THE STORY SO FAR: PART 140

YET MORE—THE FRENCH FOREIGN LEGION (continued)

The full story of what happened in Corsica (rather a lot) will have to await my memoirs—but suffice to say that we did track down both the Legion and some bandits.

The bandits were something of an accident—and I wasn’t sure they really were bandits until I noticed that everyone in the room of an inn rather high up in the mountains was unshaven and armed. However, the leader of the group was charmed by Bunny, amused by our relationship, and left us entirely unscathed. Indeed, he bought us drinks and we chatted for some time in bad English and worse French.

Were they really bandits? I have really no idea. However, I have never come up with any other explanation for why the entire group of about twenty—all in rough civilian clothes—should be carrying weapons. But perhaps they were hunters? With handguns and automatic weapons? I rather think not.

They could, of course, have been freedom fighters trying to gain independence for Corsica. Either way, I’ll never forget that evening and a frisson of fear when I realized that perhaps we had got in too deep. 

We found the Legion by asking a policeman in Ajaccio, Corsica’s capital. These days I am familiar with Public Affairs departments, and the protocols of inquiry. Back in those days, at the tender age of twenty, I favored the direct route. It did get me arrested on a few occasions, but normally it worked—and fortune often favors the young and ignorant.

The policeman said that the bandits were now mostly in the towns because it was more convenient for both bandits and policemen (very droll) whereas the Legion was a bloody menace and was kept as far away from civilization as possible. He explained that if you tried to arrest one legionnaire for being drunk and disorderly, he would then call his comrades and the results would be ugly. Accordingly, if we wanted to find the Legion, we should head for Corte in the mountains where we would find a Legion barracks—hopefully full of troopers so tired from training that they wouldn't cause us any trouble. However, I’d be wise not to take anyone’s photo.

Corte is a truly dramatic spot because it sits in a bowl of mountains and it is dominated by citadel built on a rocky outcrop. The town itself was small, in my day, and though the Legion occupied the citadel, the main barracks was outside the town. Training took place in the surrounding mountains and was, by all accounts, brutal. The Legion tries to keep its soldiers busy and astonishingly fit. The body fat of a typical legionnaire is in single figures.

Why am I going on about the Legion? Well, of two reasons: Firstly, they left an indelible impression on me. And secondly, because they keep on popping up whenever there is trouble. Currently, they are in Mali—which features broadly similar terrain to that which they used to be associated with in Algeria.

In a way, the Legion is returning to its roots. As to whether a few thousand can be successful in a country the size of France, against an enemy that is extremely hard to identify—because its fighters rarely wear uniforms—I have to wonder. However, where they do manage to close with the enemy, I have no doubt but that they will prevail.

To be continued…

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 139

ONCE AGAIN—THE FRENCH FOREIGN LEGION (continued)

"Living by Chance, Loving by Choice,
Killing by Profession"

motto of La Lègion Etrangére
(French Foreign Legion)

Due to my mother’s quaint habit of enlisting me in boarding schools too young—a terrible thing to do to a kid no matter how bright—I entered university at sixteen to do a four year course, and graduated at the age of twenty.

Quite how I graduated I will never know, because I spent most of my last year immersed in university politics. In contrast, my son, Bruff, actually worked and has graduated with a First (very hard to get) and a Gold Medal for Academic excellence (but that is another story).

The university in both our cases was Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland—established by Queen Elizabeth I to educate the local savages. Actually, I think she wanted to educate the landed aristocracy who administered Ireland on her behalf so they could collect taxes with improved accuracy. Either way, there it is in all its splendor. It is actually a rather marvelous institution in a decidedly eccentric way.

Upon graduating, my mother threw a truly splendid black tie party for me—and I fell in love. The situation was broadly akin to the movie THE GRADUATE except that no daughter was involved. The woman concerned, from a good family in Connecticut, and—tragically now dead—was Elizabeth Bennett (though everyone called her Bunny). She was tall, slinky, talented, tender, and drop-dead gorgeous. She was also about fifteen years older than me.

A little while later, Bunny and I were at a party when someone mentioned that the French Foreign Legion had been disbanded following the failed attempt to overthrow President De Gaulle.

I disagreed, and a vociferous debate followed. Shortly afterwards, Bunny and I set off to track down the French Foreign Legion which I had been reliably informed had left its famous quarters in Sidi Bel Abbes in Algeria and was now in Corsica—or much of it was.

Corsica is an island and the birthplace of Napoleon. How hard could it be to track down the legion there? Indeed, I had heard there were bandits there—and thought it might be fun to meet a few.

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 138

ONCE AGAIN—THE FRENCH FOREIGN LEGION. THIS TIME THEY ARE IN MALI. IT’S PRACTICALLY FULL CIRCLE.

I first ran across the French Legion through the books of P.C. Wren.

If your life went adrift in one of a thousand ways—and you were relatively young and fit, you could always adopt a false name, enlist in the French Foreign Legion, and start life anew. You didn’t even have to speak French. The Legion would teach you. The Legion did not explain how it taught you—which was just as well.

The downside was that the Legion owned you for five years, discipline was incredibly tough—words are somewhat inadequate at this point—and, and your chances of being killed or injured were significantly higher than if you joined a more conventional military unit. In effect, the Legion becomes your country. It fights for France, but you fight for the Legion (and the Legion does not let you forget that fact).

P.C. Wren’s books were not particularly cheerful—and his stories rarely ended well—but they fascinated me. Frankly, at the time just about anything seemed preferable to boarding school; and the prospect of fighting Arabs in depths of the Sahara seemed quite exciting to me. After all, I’d have a Lebel rifle. I had no idea what a Lebel rifle was—except in a rather fuzzy sense—but it sounded cool. Since I know you are dying to know more, here are some details.

The Lebel Model 1886 rifle (French: Fusil Modèle 1886 dit "Fusil Lebel") is also known as the "Fusil Mle 1886 M93", after a bolt modification was added in 1893. It is an 8mm bolt action infantry rifle which entered service in the French Army in April 1887. It is a repeating rifle that can hold eight rounds in its forestock tube magazine plus one round in the transporter. The Lebel rifle had the distinction of being the first military firearm to use smokeless powder ammunition. In spite of outdated features, such as its tube magazine and the sharply tapered case of 8mm Lebel ammunition, the Lebel rifle remained the basic weapon of French infantry during World War I (1914–18). Altogether two million eight hundred and eighty thousand ( 2,880,000 ) Lebel rifles were produced by the three French State manufactures.

Since I was about eleven when I read P.C. Wren, I never did enlist in the Legion, and it might have remained buried in the recesses of my mind. However, some years later, a quite extraordinary book appeared—which had a profound effect on my thinking and, though I did not realize it at the time, on the rest of my life.

It was called THE CENTURIONS and told the story of Dien Bien Phu, the French war in Algeria, and—above all—of a rather special parachute regiment.

Originally, it was written in French, but it was beautifully translated by Xan Fielding. Subsequently, a sequel, THE PRAETORIANS, was written which brought the story up to the end of the Algerian war.

Later, it was made into a movie starring Anthony Quinn but the movie, though exciting enough, lacked the subtlety and complexity of the book. In essence, though the book was action packed enough, its great strength was that it featured marvelous characters—and was about ideas. It was also heavily inspired by actual events which resulted in the disbanding of one of the Legion’s parachute regiments.

To be continued…

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 137

A VIEW ABOUT VIEWS—DO WE REACT SPONTANEOUSLY, OR ARE WE CONDITIONED?

I often wonder about the extent to which our thoughts are conditioned—in contrast to whether they are original. I have to say, based upon observation, that conditioning wins out by a wide margin.

If true, such a conclusion has all kinds of implications—mostly disturbing. And it also raises serious questions about free will? Religion makes a great feature of free will; but, if we are as manipulated to the extent I believe we are, then free will has, at best, a supporting role. So, in essence, we are being conditioned to believe we have free will.

Who says the gods don’t have a sense of humor!

These thoughts arose because I have been thinking about the view from this apartment. I’m leaving the place shortly; and, after hearing one of the new owners rave (to excess) about the view,  I have been wondering: Will I miss the view?

The apartment, itself, is another matter. It has been an excellent place to work from for the last couple of years—and, above all, quiet. As to the view, apart from the fact that it has been rather pleasant to be high up, it has left me unmoved.

In direct line of sight, it consists of some docks full of leisure craft. and a rather unattractive apartment building. True, Lake Washington is to my right, if I go out onto the balcony—chilly this time of year—but the wonders of Lake Washington leave me unmoved. It has none of the majesty and endless variety of the sea, nor the beauty of the small Irish lakes that dot Connemara in the West of Ireland. I first encountered them while on a walking tour during my early teems, and have returned many times to contemplate them—and I never cease to wonder. That part of the West is a wild land, and uniquely wonderful. In fact, as far as I am concerned, it is magic.

My late (and very special) friend, Niall Fallon, lived in that part of the world for some years—he was writing a book on the Spanish Armada amongst other things—and was less than flattering about the reality of day-to-day life in Connemara. Overall, he had a tough time making a living there. I seem to recall, he bred dogs there as well. We writers will try anything. Either way, it was not a successful time for him, though his book was excellent. He was not only a fine man, but an excellent writer.

Nonetheless, after I had fallen in love with the Aran Islands as well, I based the protagonist of my first three books, Hugo Fitzduane, in that part of the world—albeit just off the coast on his very own (entirely fictional) island—and gave him an old Norman keep to live in into the bargain. A plain keep is a rectangular stone tower—normally a statement of dominance over a given area of land, and preferably within signaling distance of a neighbor who could send help if needed. It was a simple, but extremely powerful, system of control, and it underpinned the feudal system.

In Fitzduane’s case, his keep has been somewhat expanded to a size many would refer to as a castle—but it remains relatively small. This entirely fictional place is now as real to me as if it actually exists. I based it on several castles; but, arguably, the nearest to my mental model is Dunguaire. However, there are a number of distinct differences. The keep of Duncleeve (Fitzduane’s castle) has a flat roof—or fighting platform. Secondly, it is taller. Thirdly, it has a larger bawn or walled courtyard. And fourthly, it has a larger gatehouse complete with a portcullis. Still, Dunguaire does convey the general idea.

Was I conditioned to take to that wild, bleak, wind-and-rain swept, and stunningly beautiful part of the world—or did I react spontaneously?

My ego (which I try and regard with some skepticism, since it is scarcely unbiased) says I certainly was not conditioned—my parents, for instance, were not remotely interested in that part of the world, nor were any of my relations and mentors—but I guess I’ll never know. Certainly, I was impelled to visit the West on that first walking holiday for some reason.

These days, while Fitzduane and his island are forever in my mind, my own favorite locations are in South West France (Perigord Pourpre and Perigord Noir). The area was the scene of great contention between the English and the French back in the Middle Ages, and it is not hard to see why.

As best I can determine it, Perigord and Aquitaine overlap—which makes life very confusing. Aquitaine, which includes a whole chunk of the French Atlantic coast, was a kingdom in its day—and bordered on Spain.

I have thought of either living there—or at least spending some months there every year.

Much of my latest Fitzduane book, THE BLOOD OF GENERATIONS, is set there. It is the fourth in the series.

Will there be more Fitzduane books?  I like to think so. I have written four so far. Seven seems a nice round total because I want to write other books as well. Nonetheless, it has been put to me—many times—that  since Fitzduane hasn’t taken off like James Bond, I should abandon him.

Perhaps so, if money was my only goal. But it is not. The truth is that I am very fond of my fictional protagonist, have spent a great deal of time in his company, regard him as a fundamentally decent man (if somewhat prone to be dragged into adventures of some violence), and don’t regret growing old in his company. Beyond that, many of those readers who have discovered him, not only positively long for his return, but have said so in writing—and they tend to be impassioned.

Two  impossible dreams? In these cases, I look forward to finding out.

The above is Aquitaine.

Think Eleanor of Aquitaine who had an impressively contentious marriage to Henry II of England.

See also that marvelous movie The Lion In Winter starring Peter O’Toole and Katherine Hepburn. The movie makes a great deal more sense if one knows the historical background. Eleanor was a major historical figure—and Aquitaine was worth fighting for. That, they certainly did.

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 136

THE WOMAN OF A THOUSAND AND ONE INTRIGUING STORIES

Let me quote:

Tina Rosenberg was the first freelance journalist to receive a five-year MacArthur Fellowship "genius" award. Her writings have appeared in The New Republic, The Washington Post, The New Yorker, Harper's, and The New York Times Magazine. She is the author of the acclaimed Children of Cain: Violence and the Violent in Latin America, and The Haunted Land, Facing Europe's Ghosts After Communism. Formerly a Visiting Fellow at the National Security Archive, and a senior fellow at the World Policy Institute.

Though no one would describe me as a bubbling optimist, beneath my crusty exterior I hold the absolute belief that the answers to most of our problems are out there—and that our primary fault as human beings is that we don’t look hard enough (if we look at all).

To prove my point there exists Tina Rosenberg—who is not only attractive enough to die for (she seems very happily married)—but who, again and again, comes up with stories about people (and methodologies) who originate solutions to our travails; and which, mostly, are not conventionally commercial.

Her latest piece in the New York Times concerns a Doctor V. who gave up his regular job as an eye surgeon in order to do something about blindness in India—whether you could pay or not. The result was the Aravind Eye Care System System, which—to date—has treated more than 32 million patients and performed more than 4 million surgeries—and which is financially sustainable in itself.

Awesome.

Well, that is just one story, but Tina Rosenberg comes up with similar stories again and again to the extent that one has to wonder how well we are served by the conventional news media—and whether winner-take-all American-style capitalism is really the best possible answer to the human condition.

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 135

SEEK—AND YOU WILL NOT BE SHOT AT SO OFTEN (you hope—arguably with good reason)

The above aircraft is THE SEEKER. It bears a remarkable resemblance to the Optica which featured in my first book, GAMES OF THE HANGMAN. Both were designed for reconnaissance, to be significantly cheaper to operate than a helicopter, had bubble cockpits, were equipped with pusher propellers, and could take off and land on rough terrain in extremely short distances. Both were inexpensive to buy and to operate.

I thought such an aircraft was a superb idea, and flew all the Optica scenes that feature in my book in the Optica. The whole experience was such a rush I don’t think I came down to earth for several days. What I particularly recall was the astonishing visibility from the bubble cockpit—plus the interesting experience of flying so low, we had to climb to get over a hedge. At over 120 mph, that gets your attention. Since the propeller was behind the cabin—which is why it is called “a pusher—engine noise was minimized, and you could see everything below and ahead. Add the necessary electro-optical equipment, and you can do much the same at night, and under most weather conditions. Beyond that, you can transmit what you see to the ground.

My good friend, Lieutenant Colonel Greg Wilcox—now retired from the Army—served no less than three tours in Vietnam—he was seriously wounded during his second tour—and spent much time in the air in a light FAC (Forward Air Controller) aircraft.

While airborne he learned that if you flew relatively low and slow, you could get to know the terrain below, and its inhabitants and their patterns of behavior, intimately—and keep the unit on the ground that you were overwatching relatively safe. You could warn it about ambushes, advise about the terrain, detect almost any unusual enemy activity—and call in artillery and/or air support if needed. In short, he learned that the combination of eyes in the sky, a keen intellect to interpret what was observed—the human factor—and boots on the ground, was extremely powerful. It was also common sense.

During the Iraq War, Greg wrote a paper recommending an airborne carpet made up of inexpensive Cessnas. True, the Army had helicopters, and the Air Force had fixed wing aircraft, but both were such expensive assets, and so costly to operate, that the skies were frequently empty. Much the same restrictions applied to drones.

Greg’s paper was ignored.

In 2005—while the situation in Iraq was deteriorating—a series of experiments was carried out using Seeker aircraft in the air and Jordanian forces on the ground. The idea was to see if Greg’s “aerial carpet” would work. Greg was not the only proponent of this concept, and the resultant paper was written by Navy Captain Dan Moore and others. It’s findings, in brief, were that the concept of combining inexpensive light aircraft with ground forces was highly effective.

This was scarcely a new discovery. During the invasion of France in World War II, Army Air Force General Quesada encouraged close cooperation between air and ground forces—to the extent that he had Air Force radios placed in tanks so that air and ground could communicate. At the time the Air Force was fighting to become an independent service, and Quesada was described as a “traitor” by some of his Air Force colleagues for cooperating with the Army. Appalling as it may seem, inter-service rivalries have long blocked inter-service cooperation to a degree that still threatens National Security.

The paper describing this successful series of tests was written for the IDA—the highly regarded Institute for Defense Analysis.

It was buried.

The U.S. Army was once described to me as “a curious anthropological institution.” It is a marvelous phrase, though I have no idea what it really means. What I can say is that the Army, though a commendable institution in many ways, is authoritarian, dominated by the MICC (Military Industrial Congressional Complex), and quite remarkably resistant to innovative thinking. It’s a sad thing; and who knows how many lives have been lost because of it.

It is noteworthy that again and again, when a less expensive alternative is put forward, that the military almost always opt for the more expensive options—even when the less expensive item is operationally superior. The reason for this is that a great many senior officers have plans to retire into the MICC—and the MICC is powered by the money flow emanating from the Department of Defense. The money flow is based on expensive weapons systems—on programs that last for decades like the F-35 aircraft. In fact, some would argue that the best weapons procurement programs—as far as the generals are concerned—are decades long programs that never result in a usable weapons system. However they do make excellent retirement platforms. Recall the Crusader artillery system that never saw the light of day—and the Comanche helicopter.  They are far from unique, and kept the money flowing. And then there was the Future Combat System—a truly massive program that was supposed to transform the American Way of War; and which was given to Boeing to manage in a deal that neither reflected well on Boeing nor on the Army. Massive amounts of money have a disturbing tendency to corrupt.

It is informative to examine where generals go when they retire. Almost without exception they join the MICC. They join the corporations they have been buying from. The issue of conflicts of interest does not seem to occur to them. They rationalize that defense contractors need their expertise and experience. That is rarely true. Contractors hire retired generals for their influence and—above all—their access. Retired generals can almost always get to see, and influence, serving generals. Serving generals want to see gainfully employed retired generals so that they can negotiate the job offers they will receive upon retirement. Much is done through suggestion and implication to preserve a façade of probity. The results speak for themselves.

Do all generals behave this way? No. Some are men and women of true integrity. However, the majority “go along to get along,” pay their dues to the club of generals, and feather their nests. Such behavior has become part of their culture, and thus considered acceptable—and we are all the poorer for it.

And so sound military thinking gets buried—and soldiers die—and the American Way of War becomes the most expensive in the world. But resources are limited so tough choices have to be made. Economists refer to this decision as: “Guns or Butter?” Typically, “Guns” wins out. A consequence of that is the U.S. has the worst social support system in the developed world and the worst healthcare system. As a result, not only is there vast misery, but Americans die younger—and are sicker before they die.

It is often argued that the first duty of a government is National Security. Most would agree. However, the security of a population is not just about fighting wars and killing terrorists. The real threats—the mass killers—stem from poor health, industrial food, a polluted environment, and acute stress stemming from lack of economic opportunity.

By the way, below is a picture of the Edgley Optica. As you will note, the cockpit fuselage is remarkably similar to that of the Seeker, but instead of an exposed propeller, the Optica used a five bladed ducted fan. This made the Optica extremely quiet—but adds weight. Beyond that, the Optica has a twin tail boom.

Though the Optica’s history has been unhappy, I thought it was a great little aircraft and am glad to hear it is now back in the hands of its original designer.

Which aircraft is superior—The Seeker or The Optica? I have absolutely no idea. My flight experience—which was entirely positive—was confined to the Optica. Either way, I like the concept.

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 134

FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE (MOSTLY) UNATTAINABLE

One of the things I have learned in life is that –where the opposite sex is concerned—the unattainable is not necessarily as unattainable as one might think. Here the SAS motto—He Who Dares Wins—is worth considering.

Mind you, holding on to one’s target is another matter. But better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. And I’m not sure ‘lost’ is the right word. Some relationships are innately transient, and none the worse for it. Others, of course, are just plain impossible. They happen nonetheless—sometimes for a considerable period.

I have never been too sure of the dividing line between “having a crush on” and “falling in love with.” I guess it is a matter of degree. Both states are painful, wonderful, and extremely distracting. Given the latter, writers—who need to focus with considerable intensity—arguably shouldn’t fall in love. But we do, nonetheless—sometimes regularly. We are a difficult and troublesome bunch. That elegant phrase “Illuminate the human condition” includes not just entertaining people through our written work—which I, personally, thoroughly enjoy doing—but raising issues which many people would prefer were never mentioned. We are stirers of the pot and fomenters of change. We are not really restful, reliable, good providers—and women tend to pick-up on such things and regard us with appropriate suspicion. Still, good sexual chemistry conquers all—at least for a while.

I was still a baby when I felt seriously attracted to a woman for the first time. I have been told I was far too young to have such thoughts, but I vividly remember that rather gorgeous young woman as she cuddled me against her breasts. In fact I remember more detail than might be appropriate to put into print. She was dark haired, and rather luscious, and moved on to South Africa—never to be heard from again. She was my temporary nurse and a friend of my mothers. She broke my heart at the age of about one.

Disillusioned with life after such a traumatic erotic experience, I waited four long years before falling in love with my neighbor when we lived in England for a while. Her name was Jean Clifford and, for a considerable time, it was assumed we would get married—well, assumed by us anyway. On the basis of that understanding, I persuaded her to take her clothes off when she came to stay at my grandmother’s farm several years later, but then rather ran out of ideas. Still, it was exciting. I was about eight at the time.

I was unfaithful to Jean—at least in my mind—in that, concurrently, I fell madly in love with a girl called Miriam who, with her parents, used to stay in a little holiday home on my grandmother’s farm most summers. Miriam had long blond hair, was about twelve to my six or seven, and I thought she was the most gorgeous creature who had ever walked the face of the earth. In fact she looked like the kind of princess who tends to be locked up in a tower for knights to rescue—but somehow that never happened. Or, if it did, I was never told. I find the thought that she might still be locked up—waiting for me to rescue her—mildly worrying.

I’m not quite sure how I lost touch with Jean, but I suspect our moving back to Ireland must have had something to do with it. Also, I was sent to boarding school—and that rather cramps one’s style where the opposite sex is concerned. In fact after a while, you long for the mere sight of a woman; and school matrons become the object of lust. Frankly most were not worth it, though I recall two who probably were. One had a severe face but a truly superb figure—and watching her walk could make one’s day. The other, who was chubby but pretty, fell in love with a monk. I never did learn how that particular relationship played out. They made a very sweet couple.

Well, I’m now getting to the interesting part—so I’m going to stop. The balance will be in my memoirs CONFESSIONS OF A BOOK-WRITING MAN.

I will say that I wrote this particular piece for a reason. I received an e-mail today that brought back some very special memories.