THE STORY SO FAR: PART 342: SATURDAY

TO SLEEP, TO WORK, TO SLEEP, TO READ—NOW THAT MAKES FOR A GOOD SATURDAY

Saturday is my self-appointed day of rest so you may well wonder why I work for a couple of hours before sleeping again.

I guess curiosity is the main reason. But what I can say is that second sleep—for up to four more hours—makes all the difference. And such was this Saturday.

I tend to do a great deal more additional reading on Saturdays—after I have struggled into consciousness—normally following a specific theme. Military matters interest me greatly—as does the state of the economy.

Currently, I am decidedly puzzled as to the state of the economy. The media, as a whole, seem to be obsessed with as to whether Larry Summers or Janet Yellen will be next to head up the Fed; whereas I’m focused as to whether our existing economic system works adequately or not. Note that I wrote ‘adequately.’ I am not so naïve as to aspect perfection.

So far—and I am trying to have an open mind—my conclusion is that the current U.S. business model is deeply flawed and not working to the benefit of most Americans—which, I believe—should be its goal.

But I don’t let steam come out of my ears on my day of rest. I’m just sad that such a great country—the richest in the world—does so badly by so many of its citizens.

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 341: FRIDAY

BEWITCHED, MIND-BOGGLED & ENTERTAINED

My evening entertainment recently has come courtesy of a lady called Lynda La Plante who I can only describe as a writing phenomenon. Damn it, the woman is so talented that she leaves her competition (including me) in the dust. I am in awe. What is worse is that she is not only a brilliant screenwriter, but apparently an equally talented crime novelist. I am green with both envy and admiration. And she is good-looking into the bargain.

You are now going to say you’ve never heard of the woman. Well you probably would have if you lived in the UK where her talents are so widely recognized that she has been awarded a CBE (Commander of the Order of the British Empire)—theoretically by the Queen, but actually by the British government—for services to the nation.

I first heard of her through watching PRIME SUSPECT—which she wrote—starring Helen Mirren back in 1991 as the feisty and sexual DCI Jane Tennison making her way in what was then a man’s world. Hard to believe that was 22 years ago!

Prime Suspect was not a one-off. Her other productions—such as I have seen—are equally good.  They include THE COMMANDER and TRIAL & RETRIBUTION. You can see them on Netflix.

FACTS: Lynda La Plante was born in 1943, was a successful actress before turning to screenwriting, and these days has her own production company. She is also impressively prolific.

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 340: THURSDAY

“TOO BLOODY COLD TO DO OTHERWISE”

I tend to hunt down experts if I want to know something for a book—and in the process have met some remarkable people, many of whom subsequently became friends.

One such was a Royal Marine NCO sniper called John Napier who was involved in the first ground action in the Falkland’s war—the re-taking of South Georgia. The weather was vile, the British were heavily outnumbered, and the Argentinians were warm and snug inside heated buildings. Outside, conditions were artic.

When I asked John why they had gone up against such superior odds, he remarked that “It was too bloody cold to do otherwise.” Their attack was entirely successful.

The marines performed with distinction in the Falkland’s war and developed a reputation for “fighting smart” as well as effectively. For instance, whereas other units attacked Argentine units entrenched in the hills around Port Stanley in classic infantry fashion—using suppressive fire, grenades and flanking attacks—the marines identified all the main enemy positions and took them out with Milan missiles (a relatively novel approach back in 1982). A consequence was that they kept their casualties way down.

The Royal Marines are a tiny force—they number slightly over 8,000 strong—compared to the USMC (which pretends it’s small but numbers around 200,000), but they are particularly well trained and are regarded as highly effective. Basic training for marines, for instance, lasts 34 weeks—and, for officers, a formidable 64 weeks. After that comes endless  specialized training. They have fought just about everywhere—and don’t seem inclined to change their ways.

John’s first taste of combat involved assaulting Indonesian infiltrators during what was known as the Indonesian Confrontation—one of the UK’s numerous colonial wars. He remarked that the attack went well, but they hadn’t planned how to exfiltrate—so that ended up as something of a mess. Thereafter, he commented, “I always planned how to bug out before going in.”

The last I heard of John was that he was doing strange and dangerous things in Russia.

WW II TRIVIA: The last U.S. marine killed in WW2 was killed by a can of spam. He was on the ground as a POW in Japan when rescue flights dropping food and supplies came over, the package came apart in the air and a stray can of spam hit him and killed him.  

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 339: WEDNESDAY

MEN WITH GUNS AT BREAKFAST

While writing about Sandy Woodward yesterday, I forgot to mention that although I was back in my cottage for the fighting, I was actually in Devon, on the South coast of  the UK, at the very beginning of the war. I was accompanied by a West Waterford man, Jimmy Crowley, and we were on on our way to Germany to see a fish smoker (don’t ask!).

We were in Devon, on the South Coast, because our car had broken down—and in an area which is highly defense oriented and where the convoy which was going to re-take the Falklands was being prepared. Military traffic clogged the roads. It was all quite dramatic and exciting in a grim sort of way—and I was reminded of the preparations for D-Day that had taken place in the same area some 40 years earlier. No, I had not witnessed them—I was born in May 1944—but I have certainly read enough, and seen enough news clips about them, since then. The D-Day preparations were humungous. The emphasis, in this case, was less on size, than on speed.

Now being Anglo-Irish and educated in the UK, I don’t have an Irish accent—but Jimmy’s is quite pronounced. That was to lead to trouble because we were overheard talking in a pub, and it was immediately assumed we were IRA. After all, if I didn’t have an Irish accent, I did have a beard. The police were informed.

On the third day, while we were having breakfast, a half dozen or so armed detectives appeared and peremptorily asked to see our rooms and to carry out a search. Under counter-terrorism regulations, they did not need a warrant.

My heart sank—with good reason. I had a red dot gun-sight in my baggage and it didn’t take them long to find it. In their eyes that made me a terrorist, for sure.

The detective in charge—a superintendent, as I recall—stared at me with an unfriendly gaze and said: “Well, Mr. O’Reilly, how can you explain this?”

“I like to have a physical item—a talisman if you will—to associate with each book,” I said. “Since I write thrillers, such items tend to reflect such a genre. Previously, I have bought a shotgun and a Sykes Fairbairn fighting knife. This time, I opted for the gun sight.”

The detective gave me an absolutely incredulous look. This was the worst story he had heard in years (though true). It seemed highly likely I was going to be locked up for a considerable time. They can do that under the anti-terrorism laws.

Fortunately, I had taken the precaution of making myself known to the police in Ireland—and the local garda (the Irish police are known as the Garda Siochana) sergeant where I lived was a friend. He was a rather amazing man called Vincent Bergin from Cappoqin, Co. Waterford.

After extensive enquiries, both of us were released, we made it to Germany, and returned in time for me to follow the fighting from the cottage.

Jimmy—he of the Irish accent—had actually served in the British Army—and had no doubt at all about the outcome. “We’ll go through the Argies like a knife through butter,” he said (and he wasn’t far wrong).

I don’t know how many times that I have been detained, or questioned, or roughed up by the police, or military, or private security (more times than I care to contemplate), but if you write the sort of stuff I do—and keep up to date with weaponry and matters military—it is an occupational hazard.

Such incidents also makes for a good story. At the time, they are not so funny.

FALKLANDS FACT: The British expeditionary force that was tasked to re-take the Falklands from the Argentinians set sail within three days of the invasion. It was a quite astounding logistical feat. Over 100 ships were involved.

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 338: TUESDAY

DEATH OF A SINGULAR NAVAL WARRIOR—SANDY WOODWARD WHO COMMANDED THE TASK FORCE THAT WON BACK THE FALKLANDS IN 1982

I followed the whole Falkland’s campaign obsessively from my thatched cottage in Ireland—a decidedly primitive structure made entirely from local materials, but wonderfully evocative and romantic.

The cottage boasted TV at the time—all of two channels—but the truly compelling coverage seemed to come by radio at night; and it had the added advantage that the rats, who were gnawing through the ceiling above me, were temporarily silenced. My rats were nothing if not BBC fans—and fascinated by the Falklands conflict. I killed them all eventually, but clearly we shared some tastes.

The task of defeating the Argentinians was a mission impossible according to U.S. military experts at the time. The Argentinians—who had seized the island--were well dug in and air support from the Argentine mainland was relatively close. Their troops on the island outnumbered the British nearly four to one. Their excellent air force was locally superior in numbers. In contrast, the British faced appalling logistic difficulties because they had to come some ungodly distance—over 8,000 miles—from the UK.

It was a war that the British could easily have lost—and, arguably, should have lost. They suffered a number of serious setbacks, but thanks to a great commander, Sir John ‘Sandy’ Woodward, and quite remarkable fortitude, they won. It was a close-run thing primarily because of British naval losses from air attacks which created formidable logistical headaches. These included the loss of most of their heavy lift helicopters when the container ship, the Atlantic Conveyor, was sunk by Argentine missiles.

One CH-47 Chinook survived because it happened to be airborne at the time. Despite lacking spares and all sorts of supposedly essential supporting gear, it went on to: carry some 1,500 troops, 95 casualties, 650 POWs and 550 tons of cargo. That said, mostly the British troops, once landed, just walked. The weather, as normal in the Falklands, was foul—cold, wet, and windy.

Where the infantry were concerned, though some Argentinian units fought hard, the British—outnumbered though they were—outfought the Argentinians at every turn in a series of classic military actions. British special forces were also involved to singular effect.

CASUALTIES: The conflict lasted 74 days. 649 Argentinians were killed and 255 British. 3 Falklands islanders also died.

British Sea Harriers, despite being stationed out of range of Argentine aircraft—which limited their time on station—and facing superior numbers of faster high performance fighters, shot down an astonishing 20 Argentine aircraft. They also provided ground support. Two Harriers were lost to ground fire and two to accidents. None were lost to hostile aircraft.

By any standards, that has to be considered a truly remarkable performance.

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 337: MONDAY

WHO KNEW SQUIRRELS WERE SUCH NOISY EATERS!

We are having truly marvelous weather at present in Seattle—so my high window, appropriately protected by a mesh screen—is open. The good news is that this cools the room. The bad news is that I can hear rather more stuff than I care to—and noise can be distracting.

Between you and me, I had thought that my hearing had been degraded as a result of spending far too long within yards of M1A1 tanks firing (a story for another day) but now I am not so sure. My hearing can’t be that bad if I can hear every munch my local squirrel is making.

He used to inhabit the dead tree, and I would see him regularly. Since that was cut down—to avoid crashing on a neighbor (anti-social behavior)—I have seen him less often.

This morning, he was crouched on top of a fencepost—perhaps twelve feet away—and I could both see and hear every munch.

I was much cheered.

When I was a child I had Siamese cats as pets and loved them dearly. Later, I seemed to be mainly preoccupied with babies—with the odd cat thrown in because babies like cats and the feeling seems to be mutual.

After that, though I get on fine with cats and dogs and babies, I became attracted by the idea of enjoying a pet while not really owning it. It appears I have a libertarian streak.

My first candidate was a bantam hen, who appeared as if from nowhere, and who liked to strut within my vision—while I was trying to write—until I had acknowledged him. After that, he would do his own thing. That mainly involved pecking for food, strutting, and servicing his harem of bantam hens. I had no idea where they came from from either, but they seemed to appreciate his attention. He was a beautiful creature and—as best as I could determine—consisted mainly of testosterone.

I christened him Yul Brynner because few people could strut like Brynner. I bought him and his retinue corn meal, but otherwise left them to their own devices. They took over my pump house to sleep in.

There is a great deal to be said for having a pet you don’t own.

QUOTE:

“Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success. If you love what you are doing, you will be successful.
”
― Albert Schweitzer

 

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 336: SUNDAY

THAT UNSETTLED FEELING WHEN NOT WRITING

I confess I don’t feel entirely easy unless I’m working on a major writing project. Currently, I have one in waiting—the completion of a novel which was going exceptionally well when I had to break off to do other things—so my peace of mind leaves something to be desired. A little voice keeps whispering in my ear: “You should be writing. You should be writing. And blogging isn’t enough.”

My reactions are pretty typical: You write with absolute focus and intensity for months; experience a profound reaction when the project is completed; and then yearn to immerse yourself in whatever writing task comes next. And I am decidedly not short of ideas.

As matters stand, I have been tidying up a number of administrative matters, and am trying to figure out a major web site which went badly wrong. Since the website is mine, I have no choice but to give it my close attention—but resolving it is proving to be damnably difficult. The problem lies not with content—which I have already written—but with layout and communication. And the thing is huge. Though it is divided into short sections, and is easy to navigate, it is extremely comprehensive. It’s the WAR & PEACE of websites. I’m not encouraged by the thought  that Tolstoy spent ten years on his opus. To spend ten years on my website would seem to be carrying perfectionism to excess.

Incidentally, if you haven’t read Tolstoy’s masterpiece, you haven’t lived. I first read it in my early teens and it was a life changing event. It is also surprisingly easy to read.

It’s at times like these that I wish I had wider skills. For years I thought writing skills would be sufficient for a writing career. That was naïve in itself because the successful author has always needed inter-personal, political, and marketing skills—and to be a good public speaker has never gone amiss.

Today, I deeply regret that I never trained as a graphic designer, am not adequately familiar with constructing a web site, and cannot both program and maintain a computer. Paradoxically, though we have entered an age of ultra-specialization, we also need to be equipped with a range of mostly computer-based practical skills. Overall, I’m not sure it is a bad thing—but I wish I had known earlier.

Writing apart, I am a good strategic planner, can speak entertainingly, am a pretty good economist, a fair historian, an excellent researcher, a talented analyst, and my knowledge of both terrorism and military matters is considerable—but HTML makes me hang my head. God knows, I understand the principles—they are not that complicated—but my brains screams: “Life is too short for this!” Writing entertainingly with clarity and pace is a life’s work in itself.

Such is the world of the writer in the 21st century. By the 22nd century, I expect robots and software will be doing all the work—including writing.

I don’t think I’m going to worry about that.

CHAIN BOOKSTORES: According to Bowker Market Research, U.S. chain bookstores (Barnes & Noble etc.) lost 13 percent of their share of book purchases in 2012. Overall, such booksellers saw their share decrease from 13 percent to 19 percent of volume.

In contrast, e-retailers (Amazon etc.) saw their share of book purchases by volume increase from 25 percent in 2010 to 44 percent in 2012.

Book browsing—one of my favorite pastimes—is at risk.