THE STORY SO FAR: PART 130

E-MAIL FROM A CHESS MASTER

I heard from my brother, Guy, this Christmas—and was very pleased. Well, technically, he is a half brother—his father was my much loved step-father, Alfred Lyons—but we never made anything of that particular technicality.

Mind you we rowed about just about everything else. My mother was, to put it at its politest, volatile—so set a rather disastrous tone. Accordingly, it was the family custom to over-react when we were young. I suspect we have all mellowed since then.

Guy has made a great success of his life in a Hobbit-like way—to quote him. He has his own decorating business, a lovely wife, and is an exceptional chess player. He lives in Glasgow, Scotland.

I don’t know him very well—more is the pity—but hope to remedy that. As readers of this blog will gather, family life was complicated.

Personally, I don’t play chess, though have done so in the past. In fact, I well recall an epic game with my step-father, Alfred, which lasted for something like 12 hours. Good grief! All that reading and writing time lost! I have been a book-worm from an early age.

But, I will freely admit, chess is one hell of a game. I’m very proud of brother, Guy. He has triumphed against considerable adversity.

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 129

SPEAKING OF AMAZING LOGOS—ONE WOULD BE HARD PRESSED TO TOP THE SAS’S—NOW THERE IS A CAP BADGE WHICH COMMANDS ATTENTION & RESPECT

I first became interested in the SAS because they were founded by David Stirling, someone from my old school, Ampleforth College; and, secondly, because their initial area of operations was North Africa—where I had had a relation killed. His name, JOHN LENTAIGNE M.C. was carved into on the paneling of our house refectory, and picked out in gold, so it was rather hard to forget him. M.C. stands for Military Cross.

Beyond that I found special forces particularly interesting. They did away with much of the posturing and spit and polish that characterizes conventional forces, and focused almost entirely on their mission. Further, the dead weight frequently associated with rank—a significant, but inadequately discussed problem in my opinion—was minimized and individual troopers were encouraged to think and act for themselves—albeit within the context of the mission.

Strange as it may seem, that is not way the military normally work. Most armed forces, the world over, are authoritarian to a fault—and authoritarianism, mindlessness and micromanagement are close relations. Conventional big armies—regardless of the bravery and professionalism of individual soldiers—tend to be crude, clumsy, and bloody instruments of policy.

The special forces approach just seemed common sense to me, so I read everything I could about unconventional warfare; and how units, such as the SAS, operated. After that, I dug a little deeper—and got to know people; and had a few adventures into the bargain. Do that for fifty years—it really has been that long—and you develop a certain base of knowledge and a sense of things. That said, I have never had any ambition to be in such a unit. I am a writer; and I say that with some pride.

Do I write about everything I know or surmise? No. I’m not out to reveal operational details which might put our people at unnecessary risk. Instead, I focus on telling a rattling good story which feels both credible and authentic—and, above all, is entertaining.

Amongst many other things—this is a major adventure story—my fourth and latest Fitzduane book, THE BLOOD OF GENERATIONS, tells the remarkable story of the actual foundation of the SAS. It involved David Stirling, who was still on crutches after an injury, breaking into British military headquarters in Egypt in order to pitch his innovative plan. Madness? A true story—and he succeeded.

Ironically, the newly founded SAS’s first mission was a disaster so it seemed highly probable the unit would be disbanded. Sterling solved that problem by refusing to return to base until he had racked up some success. That success came quickly, and it was spectacular.

The SAS was originally designed to function in the distinctive desert terrain of North Africa where infiltrating German lines was relatively straightforward because of the sheer scale of the battlespace. The Germans hadn’t enough troops to guard both their flanks and their rear. But heavily populated mainland Europe, for instance, was held to be different. Accordingly, severe doubts were expressed as to whether the Regiment could operate as successfully in more restricted terrain. Results in WW II and since then have shown that the SAS is terrain independent, and that its real strength lies in the quality of its people and mindset.

In my book, the main WW II action sequences are set behind German lines in France. Their mission, based upon actual events, is to delay or destroy a German SS Panzer Division from deploying from its base near Toulouse, in South West France, to Normandy in order to counter the allied invasion.

The names of those members of the SAS who have died on duty are inscribed on the regimental clock tower at Stirling lines. Those whose names are inscribed are said to have failed to "beat the clock" by surviving members. Inscribed on the base of the clock is a verse from The Golden Road to Samarkand by James Elroy Flecker:

We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go

Always a little further: it may be

Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow

Across that angry or that glimmering sea ...

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 128

WHY MY YOUNGEST SON IS CALLED BRUFF

I like names which are distinctive, yet simple—and spelt phonetically at that. For instance, my eldest daughter is called Kira. Now there are several different ways of spelling that, ranging from Keira to the more complex (some Irish names are very hard to spell) but I lobbied for simplicity in the interests of her having one less problem to deal with in life. As it is, dealing with the apostrophe in “O’Reilly” is headache enough. Some computer systems can handle it—and some can’t. 

Bruff was originally my son’s working title when he was still in the womb. We could have called him “the bump” or something like that, but Bruff seemed more social, and I liked the name immediately I saw it. It is actually the name of a little town in County Limerick, Ireland just beside Lough Gur. At the time it was chosen, we were driving through it—no more than that.

Later, when Bruff popped into the world—a process that was, as is nature’s way, not quite that easy—the name seemed to fit.

Authors tend to attach a great deal of importance to names because they are so integral to one’s characters. If you use a name belonging to a friend, you can end up thinking of the friend not your fictional character—and that is undesirable because characters must develop lives of their own. As for the little town of Bruff, what I remember most about it was that is was just beside the rather pretty lake of Lough Gur. In the U.S., Gur would be called a pond, but in Ireland, where the scale tends towards the human, larger hills are called mountains and any reasonable body of water is honored by being called a lake.

Here is what Wikipedia says about the town of Bruff:

Bruff (Irish: Brú na nDeise) is a town in east County Limerick, in the midwest of Ireland, located on the old Limerick–Cork road (R512). The town lies on the Morning Star river, with two bridges in the town itself. The horse-shoe lake of Lough Gur is nearby.

Historical artifacts around the area date back to the Stone Age, with various buildings up to the early Christian still extant. Bruff is the hometown of American missionary and bishop John Joseph Hogan. In the sixteenth century it was granted to the Standish family from whom it passed by inheritance to the Hartstonge Baronets, and ultimately to the Earl of Limerick.

The town suffered heavy fighting in the Battle of Killmallock during the Irish Civil War. Near the Catholic Church, there is a large statue of Sean Wall, commander of the East LimerickIrish Republican Army and chairman of Limerick County Council until his death on May 6, 1921 during the War of Independence.

The former seat of the O'Grady family, Kilballyowen, is near Bruff.

It is also reputed that former US President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was a descendant of the Fitzgeralds of Bruff.^[2]

I do rather like the punch line. The Irish will claim credit for anything, and not infrequently, that credit is deserved.

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 127

A TENTATIVE FIRST ATTEMPT TO START (no more) WRITING A BRIEF FOR MY NEW LOGO

Funnily enough, I have written many a design brief in my day. I started with pack designs when I worked for United Biscuits in the UK (where a biscuit is what in the U.S. is called a cookie).

The results were generally excellent because I was working with a thoroughly experienced designer who knew all the parameters in detail—and kept me out of trouble.

My later experiences were more mixed, though I had a very good run when I worked with a designer called John Drewry (who is also an actor of considerable talent-and a friend for decades). John’s work, if not necessarily great design, was consistently commercially effective. He was, in essence, a graphic problem solver—and doubtless still is. And he is blessed with a great sense of humor.

All in all, I seem to have initiated much competent work, but I cannot say, with honesty that a single, truly great logo emerged (though two came close). That said, such briefs did, on occasion, result in some extraordinarily effective advertising—but I have also been bitterly disappointed.

Either way, I think it is no more than common sense for a client to try and write as clear a brief as possible. Since many clients neither quite know what they want, nor can write in the first place, clear briefs are the exceptions rather than the rule. It is not easy being being a graphic designer.

My sense is that it helps greatly if there is some chemistry between client and designer, and that each knows the other well. However, we don’t always live in the best of all possible worlds, so doubtless working with someone you have never met over the internet can work too (he admitted grudgingly). But, I still feel that you are likely to get the best work if there is some kind of personal relationship—and ideally the designer should be familiar with his clients’ business in reasonable detail.

The best logos I have ever seen are the various versions incorporated in the V For Vendetta books and the movie. They are truly remarkably strong.

Purposes of Logo

These will be multiple:

• To attract favorable attention.
• To help distinguish the author’s name from the competition.
• To suggest a certain distinctive quality of writing.
• To enliven the look of all material associated with the author from book covers to websites, from letterheads to promotional banners

 

Characteristics of logo

• To be instantly recognizable.
• To be effective in both color and black and white.
• To be identifiable—in combination with a distinctive house style—on on a book cover from a reasonable distance (say 12 feet)
• When in color, to be bright and attention getting—primary colors preferred.
• To be scalable
• To be clear

 

Do I, the client, have any particular concepts in mind?

I have some vague thoughts which are not set in stone. Let me get them off my chest in no particular order.

• Primarily, I write thrillers—where the symbol of a helicopter is almost synonymous with the genre—but I also write social comment and humorous books too. Given a terrific thriller logo, I’ll inflict that on my other readers, but I thought I’d mention the dichotomy.
• I used to have a rather elegant letter heading in which the apostrophe in my name was replaced by a shamrock, but I don’t want to trade on the Irish connection in such a blatant way since I am actually Anglo-Irish. In fact, my mother married Terence O’Reilly after I was born so my real name was originally Lentaigne. Now the Lentaignes have been in Ireland since the late 18th century—the founder member fled from the French Revolution—so I identify more with that side of the family. The full family name is Lentaigne de Logivieres and they were aristocrats from Calvados, Normandy, France. Is there any potential in a Norman knight? The protagonist of all my books, Hugo Fitzduane, is also descended from a Norman knight, and his castle features in all my stories.
• A significant part of my first book was set in Bern, Switzerland. The symbol of Bern is a stylized bear and the coloring of the whole shield gives it unusual impact. Also, unlike many traditional coats of arms, it isn’t cluttered. It is absolutely clear.
• The current face being used for the title and author’s name on the book covers is Haettenschweiler. Internally, headings are set in Arial Black and body copy in Georgia 12.
• My friend, Tim Roderick, has suggested that a logo could be devised from the shape used to identify VOR (Visual Omnidirectional Range) since our initials are the same. I have no strong views on the matter. Right now it is bald and geometric but with the perimeter thickened and colored, and an image placed in the canter, it could look quite striking.
• My mother was born in Burma and a great uncle commanded the Chindits in WW II. Accordingly, the Chinthe could have relevance.  The Chinthe is a leogryph (lion-like creature) that is often seen at the entrances of pagodas and temples inBurma and other Southeast Asian countries. The chinthe is featured prominently on the kyat, the currency of Burma. The chinthe is almost always depicted in pairs, and serve to protect the pagoda. They typically appear as animals, but are sometimes found with human faces.
• This is the badge of the actual Chindits (the Chinthe is illustrated in many different ways). Now since I wasn’t even born before the actual Chindits were formed in 1943—it would be improper to use it directly—but the coloring does have appeal, and I’m actually using it on book covers (without then knowing the Chindit association).
• This is a Dunguaire Castle—a classic Norman keep—essentially a square or rectangular tower—similar to the one featured in my Hugo Fitdzuane books. They were built all over Ireland after the Norman invasion 1169. However, the Normans intermarried with the Irish—and became “more Irish than the Irish themselves”—so English rule of Ireland did not really become oppressive (a relative term) until roughly 400 years later. Fitzduane’s castle, of course, has a flat roof.

   

To be continued…

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 126

VISUAL SENSE & SENSIBILITY—THE GREAT LOGO HUNT—AND THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE BLOODY HAND

The impact and significance of a logo—of a visual image which announces your identity--and of house styles in general is truly amazing.

Today, a logo is typically the brand identifier of a corporation—but in the past, it was more commonly associated with a tribe, or a guild, or a military unit, or a leader, or a country. Frequently, it was in the form of a coat of arms, but it could also be a banner or a flag. But, whatever be the form, a logo—typically in the form of a single visual image—makes a statement.

The strange thing is that a well designed logo frequently has power and significance in its own right. This doesn’t always apply to corporate logos, although it does to many, but it certainly does to traditional coats of arms. Incidentally, the story behind the hand in the O’Reilly coat of arms is as follows:

“The story goes that a great Celtic King, set on conquering Ireland, told his 7 sons that the first to lay hand on land would rule it all. They raced their ships each vying to be the one to claim the Island. My ancestor had led in much of the race, but towards the end his brother surpassed him. Realizing in the final moments that he could not make it first, he grabbed an axe chopped off his right hand and threw it to shore making the O’Reilly clan the rulers of the Kingdom.

In fact, the O’Reillys did not get to rule all of Ireland—the country was split into multiple kingdoms until the Normans invaded—but they did carve out a useful territory covering what is now counties Cavan and Meath.

I have been trying to evolve a personal logo for some time—largely at the behest of my good friend, Tim Roderick, who as a military man and decorated combat veteran, has persuaded me of the importance of such a symbol. Actually, I did not need persuasion, as such, but more a push to give it a more prominent place on my priority list.

That, it now has.

 

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 125

THE LUCKIEST ARAB IN BELFAST

My Seattle apartment is currently being sold, so a procession of potential buyers is trundling through the place. The whole exercise was a bit disorienting at first, but I have become used to it—and all have been courteous and pleasant.

Normally, I make a point of not being in the place when such visitors arrive, because then they can discuss it more freely. However, today I was caught in a writing burst, so was at my desk when the viewers arrived.

As they were leaving, we talked for a few minutes and I learned that the male half of the couple was from Northern Ireland. I then asked him his religion—something I would not have done in the North—because in that part of the world, whether you are Catholic or Protestant tends to establish your place in the social pecking order, and much else besides. Here in, Seattle, I felt it was a permissible question, and he seemed to think so also.

His reply was a zinger: “I’m Jewish.”

He then went on to tell me the best joke I have heard this year.

A man’s walking down the street in Belfast at the height of the Troubles when he gets dragged into an alleyway with a gun to his head. A voice goes, ‘Are you Catholic or Protestant?

Thinking quickly he goes, ‘Neither – I’m Jewish.

The voice says ‘Wow, I must be the luckiest Arab in Belfast.’

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 124

BASTARDUS TO RESPECTABILITY

I have always thought that my mother had as many children as she did—I am the eldest of twelve—as  a gesture of defiance towards my much loved grandmother.

Much loved by me, by the way. The relationship between my mother and grandmother was terrible. They only had to meet when the rowing would start—normally in French “so the children won’t understand.”

Well, we didn’t understand each and every word, but tone and body language filled in the gaps.

What did they fight about? Money, my mother’s prolific love life, and my mother’s belief that she had been cruelly brought up by her French governesses and deprived of normal company. She had a point regarding her upbringing, but the simple truth is my grandmother did not know any better. My grandfather had died of cholera in Burma at an early age, and so my grandmother—who had been brought up in big houses by servants amidst much luxury—simply did what she knew. She reared my mother—primarily through intermediaries such as governesses and servants—to be a lady of leisure equipped with no practical skills other than to socialize, and the ability to speak French (the language of diplomacy and of civilized people the world over in those days).

My mother—spirited, imaginative, creative, stubborn, and unconstrained by convention (with a temperament to match)—rebelled. Her first victory was persuading my grandmother to let her go to boarding school in Dublin, Ireland, in her mid teens—where she thrived—and her second was fleeing to London at the beginning of WW II to join the WAAFs (the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) where she was trained as a radar operator—a job she loved. Radar was top secret at that time, and it was what gave the Royal Air Force the edge during the Battle of Britain.

All might have been well except that she became pregnant with me—without benefit of wedlock—and my grandmother, who was not without influence in military circles, persuaded the Royal Air Force powers-that-be to discharge mother, thus making her, once again a dependent, and potentially a disgraced dependent at that. Illegitimacy was frowned upon in those days, though if one was the offspring of a royal, the chances of being made a duke, or being given some other title, were high. The origins of most royals and aristocrats rarely stand scrutiny—subject to some exceptions. Though some distinguished themselves, many potential aristocrats killed, stole, betrayed, or crawled to achieve a title and high office in the first place—and then their heirs merely inherited the honor.

I have always felt the Duke of Wellington—the one who defeated Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo—thoroughly deserved his title. Most people associate him with Waterloo, but he started winning victories in India many years before, and continued to be equally successful in Spain before he got near to France. Besides, he had a marvelously dry sense of humor, and wrote with wit and elegance. His writing skill was key to his overall success. If he hadn’t been able to persuade the British government to back him through his written dispatches—and that was not always certain—he would have been in serious trouble. I don’t know whether the pen really is mightier that the sword, but they tend to be necessary companions.

Thinking back to Tom Rick’s excellent book, THE GENERALS, questioning the quality of recent and current U.S. generals—and proving his case—I have to wonder whether we shouldn’t look more closely at the penmanship of our general officers. I don’t think it is any accident that some of our best generals historically were equally proficient writers. Simply put, you cannot write clearly if you do not think clearly—and clarity of thought is fundamental to good generalship.

If you want an example of such proficiency, look no further than at General Ulysses S. Grant. Today, two names come to mind: Major General H.R. McMaster and Colonel Douglas Macgregor.

Frankly, it is a miracle that H.R. got promoted, because he is an original thinker and author of a rather controversial book, DERELICTION OF DUTY, about the failure of general officers over Vietnam. Indeed, he was passed over twice for one star rank—despite a distinguished combat record. The word is that General Petraeus then intervened. I don’t know the truth of it, but I am delighted that H.R. got the promotion he deserved. The Army—sadly—is frequently cruel to its talent.

Incidentally, William the Conqueror—the Norman who conquered England—made a virtue of his out-of-wedlock status and was prone to sign royal documents “William Bastardus.” Not many people, who valued a head on their shoulders, complained. It’s good to be the king. Today, close to 50 percent of children—in many countries—stem from the wrong side of the blanket.

I feel almost respectable.

By the way that rather strange looking graphic from the Bayeaux Tapestry shows William the Conqueror raising his helmet during the Battle of Hastings to show that he was still alive. Command was a hands-on business in those days.

His opponent, King Harald, also raised his helmet—and caught an arrow in the eye.

Napoleon has never been distinguished for his sense of humor. He may have had a sense of irony. He wanted his generals to be both good—and lucky.