THE STORY SO FAR: PART 76

‘BLOODY’ BURMA—A PART OF WORLD WAR II THAT FEW KNOW ABOUT, AND MOST FORGET

It’s a sad thing that so many people are ignorant of history because life makes little sense unless you know what has gone before; or such is my opinion. Others may have a different perspective.

Burma loomed large in my life, not just because of my grandmother’s happy memories and because it had been my mother’s country of birth, but also because it had been the scene of intense combat between the British and the Japanese during World War II,and because one of my relations, Lieutenant General Walter ‘Joe’ Lentaigne, a former Gurkha officer, had not only distinguished himself there—but had commanded the Chindits after Wingate was killed.

Wikipedia contains a graphic description of Joe Lentaigne’s courage:

He (Joe Lentaigne) soon gained a legendary name for bravery. "Once this bespectacled giant had his revolver kicked out of his hand in a hand-to-hand scrap with four Japs. he tore the sword from the leader's hand and killed him with it; then, turning on the others, hewed one to the ground and chased the other two back into the jungle. Another time, when the Japanese had captured an ambulance convoy, a wounded officer in one of them heard a noise which he described as like the roaring of the Bull of Bashan. It was Joe Lentaigne arriving. He had charged ahead of his Gurkhas and arrive first, killing several Japs before they caught up with him. The ambulances were saved."

‘Bloody Burma’ indeed! Joe Lentaigne is illustrated above. Somehow he doesn’t really look like a killer, but he certainly seems to have been one. Much of the fighting in Burma took place in the jungle at close quarters and under terrible conditions. Disease was rife, and because supply was so difficult, malnutrition was a serious problem.

Wingate, himself, was an odd duck by military standards, but he was also a truly remarkable warrior. In the late 1930s, while serving with the British Army in Palestine, he helped to train Jewish settlers—who were being raided by Arabs at the time—to fight back and generally take the initiative. In that way, he became, in effect, one of the founders of the Israeli Defense Forces. And he also got kicked out of Palestine by the British.

Though still a comparatively junior British Army officer, he then went on to be instrumental in driving the Italians out of Ethiopia—a truly extraordinary military achievement just in itself.

But he is probably best known for creating the Chindits—a special unit which was established to penetrate deeply behind Japanese lines, and which was to be supplied solely by air. The objectives were to destabilize the Japanese by threatening their lines of communication, and to make it impossible for them to invade India from Burma.

The success of the Chindit concept remains a matter of debate—they had a profound effect on the enemy but took terrible casualties—and Wingate himself was killed in a plane crash in 1944.

My great uncle Major General Joe Lentaigne (who sadly I never met) was then appointed to take over the Chindits and he commanded them until they were disbanded in 1945.

Coincidentally, Major General Wingate’s son was a classmate when I was at Ampleforth College—the celebrated Catholic school run by Benedictine monks which, as it happens, also educated David Stirling, the legendary founder of Britain’s SAS Regiment.

The foundation of the SAS is such a great story that I have fictionalized it and included it in my fourth Fitzduane novel, THE BLOOD OF GENERATIONS.

The name “Chindit” is an English corruption of the Burmese word “Chinthe” describing a mythical lion.

Great name. Great deeds. Great unit. It seems to me it would be a sad thing, indeed, to forget about them.

When at Ampleforth, I am not sure we all believed the stories of  young Wingate. However, we got a lesson when the Emperor of Ethiopia arrived in London for a state visit, and then invited our classmate, Orde Wingate, to visit with him. It transpired that the emperor was young Wingate’s god-father.

All in all, I’m rather proud of the family’s Burmese connections.

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 75

IT’S A GREAT THING TO SEE BURMA EMERGING FROM DECADES OF DICTATORSHIP & ISOLATION.

MY GRANDMOTHER WAS IN LOVE THERE—AND IT WAS THERE THAT MY MY MOTHER WAS BORN

I was brought up hearing tales of Burma. My grandmother had loved the place. It had been the location of her near perfect, but very short, marriage—and it was where her adored husband, my grandfather, John Lentaigne, died of cholera.

It was also where her only child, my mother, Josephine “Jojo” Lentaigne, was born. As a consequence, mother’s birth certificate is a spectacular looking document.

Burma might have been a British colony at the time, but Burmese aesthetics won through. This is a rich culture.

Though my grandmother talked about my grandfather many times, I don’t recall the dates with much precision. I guess that is scarcely surprising because I was young, granny was always a little vague, and dyslexia has made my recall of dates somewhat problematic. Nonetheless, I recall the general details of their story very well.

My grandmother, Helen Evelyn Vida Haslam—always known as Vida—came from a rich and privileged background, and was educated to be a lady of leisure, nothing more. That meant that although she was extremely cultured, excelled at poetry, and spoke near perfect French—a consequence of having French governesses—she scarcely know how to boil an egg. Nonetheless, she was a high–minded young lady with a strong social conscience, and during World War I became a VAD (Voluntary Aid Detachment) an organization of nurses’ aides made up patriotic, but decidedly under-trained young women, almost all from either the aristocracy or the the privileged upper classes. If you want to get a general impression of her way of life, look no further than DOWNTON ABBEY.

Granny’s family were not aristocrats. They were rich industrialists who had made their way in cotton; but they lived like aristocrats and soon the borders were blurred. Her father, Lewis Haslam, was an MP (a member of parliament) and a friend of Lloyd George (the British Prime Minister). They had adjacent constituencies and used to travel to London together.

Two well known VADs were Amelia Earhart and Agatha Christie. Despite their lack of formal nursing training, they learned on the job and performed with distinction throughout the war. Many served overseas, and some came under fire. Granny served in France and was deeply affected by her experiences. In addition, most of her male friends – boys she had known while growing up or while as a young woman—were killed or wounded.

Towards the end of the war she met John Lentaigne, a young Ghurkha officer, who had somehow made it through alive. He had a motorcycle and sidecar, which she thought incredibly exciting (in contrast to the family Rolls Royce which seemed rather dull) and soon the pair were married. They spent their honeymoon journeying to Burma by sea, stopping off at one exotic location after another on the way. John, a barrister (trial lawyer) had secured a post with the British Colonial Administration in Rangoon, Burma. He brought with him, apart from his new wife, his Ghurkha man-servant or “batman.”

By all accounts, my grandparents few years in Burma were idyllic. They loved the people, the culture, and the country—and they loved each other. Every day, there was something new to experience, or some exotic location to visit—but, above all, except for the love of her husband—my grandmother loved the Burmese. The people had grace and elegance—and they won her heart for the rest of her natural life. If she was alive today, Aung San Suu Kyi would, I believe, be the epitome of the qualities she admired.

Granny’s favorite Burmese story—which, ironically, did not involve any Burmese—concerned a row between their Chinese cook and her husband’s Ghurkha batman. All was noise until the Ghurkha drew his kukhri—the distinctive blade that all male Ghurkhas carry (or used to carry) and chased the Chinese cook into the distance. Lunch was late that day. Granny, for all her noble aspirations, had a sense of humor.

A confession: When I was still pretty small—probably about three—I chased my much loved nurse, May, around the garden, reportedly clutching a carving knife. May was not hurt, and I have no recollection of the incident.

Granny’s idyllic life came to an end when John contracted cholera. The disease so weakened him that finally he died of pneumonia—but cholera was the cause. Before he died, he asked for two things: Firstly, that granny would convert to his religion—Catholicism—and secondly, that granny would bring up their child, my mother, in Ireland—his native land (although the family was of French origin).

Then he died; and granny left Burma and honored both his wishes. And she loved his memory until she too died.

But she loved talking about Burma. It would lift her heart to tell tales of that wondrous country; and I was just fascinated.

She died in 1976 and broke my heart.

They say you can survive the harshest of upbringings if just one person champions you—and she was my champion.

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 74

LET ME ANSWER A QUESTION I AM ASKED QUITE A LOT: WILL THERE BE MORE HUGO FITZDUANE BOOKS?

AS LONG AS I AM ALIVE—YES!

This piece was prompted by my browsing around the web late at night and running across a site called www.spyguysandgals.com

For some reason I had Googled “Hugo Fitzduane” –something I rarely do.

The following came up:

This series cries out for more adventures. The writing style Mr. O'Reilly brings to the books is refreshingly brisk and engaging. It makes reading his books fun, easy, and compelling. Pretty much what you want in a good yarn. Fitzduane is a character who is tired of violence and who has the luxury of retreating to his private island to get away from it, except it doesn't stay away and how Fitzduane handles the intrusion and the danger to himself and his family and friends makes for a compelling series.
       The first book did not feel at all like a series. It told a complete tale and ended dramatically but firmly. I, for one, was concerned that the ending might be lessened with the coming of the second book, as in "but wait! The bad guy isn't really dead!" I am sorry, Mr. O'Reilly, for doubting you. The return of Fitzduane to action is not only dramatic and exciting, it made sense.
       Well done, sir!

Hugo Fitzduane (pronounced “FITZDWANE”), in case you don’t know, is the protagonist in my first three novels. He is Anglo-Irish, was a soldier in his early twenties, and then resigned his commission to become a war photographer. He both hates war and is fascinated by it—and he comes from a long line of warriors. War—combat—is, so to speak, in his blood. He is also very good at it. For generations past, his ancestors were soldiers and both his parents fought behind enemy lines in WWII. The castle he lives in was built by a Norman knight, a part of the Norman force which invaded Ireland towards the end of the twelfth century. The place has remained in Fitzduane family hands—despite great turbulence—ever since.

A hanging on his island—a suicide on the face of it—has brought Fitzduane into the counterterrorism business. Despite the successful outcome of that adventure, GAMES OF THE HANGMAN, he now finds himself a target for revenge and in a game he cannot leave. RULES OF THE HUNT makes that point with vigor; and THE DEVIL’S FOOTPRINT just re-enforces it.

That apart, he is a thoughtful, sensitive man—of an idealistic, even romantic nature—who would much prefer to be left to his own devices. However, he has character traits which counter his innate desire to have a peaceful life. He is of a curious disposition with an original cast of mind; he, is, fundamentally, a decent man with a desire to do the right thing; and he is extraordinarily determined.

He lives in an old Norman keep on a small, windswept island off the West Coast of Ireland. A keep is, in effect, a rectangular stone tower—think small castle--which was routinely built by the Normans to secure land. First you built a wooden fort, then you built a stone keep—and then you added a courtyard enclosed by a stone wall. After that, you built a smithy, stables, and other utility buildings within the courtyard—and soon you had a self-contained strongpoint that could dominate a given area of land, assuming the castle was adequately manned. Some, like the Fitzduanes, built a pitched roof extension to the main keep which allowed for a Great Hall, a kitchen of size, and other quarters. But Fitzduane’s castle should not be confused with the massive structures that kings built. 

Dotting a conquered land with strongpoints was a very practical system developed by the Normans—an extremely practical people. Add the armor they wore, and the prodigious power of a cavalry charge by massed armored knights, and they were practically unstoppable until gunpowder came on the scene and changed the technology of war. And prior to that, both the longbow and the crossbow did not help—because they could allow any peasant with well developed shoulder muscles (the longbow required years of training) to take out an armored knight. But such skilled bowmen were in short supply so the armored knight reigned supreme for many centuries. After archers became more available, knights with brains brought their archers along too to counter enemy archers—so armor still held sway when it was properly used. The battles of Agincourt and Crecy showed what happened when it wasn’t. The French knights, in both these cases, were slaughtered by the English bowmen

But let us return to the present day. The fundamental point about Hugo—at least as I see him—is that, in essence, he is a knight, and each adventure is a quest. He doesn’t consciously think of his life that way, of course, because he is very much a modern man in many ways—but his values are rooted in his family traditions. They constitute his essence. He has been brought up to preserve the family holdings, to care for those less fortunate than him, and to serve. In practice, he lives such an independent way of life on his island that his loyalty is more abstract than to the Irish state as such—in many ways, he lives, for all practical purposes, in his own world. But, for all his reservations about political corruption, and the direction Ireland the country, as a whole, is taking, he steps up to the plate with a will when asked. At heart, he is a decent and honorable man.

Hugo, while attractive to women, though lucky in war, is unlucky in love. His first wife is killed under appalling circumstances, in the Congo. His long time love, Etan—a TV journalist and anchor—bears him a son, but leaved him for fame. His second  wife, Kathleen, a nurse who cared for him when he was wounded, dies from a hospital contracted infection. Such experiences make Hugo cautious. He has affairs—some with women he is very close to—but he is reluctant to commit. He also knows that because of his counter-terrorism work, every woman he becomes close, becomes—automatically—a target.

Such is Hugo Fitzduane. In truth, I am not sure I liked him much when I created him—I preferred Kilmara—but as I worked on the character, and researched his adventures—my regard increased. Now, three decades later, I regard him as the closest of friends; and no day goes by when I don’t think about him for hours.

Is her real? Of course not—yet in a way he is because he is a compendium of all my friends, and the values I hold in high regard. And these include include a lively sense of humor. The man has both a wit and a good sense of timing.

As to more books, THE BLOOD OF GENERATIONS is due out very shortly—making a total to date of four in the series—and other titles are in development.

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 73

SMALL BABIES AND CATS

Small babies have a habit of making one’s sleep cycle irrelevant. They wake when they wake; and they sleep when they sleep—and the need and desire for others to sleep without interruption is of no consequence to them. All babies are born egomaniacs. Education is primarily about toning down this tendency. It rarely succeeds entirely.

I know this because I am the eldest of twelve children, and the father of five. To express the thing in military terms, “I have seen the elephant”—an expression which means: “I have experienced combat.” I have diapered more small chubby bottoms than I care to think about.

Could it be that cats are worse? Or should I differentiate between cats, in general, and Chris and Jane’s cats in particular? Here’s the thing: Jane likes to get up shortly after 3.00 am—and to conduct her day backwards—so the cats have been conditioned to expect to have their first meal of the day at that hour. In contrast, I have more traditional habit and needs; and, at weekends, I find sleeping until 10.00 am is highly beneficial to my health.

Chester is not remotely concerned with my health. Even when dry cat-food, and plenty of fresh water, are laid out for his satisfaction, he feels entitled to yowl his head off at 3.00 am—and to continue until he is fed soft food (of the kind you get out of a can). He eats both, but prefers meat in gravy so he will engage in torture until his needs are satisfied. He will yowl, he will bash away at the door, and he will try and trip me up when I emerge. When he is not doing all of the above, he likes to knock things down. What things? Any and all things—from a cereal packet to vertical containers. This is a cat who seems dedicated to the horizontal. Yesterday, he managed to knock down a wing chair. It fell against a glass sliding door—the one that leads to the balcony—but did not quite break it. Still, if at first a cat does not succeed…Chester is more than willing to try again. 

I have a mental image of bundling Chester up into a furry ball—he is a very furry cat—and of putting him to good use as a bowling ball in a bowling alley. But, I’m not that cruel.

Instead, I am becoming obsessed with the balcony door. A fall of six stories into the chill waters of Lake Washington in the wee small hours would be as sweet. Nine lives against six stories—followed by drowning? My bet would be on gravity.

I would, of course, have saved him if I had been awake—if the fall hadn’t killed him first—but, naturally enough—if Chester had not been yowling outside my bedroom door, I would have been asleep.

Pity about Chester!

 

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 72

TIME TO REST AND CONSOLIDATE

I was never a cigarette smoker, but I had whooping cough when I was a kid—and pneumonia twice; so I guess it is not surprising I tend to get a hacking cough in the winter. It is the kind that leaves one feeling bruised. And it has returned. Shame on the damn thing. I have work to do.

For all that, it is clear that I need to rest up for a while and consolidate. Working 70 hours a week at my age may be overdoing it a bit—though I enjoy it so much. Either way, illness means I am decidedly not in top physical condition at present, much has been happening, and I need to rest up, recover a bit—and then do a considerable amount of housekeeping. And, of course, I have my guests to look after. Cat Charlie—she of the lightening claws—has decided my chair suits best; and cat Chester is wandering around behaving like Hamlet. His articulation is all too good. It penetrates every nook and cranny. To eat or not to eat. That is a damn fool question.

You would think that feeding Charlie would shut him up, but not a bit of it. This is a cat with lungs, and an urge to demonstrate that fact. Why not? He has nothing else to do.

Who would have thought two cats would be so theatrical—and seemingly classically trained at that? That said, they make this little apartment look remarkably cozy. Frankly, I would like to be tougher with the damn things, but I seem to be something of a softie.

Do not tell.

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 71

DEATH OF A GREAT AMERICAN, A MAN I HAVE ALWAYS HELD IN THE HIGHEST REGARD, AND FOR WHOM I HAVE LONG FELT DEEP RESPECT AND AFFECTION – MY FORMER BOSS, JACK CLARY.

I AM DEEPLY SADDENED.

2011—if you include December 2010 and January 2012—was a terrible year in terms of family members and friends dying. I think the total came to something like 18 in the end; and it affected me profoundly. In fact, it prompted me last Christmas to write to as many friends as possible forbidding them to die in 2012. Tongue in cheek? Of course; but a heartfelt thought nonetheless. Did I mail everybody I wished to? No, there wasn’t time; and, as is the way of things, I had lost contact with some people. But, the best is the enemy of the good—and I couldn’t think of what else to do.

I doubt my wishes have had much to do with it; but, up until a day or so ago, all had survived.  

Less than a couple of hours or so ago, I learned that Jack Clary—John G. Clary of the Addmaster and Clary Corporations—had just died at the age of 86. I guess I should regard that as just the natural order of things, because he led a full, rich, long life and contributed greatly to the community; but I am deeply distressed nonetheless.

Jack, to me, was the archetypical “can do” American of the type who helped to bring victory in World War II, and who then went on to make the U.S. the economic power-house it became. He was an engineer, an innovator, a rugged practical man, and both cautious and daring—but he was also the man who gave me my first big break in my business life; something I have never forgotten.

The situation was that his company, Addmaster, made a highly advanced electric adding machine (such devices were swept away by calculators)and wanted to take advantage of the U.K.’s conversion to decimalization in 1971, but they left it a little late—and anyway had no marketing. In the U.S. almost the entire production of the company, of about a million machines a year, was marketed by Sears, so Addmaster’s expertise was almost completely in product development and production. What to do? They did not even have a single salesman.

Jack Clary sent his Vice-President, Arthur J. Damschen—actually the company treasurer—over to Europe to work something out. Eventually, Art made his way to the London branch of the advertising agency, Doyle, Dane, Bernbach, where I worked, and I suggested doing a survey and coming up with a plan. At the time I was one of the more junior members of the agency; but, since no one else seemed interested, my suggestion was accepted.

After I produced a massive report, Jack and Art grilled me for about  a day. I have never been so thoroughly interrogated—either before or since. After various adventures, that all led to my being asked to found Addmaster U.K. Given that I was only in my mid-twenties, with no experience of a venture of this kind, that was a brave decision indeed by Jack.

The story of Addmaster UK is a tale for another day—but the bottom line is that I was given an unbelievable opportunity, was supported to the hilt—albeit after much debate—and the enterprise became extraordinarily successful. In fact, we achieved total market dominance in the UK despite arriving late, and the product having certain technical limitations. It is a classic marketing case history of achieving success in a declining market against all the odds, and in the face of much better financed opposition. In the context of business—it remains the best thing I have ever done. Somehow Jack and Art managed to harness creativity and balance it with both control and autonomy. It was a significant managerial achievement; and it is extremely unusual. Corporate financial control is normally rigid and authoritarian.

In the process of all this, though I mainly dealt with Art Damschen, who became both a mentor and a friend, I made many trips to California to report and consult, and had numerous meetings and meals with Jack. I came to respect, admire and like him immensely. Not only was he a first-rate engineer and businessman, but he tolerated total disagreement if he thought his opponent—normally me—was arguing in the company’s interests. In short, he knew how to get the best out of his people—a talent that is decidedly less common in today’s adversarial business climate.

Though he always stayed in role as president of the company, he could also be great company socially. He was both an interesting talker—and a good listener; and he had an excellent sense of humor in a crusty sort of a way. 

 On one occasion I nearly got him into a gunfight by insisting we intervene when, while driving back from dinner, we saw a woman being forced into a car on Wiltshire Boulevard. Jack protested, because he was aware of the risks—but then did a U-turn and we went to save the day. By the time the incident was over, guns had been drawn, and I had learned the lesson that the streets of London were decidedly less dangerous than LA.

I would have stayed working for Jack except that the desire to write triumphed all. It made no financial sense, but the desire was all encompassing—and I have never regretted my decision. Nonetheless, I have often missed working with Jack and Art, and the others at Addmaster. They were great people, and I miss their companionship, humor and strength to this day—and we had a lot of good times, and more than a few adventures. Indeed, after he received my resignation, Jack hopped a plane from California to London and tried to talk me out of it.  I deeply appreciated his concern, and I would be a richer man if I had stayed, but writing was in my blood; and there is no logic to such a creative imperative.

It is to Jack’s great credit that during a period when America has lost so much of its manufacturing base, that he and his sons, John and Hugh, managed to keep Addmaster alive, innovating, and manufacturing in the U.S. By all accounts, it wasn’t easy, but the trio did it—and this year Addmaster is fifty years old. In the context of vicious global competition, that is an extraordinary achievement.

I feel hugely proud to have known Jack—and to have been associated with the Addmaster Corporation. And now I’ll stop because I cannot control my tears. Both Jack and Art would laugh at me for being so emotional—and I just wish they were here to do it. But now both are dead (Art died over a decade ago), and I can but salute their memories; and wish the Addmaster Corporation, and the Clary family, the best for the future.

A fine company and good people. Jack must have been proud—and with good reason. He was an exceptional man who did exceptional things—and I mourn his passing.

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 70

TWO FOUR LEGGED GUESTS, BUT ONLY SEVEN LEGS

Jane, a friend of more decades than I care to mention, had a hip replacement operation on Monday, so I’m looking after the family cats for a while.

Frankly—only a few days after the operation--Jane looks well enough to wrestle tigers; but Charlie and Chester—who think the family bed is really theirs—are another matter; so they have been dispatched to my tender care. The good news is that they know me, because I feed them when Chris and Jane are away. The bad news is that I live on the sixth floor, so I am living in terror that one or other of the cats will wander onto the balcony and experiment with gravity—without  a parachute.

The cats have quite distinctive personalities. Chester is some exotic breed with long hair who looks absolutely gorgeous, but who lives only to eat; and is decidedly short on brainpower. He is, indeed, a cat of very little brain. In contrast, Charlie, who has white fur and piecing eyes, is whip smart, but has only three legs (the fourth being the victim of a road accident). Having only three legs doesn’t seem to bother Charlie at all. True, she limps a bit, but she uses her tail as a fourth leg so adroitly that many people don’t notice that she is even missing one. Beyond that, if you mess with Charlie, she will claw you faster than you can blink. She is, so to speak, the Zorro of cats—except your scar will not be a “Z,” but a slightly curved crimson line; and it will sting, and bleed little beads of blood. And you will have learned to treat Charlie with respect. Nothing personal.

What are they like as guests? Charlie (short for Charlotte) is as engaging as ever, and has made herself quite at home. Chester—as normal—looks less happy, and has been parading around and knocking things over, but since he does that anyway in his normal residence—I am taking such behavior in my stride.

Though I have had pets for much of my life, I am not really a pet person these days, largely because, as a writer, I like to feel free to travel without leaving some poor neglected animal behind. Pets tend to be rather dependent on company.

As you may recall—I put the story in a blog some time ago—my first pet was a Siamese kitten which I was told was a baby monkey (I had asked for a monkey). I was dubious, but would my mother lie to me? And I was only five at the time. I ended up being very fond of Bankok, my Siamese cat, who met her end, after many years, in the German Legation in Dublin (they didn't have an embassy then) which we lived next door to. That incident did not improve my opinion of Germans—I was pre-conditioned by WWII—so I mounted many a successful raid to steal their apples.

Despite his egomania, I am quite fond of Chester, but I definitely prefer Charlie. She has character in spades. In fact, I have included her in my latest thriller THE BOOK-LOVER’S MOVE.