THE STORY SO FAR: PART 69

LIFE IS PECULIAR, BIZARRE & INNATELY UNPREDICTABLE; BUT YOU HAVE GOT TO ADMIT IT IS INTERESTING—OR IS IT FRIGHTENING (ESPECIALLY FOR GENERALS)?

I have been thinking of plans recently because mine have been disrupted by various recent events—though I am less concerned than I would have been in the past because I’ve built up enough experience to appreciate that: “Man plans and the gods laugh.”

Also, the word “unpredictable” embraces good news as well as bad—and I have recently received some good news. So we are back to the merits of equanimity. Cool is cool.

In some ways, I’m surprised the word ‘plan’ exists in the English language because it is (mostly) my experience that few plans survive contact with real people; primarily because real living people are a mass of wants, insecurities, irrationalities, ignorance, plain bloody mindedness, and panic–and most don’t think too rationally, even on a good day.

In fact, there is an old English expression to that effect: “There is nowt so daft as folks!” Unless it is generals.

Forgive my subconscious. The damn thing seems to have a mind of its own. Frankly, I am decidedly upset by recent developments because I don’t think Dave Petraeus has earned such ignominy; and I know a few other generals, who I regard as friends, who deserve better than to be caught in the fallout. On the other hand, I regard this tendency of many generals to regard themselves as rock stars—with attendant sycophants and groupies—as ridiculous; and sycophancy is virtually de rigeur in the Officer Corps. That, in many cases, is how you get promoted. You become a senior officer’s aide; gratify his every whim; agree with his every utterance; and your reward is promotion—the only that matters to the careerist.

Since it is in the nature of those with an original cast of mind to resist such toadying behavior, the result is promotion by the mediocre of the mediocre; and the filtering out of true talent. A further truth: True talent is knowledgeable, questioning, critical, generally difficult to manage—and decidedly neither “clubbable” nor conformist. In short, leading and commanding talent (especially in war) requires outstanding generalship—which, for the reasons explained—is exactly what we are missing, in all too many cases. Are there exceptions? Of course there are, because mediocrity knows full well that there is no substitute for, at least, some talent in times of crisis. But such outstanding people, generally speaking, tend to be shoved aside when the shooting stops; or when being considered for the next promotion. True talent tends to be used—and dropped.

It is a self-perpetuating system that works much better—in terms of advancement—than achievements in combat. In fact, in a world where promotion is prized so highly—because virtually all incentives are based upon it—genuine achievement in combat can work against the warrior. Why so? Because he or she makes the headquarters careerists feel uncomfortable.  To illustrate the point, despite the extraordinary courage demonstrated again and again at the sharp end by our troops in both Iraq and Afghanistan, note the small number of Medals of Honor that have been awarded. This is not an accident. It reflects the mindset of a culture.

And yet there is precedent for the general as celebrity—albeit significantly different where sex was involved. Consider where the Duke of Wellington was just prior to the Battle of Waterloo. He was attending a ball in Brussels given by the Duchess of Richmond—and certainly had rock star status, and aristocratic groupies to match; whom he put to much practical enjoyable physical use . However, he had the good sense, when threatened later in life to having his sexual activities exposed, to say: “Publish and be damned.” He rightly regarded an active sex life as no more than normal; and it certainly did not interfere with his fighting spirit in any way.

Could it be he might be a better role model for U.S. Army generals? He was certainly more successful in war; and, though not without faults, the man was decidedly not a hypocrite. In contrast, hypocrisy is endemic to the culture of the U.S. Army Officer Corps. It preaches one thing—Honor, Duty, Country—and its members practice another. And the Army as a whole has a disconcerting tendency to win battles, and lose wars. Yet the one and only unforgivable sin of a general, is to lose a war. Such a truth is self evident, and why we ignore it, defeats me. Korea, Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan should have taught us something.

But we were betrayed by the politicians and the American public did not support us is the defense. Well, if that was the case we shouldn’t have gone to war in the first place—and the more senior generals should have anticipated that. Arguing I was just following orders lost credibility as a defense during the Nuremburg trials after World War II. But, a more fundamental point is that senior generals—who inhabit the nexus of the military and the political—are supposed to be able to anticipate and communicate the consequences of their actions; and to communicate them with courage and vigor. That is their duty. Do they do that as matters stand? The evidence would suggest that not only do they not; but all too many are not competent to do so. Conclusion: We desperately need better generals—and the information that (mostly) they kept their pants zipped is really not much of a consolation because their sex lives, or the lack, are irrelevant to the real issues.

It is also worth noting that generals Pershing, Patton, Gavin and Eisenhower (to name but a few) screwed like bunny rabbits—with women other than their wives—and yet played major roles in winning World War II. In short the attempt of Uniform Code of Military Justice to regulate against a completely normal and healthy human activity is foolish in the extreme, and almost certainly undermines National Security rather than enhances it; both because it is a major distraction, and because it criminalizes aspects of sexual behavior—and thus opens the door to blackmail.

In passing, I would like to point out that the Duke was Anglo-Irish (my background, I am proud to say) and that he had a profoundly realistic view of plans. They are a worthy attempt to anticipate the future but they rarely survive contact with the enemy. When asked by his second in command, Uxbridge, for his plans as to how he intended to defeat Napoleon, he merely replied: “Why sir, to beat the French.”

Mind you, he also remarked—in relation to his Irish background—“Being born in a stable does not make one a horse.”

Frankly—where the “nowt so daft” comment is concerned, I don’t think it comes close. I think it is highly probable that we are all certifiably crazy. But, then again, “we” are doing the certifying—which makes no sense. On the other hand, if “we” are all we’ve got, perhaps it does. Besides, since when was sense the determinant?

The true irony is that despite all our manifest flaws, we also have a habit of displaying extraordinary fortitude; and of doing some really good things—and thus we stumble forward; and we call this progress.

Damnably confusing, wouldn’t you say?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 68

VISUAL THINKING: THE EDUCATION OF A WORDSMITH

I’m sitting here somewhat stunned at present at what I have learned from my little experiment at trying to turn the main elements of my Marketing Plan—for books, needless to say—into a graphic which would fit on a single page. I’d show you the end result but, being my first attempt, it is still a little crude; and, anyway, it is secret. 

In effect, I have been trying to turn the guts of a 70 page plan into a single page without having any real experience of visual presentations. Back in pre-history, when I was in business, PowerPoint hadn’t been invented—as of course you will know, we mostly drew on cave walls in those days—and once I committed to writing, I focused on words rather than graphics; and found them quite hard enough. They are deceptively tricky little things. They look so mundane and innocent, and yet they can reduce the strongest to despair; and, occasionally to suicide. That transition from the brain to the page seems so simple—because, after all, if you can speak, you clearly have more than a passing familiarity with language—and yet it’s a skill which we authors will still feel we need to improve as our coffin lids are being screwed into place.

NOTE TO SELF: Instruct estate to bury me with my laptop, a couple of bottles of wine—and do not forget a corkscrew. Perhaps vampires are really authors who feel they need the extra time to polish their craft. One normal lifetime really isn’t enough to master the writing game.

Ironically, I had always thought of myself as a visual thinker if only because when I imagine a scene, it always appears in my mind as if it was a movie which becomes clearer and clearer the more I work on it.

Well, I have been humbled by my little experiment—not because I failed at it—but because I succeeded; and I am now wondering why I never gave my brain that kind of workout before. In effect, turning words into graphics—the reverse of what I have trained myself to do for decades—was rather like exercising muscles which had been decidedly underused. You end up tired—and perhaps a little sore—but pleased you made the effort; and perhaps rather excited at discovering a capability you could add to your skill set.

I am now wondering how I can deploy this approach to creative advantage. One of its many attractions is that whereas a book is essentially linear, if you are dealing with shapes in a program like VISIO, you can locate them wherever you want, and move then with ease. After that, one could progress to three dimensional graphic experimentation…

Incidentally, one of best examples of a graphic communicating the essence of a whole story is Minard’s visual showing Napoleon’s invasion of Russia. I haven’t the space to display it adequately here (see above top), but I strongly suggest you Google it if you haven’t seen it before. It’s a work of genius—the visual, NOT the invasion. Where the invasion is concerned, Napoleon set out with approaching half a million men, and returned with 10,000. Careless of the man.

I also recommend an interesting site WWW.OAKTREE.US which features some excellent pieces by Rob Oakes on Visual Thinking and other matters.

 

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 67

DAVE PETRAEUS HAS ALWAYS TREATED ME VERY DECENTLY, SO I HATE WHAT THE MAN MUST BE GOING THROUGH. HE DESERVES BETTER.

I first met Dave back in the early Nineties when he was commanding a brigade in the 82nd Airborne Division. At the time I was researching THE DEVIL’S FOOTPRINT and, as luck would have it, his brigade exec, LTC Tony Tata, was tasked to be my guide and mentor (and a pretty good job he did too).

One evening, in the nearly deserted Officer’s Club in Fort Bragg, Tony explained to me the notion that U.S. Army officers were held to a higher standard because they considered themselves the guardians of a higher set a values than those of the public at large; and, given that code, sexual misbehavior was just plain unacceptable.

I recall being somewhat incredulous, both because I thought it presumptuous of the Army Officer Corps to regard itself as superior, and because I tend to regard ones sexual proclivities and conduct as a private matter unless they intrude on another in an aggressive way—rape being the obvious example.

Tony held his ground so I returned to my hotel in a state of mild shock—and rather glad I was civilian. I also thought what I had heard was ridiculous. Human nature is human nature, and will not be stopped; and much the same can be said about infidelity. But, then again, I’m a European—and Irish at that—and as everyone knows we are a degenerate lot. That said, I am biased towards the view that there is a great deal to be said for tolerance.

Even at that time Dave had quite a reputation, and I well remember the commanding general, a rather marvelous man called George Crocker—a major general at that time—singing Dave’s praises because he not only been on a night exercise, but he had turned up for the morning run, and subsequent duties, as if he had had a solid night’s sleep—instead of having having to parachute into the darkness.

Subsequently, I either met Dave, or talked to him on the phone, on a number of occasions, partly because General Jack Keane, his mentor, fostered our relationship, and partly because I rather liked the man. On the one hand, some of his peers considered him to be overly ambitious, if not downright opportunistic, but I found him to be thoughtful, intelligent and personally pleasant—so I dismissed such criticisms. Besides, it was hard to encounter an Army officer who wasn’t ambitious to a fault—the lure of a star being seemingly irresistible; and careerism being endemic to the culture.

Subsequently, Dave edited a book of mine, GETTING TO KNOW THE WARFIGHTERS, an action I deeply appreciated. His immortal words after that session—scarcely a trivial task—were: “Victor, have you ever heard of the comma?” As a consequence, not only do I pay more attention to punctuation these days, but I have even discovered the semi-colon! In short, Dave furthered my writing education. Given my passion for my craft, I took that most kindly. However, I will admit to relief that he did not invite me to go running. David is a physical fitness fanatic—despite being shot once, and having his back injured when his parachute failed to open properly. This is not a trivial man.

What is not generally known—although it needs to be—is that for some time the U.S. Army has had a problem with its generals. The reasons for that are something I will write about some other time, but if you need evidence to support that statement, look no further than the conduct of our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan since 9/11. This is not to say that all our generals are useless—a few are exceptionally talented—but more to make the basic point that the general officer corps as a whole is weak, and that we could well have been in much more serious trouble but for a small group of extremely talented officers—arguably best epitomized by General Dave Petraeus.

This isn’t to say that he did everything perfectly, or that the final results of Iraq and Afghanistan will be even close to what we would wish, but more to say he took on a very difficult situation in Iraq and achieved a better result than anyone at the time thought possible; and he more than did his duty in Afghanistan despite considerable political constraints. But both were, and remain, impossible situations which we should never have become involved in in the first place.

It therefore saddens me greatly to see someone who has served his country with such talent and fidelity—both in the Army and subsequently—brought low by such a normal and common human failing as having an affair. Good grief! We should cut the man some slack. Yes, of course he was a damn fool—and his wife deserves our sympathy—but Dave deserves our thanks for his service, not our criticism for an all too common human failing.

I hope President Obama has the good sense and the compassion to haul General David Petraeus back into public service—and soon. Talent, such as his, is in exceedingly short supply, and if it is true that one learns more from one’s mistakes than one’s successes, then Dave be should formidable indeed by the time he recovers.

Meanwhile, the man deserves some understanding, a chance to rest, and peace.

 

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 66

ISRAEL & THE ENTEBBE RAID

I have been a supporter of Israel for as long as I can remember—not because I believe in all their policies—but because I was born in 1944 and was brought up being made fully aware both of the Holocaust, and of the wider historical context. Simply put, the West, as a whole (something we tend to choose to forget), had treated the Jews abominably for centuries. Given the totality of all this, of course the Jews deserved their own country—and where else could it be but Israel? It seemed to be no more than natural justice; and I haven’t changed my opinion.

No small part of my awareness came from the fact that my much loved grandmother, Vida Lentaigne, was not just active in helping Jews who fled from the Nazis, but she frequently had refugees to stay at the farm in Ireland where I spent so many of my summers. They made quite an impact on me. All treated me kindly, but what really impressed me was how practical they were. They knew how to get things done in a way that eluded my high-minded, but decidedly impractical, grandmother.

Where they all went subsequently, I have no idea—which is something I regret. But such activities mostly occurred in the Forties, when I was pretty small, so I guess the fact that I didn’t keep a Rolodex can be excused.

I was reminded of all this because I say an old movie called Thunderbolt over the weekend. It told the story of the Entebbe raid—one of the most remarkable, and successful, special operations missions in history.

In brief, in 1976, after an Air France aircraft was hijacked by terrorists, and over a hundred Jewish passengers threatened with death (other passengers were let go), an Israeli force flew over 2,500 miles to Entebbe in Uganda and rescued most of them despite opposition from the terrorists themselves and Ugandan forces.

All seven hijackers were killed together with forty-five Ugandan soldiers. Four hostages were also killed. The Israelis lost only their commander, Lieutenant Colonel Yonatan Netanyahu (illustrated above), the brother of the current Israeli prime minister. Why were they so successful? Brilliant planning; surprise; outstanding execution; and simplicity—all backed up some extraordinarily talented soldiers. Two other factors are worth emphasizing: Daring—the guts to even attempt such a mission; and seemingly effortless inter-service cooperation.

Years later, I was privileged to meet, and interview at length, one of the Israeli Sayeret Matkal commandos at a Special Operations exhibition in Tampa, Florida. What he told me will have to await my memoirs.

You know, being an author has its issues—chronic financial insecurity being just one of them—but you meet some interesting people in my line of work.

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 65

IT’S GETTING COLD. STILL, ANOTHER SMALL PIECE OF THE JIGSAW THAT IS MY PUBLISHING PLAN HAS DROPPED INTO PLACE

I guess I was spoiled by our long stretch of beautiful days and balmy temperatures. But Seattle has seasons and is prone to remind one of that fact with some vigor. Today was beautiful, but chilly. Cold is a better word.

When I was researching the U.S. Army, I sat through so many PowerPoint briefings, that I grew to hate the things. However, to be fair to Microsoft, PowerPoint can be quite effective if properly used—which it rarely is.

In fact a military friend of mine, who once worked for the Chief of Staff of the Army once unkindly commented that the only thing the generals he briefed seemed to understand were the actual dots that started each bullet point. The content invariable eluded them. Mind you, given the Army’s aversion to using the English language with any clarity—acronyms are always preferred—that may not be so surprising.

But me get back to my personal interest in the graphical expression of ideas. I seem to have picked a Saturday to work it out. Saturday is my self-designated day of rest which normally means I work, but kid myself that I don’t have to—and makes me feel that I can explore things that interest me with a clear conscience. There is a great deal to be said for moderate self-delusion.

Today, I decided to tackle summarizing a Marketing Plan graphically instead of in words. Being a writer I tend to be biased towards words (to put it mildly) but I was dealing with something, which, although not innately complicated, still contained more elements that I seemed to be able to remember with ease. In effect, my brain was letting me down. I could recall X but needed to remember Y.  What to do? Panic—always an appealing option—somehow eluded me.

For the hell of it, I decided to experiment with a flow chart yet again, or something of that ilk. Now, for some reason I have never got on with such things in the past—and when in business always delegated them. (as with spreadsheets). But this time around, I was stuck with me—a “bear of little brain” at times, if I may quote from Winnie The Pooh.

I hunted around the web and ended up with a program called Visio which had the added advantage of being free. I expected I would fail because I have never got on with such an approach; and I have experimented more times than I care to admit. To make it worse, I started badly because not only did I not know the program, but I have never learned the basic concepts.

To my absolute amazement, I have ended up with exactly what I was looking for. For some weird reason, I have been able to do something which has consistently defied me in the past.

The mind is a funny thing. You think you are stuck, and then suddenly: EUREKA! Could it be that all this intense focus on writing has relevance elsewhere. I’m increasingly beginning to think it has. In fact, I tend to think of writing as a cognitive force multiplier.

Mind you, I still haven’t had breakfast—and it is now late evening. But the struggle was fun.

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 64

THE WRITER AS TORTOISE

My publishing project seems to be taking so long, I sometimes think I should adopt a tortoise as a logo! However, though I have made my share of mistakes, in most cases there are good reasons for the time I’m taking (though some could better described as utterly frustrating—for want of a blunter phrase—and a few as bad luck).

They start off with the fact that I’d prefer to do things right rather than fast; and they are followed by the reality that my resources are currently very limited (the main reason). Besides, I’m rather fond of tortoises so don’t really approve of referring to them in a pejorative way.

Tortoises proceed at their own deliberate pace, are armored against the vicissitudes of life, are of a kindly and non-destructive disposition, treat the environment with respect, generally speaking seem rather content, and live to a ripe old age. Would that we humans could do as well.

For all that, I am not sure that that a tortoise symbol would be right for a thriller author—even though it might well seem to apply to my sense of time on more than a few occasions. Thrillers are supposed to be pacey,  fast-moving, and exciting—and I would like to think that my thrillers are just that—so I’m not sure a tortoise would have the right associations. Still, I shall cogitate on the matter at the appropriate speed. Tortoises advance—when they advance—at the truly mind-blowing pace of 0.17 mph. Not may people know that.

The truth is that I do have a rather strange sense of time by conventional standards—though I have to say that it suits me. Of course, mostly I don’t think it is strange, because it is how I think and live—but every now and then one of my more conventional friends will rap my knuckles (or my carapace—to use the technical term for shell) and tell me I should get a move on and do this or that, by this or that date; or I’ll be a disgrace to society and the world will come to an end. I expect tortoises are told much the same thing by mice, dogs, cats and squirrels (though I doubt they pay the slightest bit of attention). Tortoises, as you will know, all practice Yoga and practically define cool.

So how do I describe my strange sense of time? I‘m not sure I know exactly, but I shall make an attempt by giving just a few examples.

For as long as I can remember, I have attached great importance to having large periods of time to myself to read, think and write in. This doesn’t mean I don’t like people—generally speaking, I do—but, as far as I am concerned I don’t feel the need for sustained social interaction and the assurance of my peers, whereas it is clear that most people do. Just to illustrate the point, although I have a cell phone, I rarely use it. Hard to read, think and write when you are talking to someone. Similarly, I don’t feel the need to either send or receive texts. Instead, I find all this discordant immediacy distracting; and normally pointless. On the other hand, I will frequently spend hours writing a single long e-mail to someone I care about.

“But there isn’t time for that sort of thing today!” people cry. Rubbish! in my opinion. It is merely a matter of picking priorities; and there is something special about the long, well-crafted letter. It represents a commitment of thought and time, which, in turn, denote regard; and, depending upon the recipient, much else.

Of course, I occasionally write long letters to thoroughly unpleasant people—but, let’s gloss over all that.

Although I’m well aware of the passing of time in a general sense—and find the seasons handy in that regard—I don’t pay much attention to the passing of days, dates, or deadlines; and sometimes think only a few weeks has passed when actually it has been months. This is not because I am idle—I work longer hours than most. Instead, it is because I am normally focused on whatever I’m doing to the point where the distractions of the outside world are of scant concern. Some people regard that as selfish. I don’t think it is anything of the sort. It is merely that there are some tasks—like writing well—which are extraordinarily difficult to accomplish without absolute focus; and achieving focus is desperately hard.

Perhaps because I regard both life and history as raw material—and this is fundamental—I don’t suffer from the collective amnesia which seems to be such a feature of modern American life, and regard context as extraordinarily important. How can anyone understand life, and the reasons for just about anything, without context? Accordingly, I don’t think of ten or twenty years as long ago; or even a historical event such as World War II. To me the past is a fascinating continuum of rich memories which I try to keep as freshly cultivated as I can.

Clearly, I would be a disaster in a time sensitive job such as pilot, bus driver, surgeon, marathon runner—or in a time critical military mission—but I am, quite deliberately, none of these things; and in my own way, sayand in my own time, I do get things done.

I expect the Tortoise said something like that to the Hare after the Tortoise had won the race. Of course, if he was an Irish tortoise, he would probably say: “Come and have a drink.”

We are—and there is much merit in this statement—a drinking culture; and appropriately social, friendly, and outgoing—with a literary tradition to match. In fact, it would be largely accurate to say that the Irish read themselves to freedom.

And that is no small thing. It is mighty.

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 63

DINNER WITH (AND POSSIBLY FOR) A DRAGON

Recalling war stories, as I have been doing recently, reminds me of one of the more unusual evenings I have spent in my life. It all arose from a Special Operations exhibition in Fayetteville, North Carolina, which I was attending as part of an effort to educate myself in the weird and wonderful ways of the U.S. military. A colleague once called the U.S. Army “A curious anthropological institution” and I have never heard a finer description. That said, I have no idea precisely what he meant by it, but I can certainly relate to the word “curious.”

Fayetteville is Fort Bragg’s home-town and Fort Bragg is home to the 82nd Airborne, Delta Force, and sundry Special Force’s units.  Lump all that highly trained violence together and the consequences can be—for want of a better word—unpredictable.

During my various visits to Fort Bragg, I met all kinds of interesting people including a Special Forces sergeant who I will call David Burns. David and I had various adventures—most involving unusual characters and weaponry—which will have to await my memoirs, but the most outrageous occurred when I was invited to dinner at his home. There I found that he had a formidable collection of ferocious pets—including a vast iguana. And as an aside, I should probably mention that his TV had a fresh bullet-hole.through its screen. David was a man of direct action.

Now, iguanas, I’ll have you know, can run to six feet, nose to tail, and weigh well over twenty pounds, and they look—for want of a better phrase—decidedly scary; and as if they want you to be their next meal.

Nonetheless, just to liven things up, David brought his iguana into the dining room—just as his wife was serving dinner—and then, for my entertainment, put it on his head. I doubt he had ever done that particular party trick before, because the next thing was that the humungous iguana, who wasn’t used to being treated as headgear, and was feeling insecure on this small landing zone, dug his claws deep into David’s scalp to avoid falling.

Head wounds bleed dramatically and alarmingly, so blood spurted and a more bizarre sight would be hard to imagine as multiple streams of gore flowed down David’s face, making him look as if he was undergoing some medieval torture. But Green Berets are not put off by such minor details. David didn’t swear or shoot the beast—though he was armed and I have more than a suspicion that the thought crossed his mind—but instead displayed commendable stoicism.

Later, he put the dragon on the floor, cleaned himself up, and we ate a very enjoyable meal—although I was somewhat distracted by this monster hovering less than two feet away. I couldn’t avoid the feeling that after I had finished my chicken, the iguana was going to take a bite out of me; and maybe come back for seconds. Appreciate that in Ireland, where I come from, we don’t even have snakes (other than the human variety). Saint Patrick drove them out.

And so, my readers, when you think of my books, and wonder where I got this or that detail, appreciate that I am prepared to dine with dragons in order to hold your interest—and have.