Brown Bear Blues by Stephen Wishnevsky

Author:Stephen Wishnevsky [Wishnevsky, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-08-11T04:00:00+00:00

I nodded. “I understand. And those armored trains carry guns, troops, and even airplanes. Tough babies.”

“Airplanes?”

“Yeah, I saw them with my own eyes. They have like steam catapults, shoot these little pursuit jobs right into the air in split seconds. The krauts never saw what hit them. Teals, they call the planes.”

“Something new then?” The head honcho asked. He was a battered old captain with a million miles on him, looked to have come up through the ranks.

“They call them canards, have the motor in the back. I don’t know how much I am supposed to say about that, no offense.”

“None taken. I wish we had more support up here. No place to hide on these goddamned prairies, fucking dive bombers can spot you a hundred miles away. It’s a real slog up here. Not as bad as France, but no fun at all.”

“You got those Rocket Clusters?”

“Yeah, they help, make those bastards flinch, but it’s the stress, the wear and the tear on the troops. Ten hour shifts driving, dust, smoke, all that crap. That and trying to keep an eye open for those tricky bastards, it wears you down. But fuck it.”

“There is a war on.” Always ready with a cliché. And a drink. I signaled to the orderly, bought a round. Part of the job. And a good way to get people to open up and talk. Some tricks always work. Didn’t get much more factual information, we wound up talking about women and the trouble they get us dumb ass men in. Typical bull session.

I passed out in the back of the Estate Wagon not long after, Sidney was racked out in the front seat already. He snored, but it didn’t let that bother me one bit. The traffic and the sound of distant artillery was as good as a lullaby, as tired as I was. I fell asleep trying to figure what percentage of my life I had spent within the sound of guns. Close to twenty percent, as best as I could figure.

>>>>>>>>

The morning was up and at’em. We grabbed a plate of eggs, motored up to get our papers checked in at HQ, and get whatever they used for a press pass. Major Walker had been there before we got there, the rails were nicely greased for us. Somebody had a day-old copy of the Express, Hilda had sent back some shots of the Colombian Canal, a bit touristy, but not badly composed. No word from George, but Hilda had the PAS to run her reports back, George was probably on a motorbike someplace in the fucking desert.

We went on up to where we could get a sniff of the battle; it was a slog, as reported. Tanks spreading out over the Prairie, leaving long stringers of dust in the air, filthy infantry dragging their asses back out of the shit on foot, fresh troops being trucked into the battle. A chatty MP sergeant told us, “The doughs are just consolidating the gains, entrenching, digging bunkers, all that shit.

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