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

by Steve Wishnevsky

  “Budget. Yes. His exact words. You are now his Intelligence Wing.”

  “Oh, fuck me.”

  “That too. We need a new office, a house. Someplace near the Airfield. Of course.”

  “Oh, of fucking course.” I was going to ask what else could happen, but I was afraid to find out.

  She went on, ruining my life. “Hodges is having your new orders and authorizations cut now. Staff car for sure, guards, staff… You just let them know what you want.”

  My mind was racing. “I want… Isis. Peaches. Front and center.” They showed up, I told them, “You two have been promoted. Isis, you find somebody to take over your translation jobs here. Peaches, you don’t get to fight with Justine anymore. I need somebody with brains and experience both. Tag, you’re it. We are in the Army now. We have to set up an intelligence service from scratch. Isis, you are Foreign Intelligence. Translator. Peaches, you are Signals Intelligence. We take the radio room, anybody you want to run it. We will have to move, find a bigger place with better security, near the Airfield. We need a telegraph station too. Shit, I don’t have a clue. But, orders are orders.” I called across the room. “Arthur Marx, Justine. It’s your paper now. Figure out some way to talk to Juan, you are on your own. Have fun.” He looked stunned, then started thinking, nodded, scanned the room in a calculating way. I saw his eyes meet Justine’s, they both nodded at the same time. Communication, is what that’s called.

  Turns out that Hodges was way ahead of me, as usual. A courier on an Indian and a corporal driver in a staff car arrived with a stack of paperwork in a briefcase, and a another attaché case full of money, greenbacks, script, and gold. The passenger in the staff car was a wiry, battered lieutenant who looked a little old for the grade.

  “General Hodges’ compliments, sir, and he wishes me to inform you that you can use the second floor of the USAS HQ for your unit. My name is Browning, I am your liaison and advisor.”

  “Browning, you have any intelligence experience? And do you have a first name?”

  “Samuel, sir, and yes, I was attached to General Pershing’s staff from 1917 to 1920.”

  “You were invalided out?”

  “Yeah. Gas.”

  “Me too. Hodges knows that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then he must have a backup plan for this newspaper?”

  “Yes, sir. He does.”

  “Fine. Peaches? Isis? Maeve? Shall we?”

  >>>>>>>

  I might have thought life was hectic before… I had another thought, and left Peaches to gather up the radio equipment, and to tell Su-mi to pack up her kitchen. Her, I needed. The USAS HQ had been another old bank, had a second floor as advertised. I hadn’t paid a lot of attention the other times I had been there, but it looked solid, and the flat roof was liberally emplaced with AA guns. Break my heart. Oddly enough, the first person I met on the stairs going up was my old buddy, Ken Inahara. “Hey, Miles, congratulations. I have been bedding down upstairs, I will have my stuff out, two more trips.”

  Right. I believe in coincidences. And the Easter Bunny. All I said was, “Take your time. Good to see you, we should have a drink sometime later today.”

  “Sure thing. I’m always around. I have a little cubbyhole office downstairs.” I just bet you do. Smile and wave, Miles, smile and wave. Upstairs had been more offices, now mostly converted to bedrooms. Maybe a couple thousand square feet. Twenty rooms, two big ones on the street front, two halls going back to bathrooms and a little kitchen. Pretty plush for people who had been living in a print shop for a month or so. We had phones, we had desks, we had beds and footlockers, old fashioned wardrobes in a few of the rooms. It looked like heaven, but I knew we were going to earn our little luxuries. In spades.

  The more I thought about it, the more it looked like a setup job. But, what the hell? Best deal I had all day. “Samuel, I hate to give you orders, but…”

  “That’s my job. Sir. To get you what you want.”

  “Well, the biggest thing I need is for somebody to tell me how to do this job.”

  He smiled a particularly wistful smile. “You need to gather information, and you need to organize that information so that you can lay your hands on any particular piece Hodges needs, when he needs it. If you are on the ball, you will know what he wants to know before he asks for it. You need maps, you need filing cabinets, you need your own switchboard, but I think there is one downstairs. You need to talk to everybody, and make sure they tell you the correct information. If they are dishonest, you have to know that, and if they are honestly wrong, you need to know that too.”

  “Fine. The Air Service must know a lot. They take photos from the air, correct? Maps are a great idea. See if you can rustle up a few, even if you have to raid a school. Encyclopedias. Atlases. All that stuff. I will send…” I looked around the room. “Isis. Your job. Take a handful of money. We need a ledger too, but buy books, maps, anything you think we need. Go see Lou at the Litho Shop, see if he has any to spare. Epstein must have duplicates. See him. You need to take a cab, fine. I’ll get us another flivver or two.”

  I continued, on a roll. “Maeve, you go downstairs and see what the Air Service can spare us, see if they are doing photo-reconnaissance, see if we can’t get copies? Do we have a plane of our own? You figure it out. Samuel, you toddle back to the Bulletin, get Peaches, the radios and get back here as soon as you can. Su-mi, take this money, and go get us whatever you need for dinner.”

  “And what will you do, Miles?” Maeve asked. Always one wise ass in every crowd.

  “I’ll get on the phone and raise hell. We need typewriters, paper, all that sort of crap. Okay?”

  >>>>>>>

  By nightfall we were settled in, if not operational. At least the radio setup was up and running, we were making notes as they came in. There was very little from the States, and we didn’t have a handle on the Mexican stations until I remembered Sergeant Lupo, Felix Gonzales Lupo-Guerra. Spanish was not one of Isis’ languages. Lupo seemed happy enough to be working with me, I was overjoyed to get him, made sure he had his own room and a desk. “Lupo, you are promoted. Want to be a Lieutenant?”

  “What I have to do?”

  “Listen to the radio, write down anything we need to know. Find out how the Mexican War is going.”

  “Is Third Mexican War. You trust me?”

  “Where are we?”

  “Now? In Chino. China. Long way from home.” He grimaced.

  “Yes we are, and if we, you and me, ever want to get home again…”

  “Patton must be stopped.” He said, very quietly, but I heard him.

  “Si. Correct-o. So?”

  “I do what you say. Not write real good, though.”

  “Then, Lieutenant Felix Lupo, you had better find us somebody who can write well. Typing would be a big help.”

  “I know a woman. You hire women?”

  “Look around you.” He just nodded and went to the radio. Good man.

  All we got for the rest of that night was that England officially declared war on the USA, for all the good that would do them. The battle for Irkutsk was turning into a set piece, both sides rushing everything they had there, Lake Baikal proving a good defense to the north. We heard that Bradley was improvising gunboats out of anything that would float to deny the lake to the Germans, and tank battles were raging all up and down the valley that contained Angarsk Airfield.

  And still, day and night, the convoys rumbled through Dalny, a constant noise that soon faded from your consciousness, like big city traffic.

  >>>>>>

  We lay in bed that night, not talking more than a word now and then, thinking on what needed to be done in the morning. One of the words said was “Aneko.”

  Maeve replied. “Yes. First.” No telling if she was on anybody’s side but her own, but she was one of the keys to the complicated lock that was Central Asia. I could almost completely follow the line of thought that lead to her next word. “Peking.”r />
  “Bradley has to know that too.”

  “Yeah. I wish I had a drink.”

  “Can do.” We had a few belts, a little affection, a little sleep, and then it was rise and shine time. Life was moving fast. But at least Intelligence was better than the Poor Bloody Infantry. And my bunkmate was a lot more congenial than another buck private with halitosis and trench foot.

  First thing in the morning, I called HQ, tried to find Aneko. She had left, but had also left a message for me. Really? The message was a phone number. I called it, and got a non-committal older woman, who finally admitted that she was the right contact, and that somebody would be in touch with me. I was left with the feeling that we were dealing with real professionals. Glad somebody was. Which reminded me of that drunk William Doyle, the AEFS historian in Verkhneudinsk. Good chance he would like an office job in the rear. And he did seem to know his business. Make a note. Send to Ray Reynolds. Next?

  The phone rang. “Speak of the devil, Ray. I was…”

  “Look, Miles, we need some recon. And we need to know what you thought about Qinang-dao.”

  “Who? Oh, the port. Not much to it. But it was dark. Didn’t see much. A few Chinese troops. They just wanted their bribe money.”

  “That’s what Aneko said. Can we trust her?”

  “As long as we do what she wants us to do. Sure.”

  “That’s about what the General figured. And that Ulan Bator place? You get a good look at that?”

  “I didn’t see any major troops there. But they are Mongols. I think you should play nice. They could fuck you up.” I am good at stating the obvious.

  “No tanks?”

  “No. Lots of trucks.”

  “Okay. Close enough. We will send you out there in a few days, take some pictures from the air. There is an air field near there?”

  “Xilin Gol? Five hundred miles is near?”

  “Have to do. We are modifying a plane for you, hang in there.”

  Great. Meanwhile…Maeve took off to do airplane stuff, while I tried to figure out what the hell I thought I was doing, or at least how to look like I knew what I was doing. Appearances are so important. I found my list of things to do, first on the list was “flivvers”. I got Lupo and Peaches, Lupo was groggy but awake, we loaded up in my staff car, and had the driver take us to the DAT House. I had expected it to be empty, but it was a hive of activity, Jimmy Bolton trying to be in three places at once, up to his armpits in paperwork, five bays of mechanics clanging wrenches. Most of the DAT trucks were gone, but there were crews out in the lot washing cosmoline off of lines of unboxed T Model Fords, Dodge Brothers one ton trucks, and even a few nice looking Maxwell touring cars.

  Ruined buildings had been knocked down, and the resulting lots, which reached all the way back to the old Machine Shop, were packed with those tanks, all raw rusting steel, waiting cleaning, painting, and crews, I supposed. At least now I knew where all those damn convoys were coming from. Jimmy remembered me, or said he did, and signed a chit that allowed me to have “up to and including” ten trucks, of my choice. We took two Fords and a Maxwell, we needed runabouts, and back we went. At least Peaches and Lupo did, I decided to check out some of the other action in this newly bustling city of Dalny, USA. I took the Maxwell. Self starter and everything.

  The Sisterhood was armed, dangerous, and busting with activity. Troops in that blue-gray fabric were drilling in the yards around the building, lots were being cleared, and more trucks parked neatly. It looked like somebody was preparing to move out someplace, and I wondered how the Mongols were going to like Ruby and her dikes. Fuck’m, they couldn’t take a joke, right? I decided that discretion was the better part of none of my damn business, and none of the sentries looked amenable to any line of improvised bullshit, which was all I had to offer.

  A little way down the road, the Cannery was locked down, a few guards at the doors, more on the roof, AA and machine gun nests. I did ask, and the guard, who recognized me from someplace, allowed that Sovine and his brigade had moved out up the Line a few days ago, and there was nobody left but a training cadre of men too old or beat up to play infantry games. “We are supposed to get another draft of Section Five guys to whip into shape, but they have to be deloused and sorted out up at Hei-shi Reef Bay.” I must have looked dumb, he said, “You know, the Ferry Landing.”

  “Really? Moving fast here.”

  “No shit. And the boys we are getting now are in even worse shape than we were. It’s getting rough as a motherfucking rat’s ass back in the States.”

  “Yeah. You heard about Canada and Mexico?”

  “Yeah, but naw, I’m talking about New York and Pittsburg. The coal c

  ountry. Cleaning all the Polacks out. Some of the Krauts too. Socialists… You know. It’s a fucking mess back home.”

  “I’ll check it out.” I reached into my pocket. “Here’s twenty. Come see me at my office. Upstairs above the USAS HQ. Another twenty if you show. If I’m not there, ask for Peaches, or Sam Browning. We want you to tell us everything you heard about what’s going on there in the States. Could be a steady job. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. You got it.” I finally remembered his name, Oblenski. He had been in the Machine Shop.

  “Sovine up the Line?”

  “Yeah. A few more days.”

  “Okay, Oblenski, you’re hired.”

  >>>>>>>

  Might as well finish my rounds. The Feniks was jumping, most of the men there were black, that giant Remus, excuse me, Colonel Remus, was holding court like an African king. But his people were dressed in USA uniforms, if modified to suit the individual whims of the occupant, everybody was armed, and all the rifles were clean and well handled. You can tell. Squads of men were drilling hay-foot straw-foot style in every vacant lot all along the main road.

  It looked like they had taken over some of the less battered houses nearby and were building a village, if not quite an infantry post. There were lots of women, mostly Chinese, a few blacks, with more than a sprinkling of whites of all flavors. Rations and stability were strong draws. Lots of healthy-looking children running around out of control, always a good sign. I had a beer, a few words with Old Wu, made sure to think him for his help with the diver women, gave him my number in case he came up with any tidbits… He was at gossip central after all. I realized I needed to think up a name for my outfit, anything with the word “Intelligence” in it was not going to fly, thanks to John Hoover and his band of bully boys. “Survey?” Not quite. “Recon Squad?” Maybe. Words are important.

  But as soon as I got a good look at the harbor, all those literary quibbles left my mind. A huge warship was tied to the dock on the other side of the Eiben’s berth, crews of workers swarming over her barnacle-encrusted hull and upper words, grinding sparks and welding torches fitfully visible in the morning sun. Out in the harbor, Epstein’s improvised dry-dock was cradling a newly raised ship, and it looked like the old sunken dry-dock was higher in the water, its deck awash. It was also covered in workers. There was a tidy smaller ship out in the bay, it was flying both the Japanese and American ensigns. The light dawned.

  I found Stearns, he was putting back to the dock with a load of passengers, and to my joy, one of them was Commander Epstein. He saw me and waved. “Congratulations on your new hot seat, Major Kapusta, butt getting warm already?”

  “You should talk. I see your Japs have arrived.”

  “And even better,” he said, “my USN Salvage crew is just a day or two out. Then the fur will fly.” He rattled up the ladder, much better shape than I am, even if he is older, and slapped my shoulder in lieu of a salute. “We have lifted the Takasago.” He pointed to the warship next to us.

  “A battleship?”

  “Not a dreadnaught, but useful enough. A Protected Cruiser, 4,160 long tons displacement, almost 400 feet long, 48 foot beam. Reciprocating engines, twin screws, British made, Armstrong Whitworth shipyards in Elswick. She used to do twenty-seven knots. Won’t do tha
t anymore, not with the boilers fouled with marine life, and her bottom made out of concrete. But her guns are fine, two sixes, ten five inchers, and a dozen twelve pounders. Most of those will be put to other uses, but she will serve her purpose.”

  “Which is?” I felt forced to ask.

  “Ahh… that would be telling. Patience is a virtue.”

  “I hate you, you know.”

  “How about I buy you lunch, will I be forgiven?”

  “Depends on the bill of fare.”

  “Steak and eggs.”

  “Buddy.”

  >>>>>>>>

  He had managed to arrange a proper mess out on his HQ ship, one hull of the improvised dry-dock, which had been christened the “Abshaw,” for some reason I never heard. He even had finagled white linen tablecloths. “A little morale boost,” he said. I noticed that the china and silverware was decorated with Imperial Japanese chrysanthemums.

  “Donations?” I asked.

  He winked, “Salvage. The old Imperial Navy did all right for themselves. Feel how heavy the silver is.”

  “So, if you won’t tell me what the Takasago is going to be used for, what can you tell me?”

  “I can ask the same question in reverse. You are the Intelligence Head, what is going on out there?”

  “Up the Line?” He just nodded. “A mess. We flew out there, were bombed twice, once at Angarsk Airfield, and then again at Verkhneudinsk. There are a lot of tunnels and bridges on the Line at the south end of Lake Baikal, they think they can hold the Krauts there. Bradley is supposedly improvising gunboats on the Lake, and it looks like he is holding them at Irkutsk.”

  “I know about the gunboats. That’s where the smaller guns from the Takasago are headed as fast as I can dismount them. The bigger ones are going on armored trains.”

  “You’re a busy little beaver.”

  “You have seen nothing yet. I promise you that.”

  “I am mostly worried that the Germans are going to outflank Bradley to the south, hook around and cut the Line at this place called Chita. Or come up through Ulan Bator to Verkhneudinsk. That’s the way we got out. An easy ride.”