything that looked useful, a few packs of surplus reserve rations. A can of meat, so-called corned beef, two cans of hard tack, coffee, sugar and salt one each. You could eat it. If you had to. When we got back to the fire, my new motorcycle was there, it was a huge four cylinder model, in black. Ivan was there too.

  “Take this, we have no spare parts for it. If you make it, save it for me. An Indian Ace.” He pointed at a stack of those triangular 20 liter gas cans the Germans used, they were still in field gray, no telling. We strapped them on the luggage racks of our bikes, checked our rifles, filled the canteens, and tried to look like we knew what we were doing, while Maeve gave me a quick lesson in motorcycles, care and feeding of. “I’ll take the Ace, it’s a handful for a novice. The Scout is only a 45, low compression. Now, here is the starting routine. Throttle, spark advance. Clutch, kill switch. Right foot is rear brake, left foot is clutch. There is a detent for neutral. This lever is front brake. Never pull it on until you have your foot on the rear brake pedal. You have no idea how dangerous this is. Be careful, think before you act, and don’t dither.”

  She showed me how to kick start it, allowed me to putt it around, up and down the street, shift it up and down, first to second, and that was all the lessons I got. There was a good road out of town, I didn’t get a good look at our other two out-riders, I was too busy biting my tongue, trying to not die. We did not go east along the tracks as I expected, but due south, the moon rising over my left shoulder, providing about as much light as our headlights, enough to get by on. We only went ten miles or so, came to some nameless village, where Aneko woke up an old lady who allowed us to camp in her ramshackle barn. There was hay, old and dusty, no cows. I drank some water, made a nest with Maeve, and passed out with no further ado.

  >>>>>>>

  Aneko woke us with a hiss before the sky was fully gray, we stumbled out, splashed water on our faces, shared a few mouthfuls of kasha, filled our tanks, checked our guns, and set off without a wasted word. The other riders were women too, probably Japanese, one older, one younger. Oriental anyway, although in this part of the world that meant little. No names.

  We could hear bombing behind us, the zepps on their morning rounds, like the fucking milkman. Another hour south, and the woods retreated up the slopes, the valleys were all grasslands, rivers and lakes getting smaller. The road was better, even if it was just a track through the grasslands. By noon, we were passing yurts, no more frame buildings, the land was even drier and flatter. We stopped to top off our tanks, tighten chains and similar maintenance, things are always working loose. I opened a can of cold beef, it was as bad as it ever was, we wolfed it down, Aneko swept her arm across the horizon, said, “Mongolia.” And off we went.

  The roads got better and better, we picked up speed, there were even places to stop and drink tea, eat some sort of yogurt stuff. I didn’t ask. Night found us in the real city of Ulan Bator, capitol of Mongolia. Aneko knew of an inn that backed up to a motor transport company, they knew her, welcomed us as friends, which seems to mean a lot out there in nomad land. There did not seem to be any war here. I poured a few cups of plum wine, damn near brandy, into Aneko, found her better read than I had expected, and well versed in all the politics of Central Asia. A survival trait. Plus she had better English than I did. I began to suspect that she was the dog and Ivan Hodak was the tail. I complemented her on her knowledge of the world.

  “No,” she said. “We cannot afford to be ignorant here in the center of the world. Every army comes through here, every conquering people. Here. Ulan Bator. My people gained our strength from the Japanese nationalist groups like the Black Ocean Society, Genyōsha, and the Amur River Society, what they called Kokuryūkai. They glorified and applauded us as some Amazon army of Japanese prostitutes in the Russian Far East and Manchuria, enrolled us as members. We had connections from Vladivostok to Irkutsk by what they thought were Japanese prostitutes. Men think with their penises. But not Hodak. He is a wise man, a true warrior. We follow him because we recognize his virtue.”

  “So you fight the Germans.”

  “We fight them all. We know that you Americans do not want to stay here, so you are our favorite enemies. We help you, and you will go. The Germans are pigs. They would kill us all, use us as slaves. We will not allow that.”

  “And the Japanese?”

  “We know them. They know us. We are not them anymore, but…”

  “You know how to deal with them.”

  “They would rather bargain than fight. They have some wisdom also. You just have to gain their respect.”

  “And that takes war.”

  “It does. Small wars. A matter of pride. They are a very proud people.”

  “I have one more question. If the Germans get their tanks on these plains, nothing will stop them. I do not understand why they have not come up the Silk Road to outflank the Trans-Siberian Line.”

  “That is a long story, but we will ride tomorrow like rich people in cars, so I will have another cup or two of wine, and explain it to you. It is all about Persia.” She drank, I poured. She drank again. “Iran. The struggle is related to the constitutional movement that continued until 1911, when Mohammad Ali Shah was defeated and forced to abdicate. This is well known. Persia is a very old land,
of much subtlety. The Czar, pretending to restore order, occupied northern Iran in that year…”

  “1911?”

  “Yes. The Russians kept troops there for years, until the Czar was killed. Using the Great War as an excuse, the British occupied the coast and most of the western half of the country. They are still there. They fought with the Ottoman there, in the Northwest, but had to cope with the Khurds, who wanted their freedom from all other nations. A lot of the Assyrian people of Persia were massacred by the Ottoman, especially in the town of Urmia. A century of misrule. It is still unsettled. The Khurds, the Assyrians, the Persian patriots, under Reza Khan, who created the Pahlavi Dynasty. Homeless, but respected. He was Prime Minister of Iran and the former general of the Persian Cossack Brigade, and he became the new Shah. But it is still in state of war, counter war, and chaos. The Germans hope to move from the British holdings to open another front, as you say, to conquer all of China and Mongolia, but they are making little progress.”

  “So you and Bradley and anybody else interested have to keep the Germans from breaking out into these steppes,”

  “We have allies. The Mongols are not to be trifled with, and the Red Chinese are stronger than you Westerners understand.”

  “And the Siberians.”

  “And we Siberians,” she confirmed.

  “So that tells me why you need to get to Dalny. Arms.”

  “Indeed. You have a good grasp of the situation. Now go and please your woman. We leave very early. We have more than a thousand kilometers to go tomorrow.”

  “Indeed? In one day?”

  “In one ride. No matter how long it takes. A day, two days, no matter. It must be done.”

  “In that case, good night, Aneko.”

  “Good night, Captain Miles.”

  >>>>>>>

  We had two big touring cars, a Packard and a Mercedes, and a German army truck with the five bikes in back. We were on the road an hour or two before dawn and rode into the sunrise at top speed. We did that all day, stops for tea and rice and that yogurt stuff every few hours. Somebody said it was made out of mare’s milk, but I have eaten a lot worse. Shut up and eat. Before the next dawn we roared into a seaport, Qinang-dao, a port a little north of Tian-jin, the main entry for Peking. Tian-jin was supposed to be full of Germans and Japanese, but we saw none of that. A few coins were handed over at a couple of check points, I didn’t recognize the uniforms.

  Aneko directed us to a dock with a medium-size fishing boat tied up, the Chinese crew hustled the five bikes on board, we were all given those big conical straw hats to hide our white skins, we had raggy cloths to cover our uniforms, and off we went. Easy as that. A professional operation.

  A few hours later, well before noon, we were landed at the foot of Hui-bai Rd, on the north side, right where we liberated those tug boats. We hired some locals to help unload the bikes, it seemed like they were not worried about possible smuggling operations, nodded to the Army guard posts, and putted on down the road to Headquarters. I expected Aneko to request an appointment with Hodges, but instead she showed something, a badge or card to an aide and was immediately escorted off to see Stillwell. Really? How interesting.

  Hodges did not keep us waiting long, he had Ray take notes while he asked pertinent questions, then thanked us, and we went on our ways. Maeve had to report to the airfield, while I had my three or four jobs to attend to, after a week of vacation. We made plans to meet at the Bulletin after dark, and figure out our accommodations. One way to put it. I took a flivver cab to Xiang-zhou St., walked into a scene of thinly organized chaos. Peaches and Justine were nose to nose, not quite screaming at each other, while Isis and Juan were hiding in the corner setting a galley. No sign of Cookie, but Ilda was writing on the chalkboard while Frances twisted the knobs on the radio. Jeff and Isley, Celia, and Lizzie were all present and accounted for, but keeping their heads down.

  Peaches was the first to notice me, she just held up her hand in Justine’s sight, and pointed at me. That shut Justine up. “Hey, boss, have a nice trip?”

  “Sure. Only got nearly killed five times. What’s the problem?” Peaches just pointed at the board.

  “We are having a little disagreement about the headline.” She said, once she saw me taking it all in.

  PATTON INVADES MEXICO AND CANADA

  EASTERN CANADA “PACIFIED” IN FOUR DAYS

  MONTREAL AND TORONTO SURRENDER

  QUEBEC VOWS TO HOLD OUT.

  REPORTS FROM MEXICO SKETCHY, VERA CRUZ FALLS TO USN.

  RIOTS IN SAN DIEGO, LOS ANGELES, PROTEST MARCHES

  UNREST IN SAN FRANCISCO

  PATTON VOWS, “REVOLT FUTILE, WETBACKS WILL BE SHOT.”

  TEXAS GOVERNOR “MA” FERGUSON PLEDGES COMPLETE SUPPORT FOR MEXICAN WAR.

  “Oh, is that all? First things first. Peaches, you are Managing Editor. You have final say. Justine, you are Editor. You have responsibility for producing the copy that Peaches will select. Correct? Clear?” A couple of nods, one beaming smile, one sulky grimace. “I might not be here full time. You two work it out. You will never get as cushy a deal as this, not in a war zone.” I let that sink in. “And now for the headline. Justine?” She grabbed her pad and pencil. “Irkutsk attacked. Tanks and Zeppelins, glider-landed troops take Angarsk Airfield. Verkhneudinsk bombed by Zeppelins. Situation fluid.”

  That got some stunned looks. “Set that up, check the spelling, I will give you the copy. Where is Cookie?”

  Peaches replied. “Ahh… Boss, she took up with Lou, moved out to the Litho Shop. A few blocks away.”

  “Fine. Have somebody clean my room, I seem to have acquired a girlfriend. An Aviator. Her name is Maeve. Any comments?”

  “No sir. She an American?”

  “As Paddy’s pig. From my home town. A pisser. Be nice.”

  “A word to the wise is sufficient.” She winked.

  “Fine. Have the other headlines set, we will run an extra of all headlines. How is the Rotary… Never mind. I’ll just go look. Be right back with the copy for the lede.” The new shop looked good, sandbagged walls built, machines hooked up. I tried the light switch. Lights went on. That woke up a man snoozing on a roll of newsprint. It was that same damn Briggs guy. He was an expert at finding a soft billet, wasn’t he?

  “What are you doing here, Briggs?”

  “Flannigan told me to wait here for you, you have to sign for the equipment, all present and accounted for. Once you sign, it’s all yours.” He waved a sheaf of paperwork at me.

  “Fine. Go get a drink. This will take a while. Two drinks.”

  “Sir.” Even in civvies, he was polite enough when booze was involved. I walked around touching things, seeing if things that were supposed to turn turned. What had I gotten myself into now? Next question, would I rather be back in that slit trench in Angarsk Airfield? No, I would not. So, then…

  I found a stack of soft bound manuals, official Army issue, covering the steam plant, the donkey engine, the Linotype, and the press. The press was the big deal. Homework. I flipped through the pages, then went back, got on the horn to HQ. “Ray, you have any people for me to run this new printing plant? A small holdup. I am supposed to sign for all this, and I don’t have a clue about the rotary press or the steam plant. I need some operators, and I need them fast.”

  “Hanson is supposed to be working on that. Sign the work order, make Flannigan happy, we will work something out. Just like we always do. We need that press ASAP, but at the same time, people have run bigger wars than this with quill pens and parchment.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll sort out the paperwork, wait for Hanson. Thanks for the perspective. Irkutsk still holding?”

  “So far, so good.”

  “But neither far enough or good enough. Right.” And on that happy note… So I wrote my copy, gave it to Justine, got a bowl of rice and something from Su-mi, took it and a cup of tea out to the Rotary shop to see if I could learn my new job in any sort of time. Briggs came back, I signed his sh
eets, off he went, happy as a boiled clam. I realized that I wasn’t making any sense, not even to myself, went back in. Been awake for far too long. The press was running, the papers were going out the window. I called HQ again asked them to provide transportation to Maeve when she left. Called the Airfield, ditto.

  I went upstairs to change my socks, lay back on the bed to rest my eyes, and the next thing I knew, Maeve was poking me in the ribs and ordering me to “Move over, you great lummox.”

  Anything for a lady.

  >>>>>>>>

  Hanson was there for breakfast, with ten or a dozen guys who said they knew something about linotypes and rotary presses. I promoted him to Shop Boss, and went to look at the presses and stones that had been delivered from the Port Arthur Litho Shop. They were lined up on the street, more coming. Arthur Marx showed up with a stack of notes from HQ, he said he had been following a story, I suspected a woman and a bottle, knowing reporters as I do. Never mind, part of the biz. I inspected the Bulletin office floor from underneath, it looked strong enough to hold another press, composition stone and a couple more job cases, so I resorted the second floor, moved the Editorial Office and the Radio Room upstairs, told Isis to tell Juan he was in charge of getting the new press inside and set up, and was settling into do a little actual writing, when Maeve came back from work and dropped another explosive load in my lap.

  “I have good news and bad news.” She smiled wryly. “First, I have been assigned to you permanently.”

  “That’s the good part?”

  “Yes. And to answer your unspoken question, I have been assigned to you as your pilot. Hodges thinks we did such a good job bringing him unbiased reports, that he wants you to do that as a full time job. He was quite impressed with the report you made on what Aneko told you. He wants weekly reports. You get to pick your own rank, hire a staff, commandeer any form of transportation you need, he said, ‘unlimited budget’.”

  “Unlimited…”