Miles Watson's Blog: ANTAGONY: BECAUSE EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO MY OPINION - Posts Tagged "ww2"
Drunken Thoughts at Midnight on my Birthday
Tonight I made it from the Egyptian Theater on Hollywood Boulevard to my home in Burbank in precisely fifteen minutes. This will mean nothing to anyone who doesn't live, or hasn't spent significant time, in Los Angeles, but it made me feel pretty damned good. Because at the precise moment I got into my Honda, which is still ash-grey from the massive Sand Fire we had here a week ago, the clock struck midnight and it became my birthday. And zero traffic and green lights almost the whole way back, making for a swift smooth easy ride, constitutes as good a birthday gift as I could hope for.
I am not precisely sure when my expectations for birthdays began to narrow. I believe that it may have been when I turned twenty-five, and my car insurance rates plummeted. Prior to that moment there were milestones everywhere: my tenth birthday (the first with two digits); my thirteenth birthday (my first teenage b-day); my sixteenth, which was technically if not actually Sweet; my eighteenth, which technically if not actually brought manhood; my twentieth, which signaled the end of my teens; and my twenty-first, which gave me the legal right to do something I had been doing illegally for years, which was drink alcohol. After twenty-one the horizon became decidedly more boring. What did I have to look forward to now, agewise? Well, my car insurance payments would drop drastically at twenty-five if I could only avoid tickets and accidents between now and then. That seemed a very sober, a very boring, a very adult reward. No strippers. No streamers. No fountains of absinthe. Just a smaller bill. A little less stress on the wallet. A little more cash to spend on gas and groceries and utility bills. As Colonel Potter used to say on M*A*S*H -- "Wonderbar!"
Today, right now, I am 44 years old. I was told today, by someone who had absolutely no motive to lie and very little tact, that I don't look a day over 37, and I believe this to be true. A lifetime of avoiding adult responsibility and manual labor both have a preservative quality which I believe is underrated. Nevertheless I am 44, and the tug of nostalgia I felt tonight at the flicks merely served to confirm this fact. I attended a double feature at the famous Egyptian Theater -- two Clint Eastwood movies shot in the 1970s. I am old enough to remember the 1970s quite well -- the enormous cars with eight-cylinder engines, the Afros and muttonchop sideburns, the plaid bell-bottom trousers, the big medallions gleaming from within thickets of chest hair, the telephones with their curly cords and rotary dials, the knob-and-button televisions with their rabbit ears and choice of exactly five channels (ABC, CBS, NBC, PBS, and one local station)...I remember it all, and very much more. But there is no point in trying to communicate the atmosphere of that particular time: as Orwell once wrote, either you were there, in which case you don't need to be told, or you weren't, in which case telling you about it would be useless. I remember, in 1989, talking to an ex-Marine who had lost an eye on Tarawa atoll in 1944 or 1945. He described to me in vivid detail how, during hand-to-hand fighting on the beach, a Japanese officer had hacked him open with a samurai sword, and how he had beaten the man to death with his M-1 carbine, which was either empty or had jammed. This same man lost his eye in a grenade explosion moments later, and woke up on a landing craft hauling a heap of dead Marines to a hospital ship just offshore. Some sailors noticed him moving and dragged him out of the heap of mangled, bloody, fly-covered corpses, and called for a doctor. His life was saved, but his parents had already been notified of his death. They had to be re-notified that he was in fact alive, and on the same day they got this notice they received another, telling them that their son, the Marine's twin brother, had been killed in combat somewhere else. I remember this conversation vividly: it took place in a restaurant near the National Press Building in Washington D.C. Yet at the same time it is just a story. I don't know what it is like to wade 100 yards through chest-high water under machine-gun fire, or fight another man to the death with my bare bleeding hands, or to lose a twin brother, or wake up half-buried in dead bodies with one of my eyes missing. Some experiences are incommunicable.
Middle age is one of them. When you are twenty-four years old, having a complete smokeshow of a girl thrust her phone number into your hand unsolicited is worthy of note. When you are forty-four, getting from Hollywood to Burbank in fifteen minutes, instead of the usual thirty, is worthy of note. The scale is a sliding one, and it slides downward.
Do not think I am feeling sorry for myself. I look pretty good. I'm healthy. I'm strong. I'm active. I can do everything I want to do. My two sources of income are playing video games for money and book royalties, and in a few days -- it was supposed to be today, but life intervened -- I am going to release my second novel and a collection of short stories. I have it pretty goddamned decent. I am just very much aware that the simple things -- the verysimple things, have greater weight for me now, as a middle-aged man, than they did when I was a young one. Perhaps that is a good thing. Perhaps it is not a lowering of standards but an increase in the capacity to appreciate life -- that is to say, the very act of being alive. This morning, when I was hiking around the Hollywood Reservoir, I encountered four turtles and three deer and a whole host of birds -- gulls, ducks, cranes both jet black and egg white. Not one of those creatures needs to be told the meaning of life. Not one of them has to take Prozac or Valium or see a shrink or go to church to answer the questions of existence. They don't have to ask any questions because they already know the answer, that the meaning of life is to live it.
I know this, too; but I forget sometimes. It's easy to forget. So many things conspire to make me forget. Like alarm clocks, and traffic, and the rent payment, and the sort-of job, and the sort-of girl (there's always a girl, sort-of or not), and the parking ticket I forgot to pay but just remembered now, this second, as I sip cheap whiskey and tap these keys. There are so many petty logistics on the journey I forget the fucking destination -- which is not death, but life. Living. Existing. Being here, now, doing this. The scale may slide downward, but as any veteran rollercoaster jockey will tell you, it's the downward arc that sells the ride. Perhaps what middle age has over youth is simply the ability to appreciate. Not to lust, desire, imagine, demand or expect; but simply to appreciate.
I want you to do me a favor. I want you to take a moment for yourself and think about where you are in life, what you are doing, and what you really want to be doing right now. Where you want to go, and how you want to get there. Disengage from the bullshit, the everyday, the devilish details that suck up most of your time, and realy consider. Really be.. Just for a moment. Think. Ponder. Contemplate. Dream. And remember that you were not just born to pay taxes, buy products and die. You are here to live.
Humor me. It's my birthday.
I am not precisely sure when my expectations for birthdays began to narrow. I believe that it may have been when I turned twenty-five, and my car insurance rates plummeted. Prior to that moment there were milestones everywhere: my tenth birthday (the first with two digits); my thirteenth birthday (my first teenage b-day); my sixteenth, which was technically if not actually Sweet; my eighteenth, which technically if not actually brought manhood; my twentieth, which signaled the end of my teens; and my twenty-first, which gave me the legal right to do something I had been doing illegally for years, which was drink alcohol. After twenty-one the horizon became decidedly more boring. What did I have to look forward to now, agewise? Well, my car insurance payments would drop drastically at twenty-five if I could only avoid tickets and accidents between now and then. That seemed a very sober, a very boring, a very adult reward. No strippers. No streamers. No fountains of absinthe. Just a smaller bill. A little less stress on the wallet. A little more cash to spend on gas and groceries and utility bills. As Colonel Potter used to say on M*A*S*H -- "Wonderbar!"
Today, right now, I am 44 years old. I was told today, by someone who had absolutely no motive to lie and very little tact, that I don't look a day over 37, and I believe this to be true. A lifetime of avoiding adult responsibility and manual labor both have a preservative quality which I believe is underrated. Nevertheless I am 44, and the tug of nostalgia I felt tonight at the flicks merely served to confirm this fact. I attended a double feature at the famous Egyptian Theater -- two Clint Eastwood movies shot in the 1970s. I am old enough to remember the 1970s quite well -- the enormous cars with eight-cylinder engines, the Afros and muttonchop sideburns, the plaid bell-bottom trousers, the big medallions gleaming from within thickets of chest hair, the telephones with their curly cords and rotary dials, the knob-and-button televisions with their rabbit ears and choice of exactly five channels (ABC, CBS, NBC, PBS, and one local station)...I remember it all, and very much more. But there is no point in trying to communicate the atmosphere of that particular time: as Orwell once wrote, either you were there, in which case you don't need to be told, or you weren't, in which case telling you about it would be useless. I remember, in 1989, talking to an ex-Marine who had lost an eye on Tarawa atoll in 1944 or 1945. He described to me in vivid detail how, during hand-to-hand fighting on the beach, a Japanese officer had hacked him open with a samurai sword, and how he had beaten the man to death with his M-1 carbine, which was either empty or had jammed. This same man lost his eye in a grenade explosion moments later, and woke up on a landing craft hauling a heap of dead Marines to a hospital ship just offshore. Some sailors noticed him moving and dragged him out of the heap of mangled, bloody, fly-covered corpses, and called for a doctor. His life was saved, but his parents had already been notified of his death. They had to be re-notified that he was in fact alive, and on the same day they got this notice they received another, telling them that their son, the Marine's twin brother, had been killed in combat somewhere else. I remember this conversation vividly: it took place in a restaurant near the National Press Building in Washington D.C. Yet at the same time it is just a story. I don't know what it is like to wade 100 yards through chest-high water under machine-gun fire, or fight another man to the death with my bare bleeding hands, or to lose a twin brother, or wake up half-buried in dead bodies with one of my eyes missing. Some experiences are incommunicable.
Middle age is one of them. When you are twenty-four years old, having a complete smokeshow of a girl thrust her phone number into your hand unsolicited is worthy of note. When you are forty-four, getting from Hollywood to Burbank in fifteen minutes, instead of the usual thirty, is worthy of note. The scale is a sliding one, and it slides downward.
Do not think I am feeling sorry for myself. I look pretty good. I'm healthy. I'm strong. I'm active. I can do everything I want to do. My two sources of income are playing video games for money and book royalties, and in a few days -- it was supposed to be today, but life intervened -- I am going to release my second novel and a collection of short stories. I have it pretty goddamned decent. I am just very much aware that the simple things -- the verysimple things, have greater weight for me now, as a middle-aged man, than they did when I was a young one. Perhaps that is a good thing. Perhaps it is not a lowering of standards but an increase in the capacity to appreciate life -- that is to say, the very act of being alive. This morning, when I was hiking around the Hollywood Reservoir, I encountered four turtles and three deer and a whole host of birds -- gulls, ducks, cranes both jet black and egg white. Not one of those creatures needs to be told the meaning of life. Not one of them has to take Prozac or Valium or see a shrink or go to church to answer the questions of existence. They don't have to ask any questions because they already know the answer, that the meaning of life is to live it.
I know this, too; but I forget sometimes. It's easy to forget. So many things conspire to make me forget. Like alarm clocks, and traffic, and the rent payment, and the sort-of job, and the sort-of girl (there's always a girl, sort-of or not), and the parking ticket I forgot to pay but just remembered now, this second, as I sip cheap whiskey and tap these keys. There are so many petty logistics on the journey I forget the fucking destination -- which is not death, but life. Living. Existing. Being here, now, doing this. The scale may slide downward, but as any veteran rollercoaster jockey will tell you, it's the downward arc that sells the ride. Perhaps what middle age has over youth is simply the ability to appreciate. Not to lust, desire, imagine, demand or expect; but simply to appreciate.
I want you to do me a favor. I want you to take a moment for yourself and think about where you are in life, what you are doing, and what you really want to be doing right now. Where you want to go, and how you want to get there. Disengage from the bullshit, the everyday, the devilish details that suck up most of your time, and realy consider. Really be.. Just for a moment. Think. Ponder. Contemplate. Dream. And remember that you were not just born to pay taxes, buy products and die. You are here to live.
Humor me. It's my birthday.
Reader's Favorite's verdict: 5 Stars for SINNER'S CROSS
Now that 2020 has mercifully met its end, we can begin the long process of digging out from the rubble of its unment expectations. That is at any rate what I am endeavouring to do in this newly-minted year of 2021.
If you are one of the (coughs) elite thousand or so who read this blog on a regular basis, you already know that in addition to all the other monkey wrenches 2020 chucked into my own personal gears, it managed to jam, for no less than six months, all my attempts to promote my most recent novel, Sinner's Cross. As Frank Burns said in M*A*S*H, I don't chew my cabbage twice, so don't fear a repeat of any earlier whining you may have overheard. I simply say this to let you know that I am now once again both willing and able to put the word out about what I consider the best thing I have ever written.
At the very end of that year whose name we won't mention, SC was named a finalist in the Independent Author Network Awards. It also got a very favorable notice from Writer's Digest:
"This expertly crafted historical fiction takes readers into the trenches of WWII—and into the minds of soldiers on both sides of the war. With careful attention to the psychological impact of battle, the author gives voice to men in the impossible position of carrying out orders that disregard human dignity, including their own. This book is not a comfortable read. It begs questions about who really wins when the fighting is over. While there is an ever-present sense of futility in each episode, the reader will not be left feeling he has wasted his time on a morbid retelling of history, but rather given the opportunity to ponder anew the excruciating sacrifices soldiers make during wartime, and whether they are worth it."
These accolades come on the heels of it winning the Best Indie Book Award for Historical Fiction (2019), the Book Excellence Award in the category of Action (2020), and the Literary Titan Gold Medal (2020). However, on New Year's Day, I woke up to see that it had also been reviewed by Reader's Favorite -- specifically by Grant Leishman, author of The Second Coming, Rise of the Antichrist, and The Photograph. Mr. Leishman gave the book five stars and wrote:
Sinner’s Cross: A Novel of the Second World War by Miles Watson is a no-holds-barred account of one of the lesser-known actions in Europe of the Second World War. Prior to the well-publicized and dramatized Battle of the Bulge in the Ardenne Forest, an equally violent and deadly encounter took place in the forests of Hürtgen on the German/Belgian border, from September 19, 1944, to February 10, 1045. American and German troops faced each other in the dense forests of Hürtgen as the winter of 1944-45 descended, where the flower of both country’s youth was sacrificed in a futile battle over an unknown and unwanted piece of land. The author introduces us to both sides of this titanic and bloody conflict. Half the story is dedicated to a group of American G.I.s led by the inexperienced and terrified Lieutenant Breese, facing off against one of the most formidable of Germany’s units, the Paratroopers, led by multi-decorated and seemingly fearless Major Zenger, affectionately known to his troops as Papa. The author takes us deep inside the psyche of these terrified, mud-splattered, and intensely uncomfortable men as they prepare, yet again, for a counter-offensive, which like so many of them seems rooted in both pointlessness and failure. In this maelstrom of battle, blood, and gore, each man must face up to his own personal demons, fears, and horrors and either overcome them or walk away.
"Sinner’s Cross is without a doubt one of the most powerful anti-war novels I have ever read. Miles Watson’s incredibly descriptive narrative takes us right into the infernal 'hot zone' of the battle and describes the actions and the reactions of the soldiers with sharp, incisive, and incredibly descriptive prose. It is powerful and compelling, as much as it is sickening. What I particularly liked about this book was that the author showed the battle from both sides of the fence. His description of what occurred in the mind of Major Zenger was a clear attempt to remind us that the enemy soldiers were just human beings long before they were Nazis. The German troops were just as horrified, terrified, and tired of the endless battles as the Americans. He did a wonderful job of outlining the different perceptions of war from the psychological makeup of each individual soldier, his needs, wants, and fears. No-one can possibly read this book and conclude that war is, in some way, heroic or worthy of honor. The reality is clearly displayed in the crushed, broken, dismembered, and devastated bodies that would forever lie in the forgotten forests of Hürtgen. A truly powerful novel but one that left me drained by the end of it."
Now, contrary to what you might think, since I so often use this blog for publicity, I do not actually enjoy boasting or even bringing attention to myself. That is to say, I do like attention, and am among the very few who enjoy public speaking, but certain childhood incidents have left me with an almost morbid fear of being being scrutinized by large groups of people. When I decided to put my fiction out into the mass market, where it could be exposed to criticism online, I knew I was, as the saying goes, dropping my pants in public and inviting all and sundry to judge what they saw. So far the judgments have by and large been flattering, but this doesn't mean I haven't heard my share of boos. A writer, especially an independent one, must do everything in his power to attract attention, even if the act of attracting attention is distasteful to him. And as I have recently discovered, even a rising profile in the literary world has its own pitfalls. I cannot run a search on myself without discovering a new pirate book site which features my complete works. Honest to God, I wouldn't mind the fact that people are stealing from me if only there were some way of monitoring the traffic to let me know just how many thieves there are. If I could prove, for example, that for every sale I make, 3 people (or 30, or 300) were illegally torrenting my novels, it would go a long way to establishing further credibility as an author. In the mean time, hope you will I hope forgive me if I occasionally use this platform as little more than a bully pulpit for my own propaganda.
Sinner's Cross: A Novel of the Second World War
If you are one of the (coughs) elite thousand or so who read this blog on a regular basis, you already know that in addition to all the other monkey wrenches 2020 chucked into my own personal gears, it managed to jam, for no less than six months, all my attempts to promote my most recent novel, Sinner's Cross. As Frank Burns said in M*A*S*H, I don't chew my cabbage twice, so don't fear a repeat of any earlier whining you may have overheard. I simply say this to let you know that I am now once again both willing and able to put the word out about what I consider the best thing I have ever written.
At the very end of that year whose name we won't mention, SC was named a finalist in the Independent Author Network Awards. It also got a very favorable notice from Writer's Digest:
"This expertly crafted historical fiction takes readers into the trenches of WWII—and into the minds of soldiers on both sides of the war. With careful attention to the psychological impact of battle, the author gives voice to men in the impossible position of carrying out orders that disregard human dignity, including their own. This book is not a comfortable read. It begs questions about who really wins when the fighting is over. While there is an ever-present sense of futility in each episode, the reader will not be left feeling he has wasted his time on a morbid retelling of history, but rather given the opportunity to ponder anew the excruciating sacrifices soldiers make during wartime, and whether they are worth it."
These accolades come on the heels of it winning the Best Indie Book Award for Historical Fiction (2019), the Book Excellence Award in the category of Action (2020), and the Literary Titan Gold Medal (2020). However, on New Year's Day, I woke up to see that it had also been reviewed by Reader's Favorite -- specifically by Grant Leishman, author of The Second Coming, Rise of the Antichrist, and The Photograph. Mr. Leishman gave the book five stars and wrote:
Sinner’s Cross: A Novel of the Second World War by Miles Watson is a no-holds-barred account of one of the lesser-known actions in Europe of the Second World War. Prior to the well-publicized and dramatized Battle of the Bulge in the Ardenne Forest, an equally violent and deadly encounter took place in the forests of Hürtgen on the German/Belgian border, from September 19, 1944, to February 10, 1045. American and German troops faced each other in the dense forests of Hürtgen as the winter of 1944-45 descended, where the flower of both country’s youth was sacrificed in a futile battle over an unknown and unwanted piece of land. The author introduces us to both sides of this titanic and bloody conflict. Half the story is dedicated to a group of American G.I.s led by the inexperienced and terrified Lieutenant Breese, facing off against one of the most formidable of Germany’s units, the Paratroopers, led by multi-decorated and seemingly fearless Major Zenger, affectionately known to his troops as Papa. The author takes us deep inside the psyche of these terrified, mud-splattered, and intensely uncomfortable men as they prepare, yet again, for a counter-offensive, which like so many of them seems rooted in both pointlessness and failure. In this maelstrom of battle, blood, and gore, each man must face up to his own personal demons, fears, and horrors and either overcome them or walk away.
"Sinner’s Cross is without a doubt one of the most powerful anti-war novels I have ever read. Miles Watson’s incredibly descriptive narrative takes us right into the infernal 'hot zone' of the battle and describes the actions and the reactions of the soldiers with sharp, incisive, and incredibly descriptive prose. It is powerful and compelling, as much as it is sickening. What I particularly liked about this book was that the author showed the battle from both sides of the fence. His description of what occurred in the mind of Major Zenger was a clear attempt to remind us that the enemy soldiers were just human beings long before they were Nazis. The German troops were just as horrified, terrified, and tired of the endless battles as the Americans. He did a wonderful job of outlining the different perceptions of war from the psychological makeup of each individual soldier, his needs, wants, and fears. No-one can possibly read this book and conclude that war is, in some way, heroic or worthy of honor. The reality is clearly displayed in the crushed, broken, dismembered, and devastated bodies that would forever lie in the forgotten forests of Hürtgen. A truly powerful novel but one that left me drained by the end of it."
Now, contrary to what you might think, since I so often use this blog for publicity, I do not actually enjoy boasting or even bringing attention to myself. That is to say, I do like attention, and am among the very few who enjoy public speaking, but certain childhood incidents have left me with an almost morbid fear of being being scrutinized by large groups of people. When I decided to put my fiction out into the mass market, where it could be exposed to criticism online, I knew I was, as the saying goes, dropping my pants in public and inviting all and sundry to judge what they saw. So far the judgments have by and large been flattering, but this doesn't mean I haven't heard my share of boos. A writer, especially an independent one, must do everything in his power to attract attention, even if the act of attracting attention is distasteful to him. And as I have recently discovered, even a rising profile in the literary world has its own pitfalls. I cannot run a search on myself without discovering a new pirate book site which features my complete works. Honest to God, I wouldn't mind the fact that people are stealing from me if only there were some way of monitoring the traffic to let me know just how many thieves there are. If I could prove, for example, that for every sale I make, 3 people (or 30, or 300) were illegally torrenting my novels, it would go a long way to establishing further credibility as an author. In the mean time, hope you will I hope forgive me if I occasionally use this platform as little more than a bully pulpit for my own propaganda.
Sinner's Cross: A Novel of the Second World War
SINNER'S CROSS WINS AGAIN
I think we all need some good news today -- I know I did -- so it was a great personal relief to begin 2025 by getting notice that SINNER'S CROSS, my most decorated novel, now has a new decoration. Last year the book was given a "5 Star Award" by the Historical Fiction Company. Well, today, as I was driving back from my daily hike, I received notice that it had also taken the Silver Medal in the Hemingway War Fiction category for 2024. Maybe it's because I'm a fan of Hemingway, but I find this especially satisfying. Along with this, here is the list of awards this book has won since it was released in 2020:
Best Indie Book Award
Book Excellence Award
Literary Titan Gold Medal
Readers Favorite Gold Medal
Readers Favorite "5 Stars"
Historical Fiction Company "5 Star Award"
International Author Network Award Finalist
For those unfamiliar with SINNER'S CROSS, it's the inaugural novel in a WW2 series which also includes the award-winning VERY DEAD OF WINTER, and should see its third installment, SOUTH OF HELL, appear sometime late in 2025 or early 2026. In writing this series I created a simple architecture for storytelling which I have clung to religiously from the very first word:
1. All the novels are set during events which are less well-known to the public than, say, the Normandy Campaign or the Battle of Bastogne -- the Battle of the Huertgen Forest, the Battle of the Snow Eifel, the Alsace Campaign, and so on. This is in large part an effort to shed a bit of light on sadly and sometimes deliberately neglected corners of history. However, they are not history lessons. I never hesitate to compress, conflate, composite, or "synthesize" events for the sake of the narrative.
2. All the novels are told from multiple viewpoints, which include the Germans, and all the characters are protagonists and antagonists both. There are no "good guys" or "bad guys" per se. One common remark readers make about these novels is, "During the German chapters, I found myself rooting for the Germans." I am always pleased by this because that is not an easy task when dealing with American audiences (Europeans find it easier). But you should take note that the larger issues of the war are simply taken for granted.
3. The novels are about people, about human beings, not technology or place-names or strategy. They are a study of human beings under immense, unrelenting pressure. Though I have taken enormous pains to get all the little details right, I never hesitate to sacrifice historical accuracy in favor of emotional honesty.
4. The lives of the various characters, whether fighting for the Allies or Germany, must intersect in some way, directly or indirectly or both.
5. There is no "Greatest Generation" worship in these books. My characters, including the Americans, are portrayed with a wide array of human faults and failings.
In any event, SINNER'S CROSS, both as a novel and as a series, represent my lifelong obsession with the Second World War and in some ways are the culmination of a lifetime of study and hobby. Like Sauron and his Ring, I have poured so much of myself into them that in some ways they are more "me" than I am. I hope some of you reading this will give it a chance.
Sinner's Cross
The Very Dead of Winter: A Sinner's Cross Novel
Best Indie Book Award
Book Excellence Award
Literary Titan Gold Medal
Readers Favorite Gold Medal
Readers Favorite "5 Stars"
Historical Fiction Company "5 Star Award"
International Author Network Award Finalist
For those unfamiliar with SINNER'S CROSS, it's the inaugural novel in a WW2 series which also includes the award-winning VERY DEAD OF WINTER, and should see its third installment, SOUTH OF HELL, appear sometime late in 2025 or early 2026. In writing this series I created a simple architecture for storytelling which I have clung to religiously from the very first word:
1. All the novels are set during events which are less well-known to the public than, say, the Normandy Campaign or the Battle of Bastogne -- the Battle of the Huertgen Forest, the Battle of the Snow Eifel, the Alsace Campaign, and so on. This is in large part an effort to shed a bit of light on sadly and sometimes deliberately neglected corners of history. However, they are not history lessons. I never hesitate to compress, conflate, composite, or "synthesize" events for the sake of the narrative.
2. All the novels are told from multiple viewpoints, which include the Germans, and all the characters are protagonists and antagonists both. There are no "good guys" or "bad guys" per se. One common remark readers make about these novels is, "During the German chapters, I found myself rooting for the Germans." I am always pleased by this because that is not an easy task when dealing with American audiences (Europeans find it easier). But you should take note that the larger issues of the war are simply taken for granted.
3. The novels are about people, about human beings, not technology or place-names or strategy. They are a study of human beings under immense, unrelenting pressure. Though I have taken enormous pains to get all the little details right, I never hesitate to sacrifice historical accuracy in favor of emotional honesty.
4. The lives of the various characters, whether fighting for the Allies or Germany, must intersect in some way, directly or indirectly or both.
5. There is no "Greatest Generation" worship in these books. My characters, including the Americans, are portrayed with a wide array of human faults and failings.
In any event, SINNER'S CROSS, both as a novel and as a series, represent my lifelong obsession with the Second World War and in some ways are the culmination of a lifetime of study and hobby. Like Sauron and his Ring, I have poured so much of myself into them that in some ways they are more "me" than I am. I hope some of you reading this will give it a chance.
Sinner's Cross
The Very Dead of Winter: A Sinner's Cross Novel
AS I PLEASE XXXI: WW2 EDITION
Just a quick note to let anyone who is interested know that I'm still here. Recent evens in life kept me away from the keyboard for almost a month. They are positive events, but have filled my time and mind to the point where all the intentions I had about keeping up with this blog got sent to wait at the back of the line. But like Douglas MacArthur or a bad check, I have returned with an especially neurodivergent edition of As I Please. Here goes.
* I just referenced MacArthur. Well, I also just watched a John Wayne war movie called "They Were Expendable," about a PT boat squadron based out of Hawaii in WW2. The movie is interesting because it is much less rah-rah than I was expecting for a wartime-produced movie starring the Duke, and therefore more realistic and gritty. The film follows the squadron as it fights the Japanese at sea in the early months of the war, and is finally whittled down to a few ragged survivors on Battaan and Corregidor who have to fight with rifles as they no longer have any boats. Most of the characters die or are left by the movie in positions where they are certainly doomed. In one scene, for example, a bunch of officers are awating evacuation to the States via the last cargo plane, but there is not enough room and several are pulled off the aircraft to meet their fate. Grim, grim stuff, but one thing that stuck in my craw was the depiction of the sailors as they evacuated General MacArthur from the Phillippines so he could fight another day. The sailors look joyfully privileged to be escorting their general to safety while they must return to the lost battle to die or be captured -- a fate equivalent to death, considering what the Japanese did to POWs. In reality, MacArthur was hated by many, perhaps most, of his troops, partly because they blamed his decisions for their defeat in battle, partly because he left them to their fate. This song, meant to be sung to the tune of "Battle Hymn of the Republic," was popular among them as they defended Bataan from the Japanese while he was assumed safe on Corregidor Island:
Dugout Doug MacArthur lies a shaking on the Rock
Safe from all the bombers and from any sudden shock
Dugout Doug is eating of the best food on Bataan
And his troops go starving on.
Dugout Doug’s not timid, he’s just cautious, not afraid
He’s protecting carefully the stars that Franklin made
Four-star generals are rare as good food on Bataan
And his troops go starving on.
Dugout Doug is ready in his Kris Craft for the flee
Over bounding billows and the wildly raging sea
For the Japs are pounding on the gates of Old Bataan
And his troops go starving on…
I mention all this because myth-making is a fascinating process both during and after the creation of the myth. Often it involves taking a disohonorable or cowardly action and turning it upside-down, so that it refracts the glow of military genius and civic virtue. It is an illusionist's trick which throws off a dazzle which, if you squint a little, allows you to see that it's all just stagecraft. But most of us do not squint. It is easier to applaud the illusionist than to point out the flaws in his trick. MacArthur is defeated in battle, runs away while his troops are left to die, and then goes on to crown himself, and to be crowned, as a kind of American Caesar, the man who won the Pacific War, ruled postwar Japan as unofficial emperor, and masterminded the Inchon landings in Korea. At any point this narrative falls apart under even the most cursory scrutiny (please see "The Legend of Dougout Doug," Episode 103 of the Unauthorized History of the Pacific War Podcast if you want details delivered by historical experts on the subject), but how often do we subject our national myths to even cursory scrutiny? In this age, it is more important than ever to put any narrative through a scientific wringer before even tentatively accepting it is true.
* I also watched another WW2-era war movie starring Errol Flynn called "Objective: Burma!" Now this was a really excellent film. Flynn gives a surprisingly warm and understated performance as an Army captain tasked with leading a raid on Japanese radar installations in Burma in early 1945. The grinning swashbuckler of Hollywood puts his grin and his swashbuckling aside to portray a quietly professional officer who does everything right, only to discover that everything goes wrong anyway. "Burma!" is surprisingly skilled in the craft of its narrative, bait-and-switching the audience by having our heroic paratoopers pull off their coup with ease. The movie seems complete a third of the way through, and then, well, shit goes south in a hurry, and instead of a smooth plane ride back to base, they must make a hellish 200 mile trek on foot, through malaria-ridden swamp in blistering heat, while being attacked and ambushed every step of the way by irate Japanese who show them no mercy. A "men on a mission" commando flick becomes a cinematic study in survival under pressure, as Flynn's character, fighting hunger as well as exhaustion, disease, despair and the Japanese army, tries to get his dwindling survivors to safety. I really enjoyed this movie, not merely because it is a surprisingly realistic depiction of battle for its time (1945), but because unlike John Wayne, in actuality a gifted actor yet who made a career playing essentially the same character over and over again, Errol Flynn sets aside his usual rakish grin and devil-may-care antics to show the burden of command on a well-trained professional struggling not to succumb to despair.
* I just finished "Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo," a memoir by Captain Ted Lawson, of the famous surprise "Doolittle Raid" on Japan carried out by the US Army and US Navy on Japan in early 1942. As an account of a carefully and meticulously planned military operation, carried out in uttermost secrecy as a means of boosting American civilian morale during a period of defeat and despair, it is very interesting, but where the book is truly remarkable is in Lawson's depiction of the aftermath. His bomber, "The Ruptured Duck," crashed in China after the raid, and his crew were all badly injured, worst off himself -- he was thrown through the bullet-resistant windshield at 110 mph into the water, then washed up on the shore. His face caved in and his leg badly injured, he and the others had to be carried by friendly Chinese peasants from village to village over several hundreds of miles without any anesthetic or medical care, all the while being hunted by Japanese patrols. Then Lawson's leg became gangrenous and had to be amputated...it just goes on an on, bad to worse, to worse yet. A truly astounding story of human endurance and survival, and also of the human ability to suffer, and to endure, pain in every form. Indeed, when Lawson finally returned to the States, the plastic surgeons discovered the impact had driven some of his teeth into his sinuses, and when they were removed, the astonished surgeons found beach sand in the wounds. How he made it through all of this is beyond me, but Lawson, incidentally, lived to be 74 years old.
* In the back of my copy of "Tokyo," which is an original (1943 publishing date), there is an advertisement for a book called "Psychology For The Fighting Man." This is an interesting book which you can peruse for free on the wonderful Internet Archive (archive.org), cobbled together by a whole slew of psychologists, psychiatrists, military men and spies, to help the American fighting man, regardless of branch of service, cope with some of the challenges he faced during wartime: not just physical challenges posed by military life and combat, but loneliness, sexual starvation, resentment against superiors, et cetera and so on. A lot of the topics seem to fall far afield from psychology, venturing into things like sight, hearing, noise, color sense, use of camouflage, etc., but are eventually shown through a psychological lens, such as "how to find your way when lost." There are also chapters on leadership and organization, and how psychology plays into each. I found the book quite interesting simply as a discussion of the human condition, but also because it shows how science, biology, psychology and other disciplines come together to create a better fighting man. The great body of knowledge which exists in a society is harnessed to the goal of training men for war. When the book discusses caloric needs, sexual hygiene, colds and flus, temperatures, oxygen requirements, tolerances for noise, and so forth, it is all in the service of making the better and more efficient soldier. On the one hand, tremendous thought and care, and on the other, the full knowledge that all of this thought and care will be put into a body which may soon be blown to bits. The ethical and moral problems raised by this are fascinating, and it is interesting to ponder whether much of the knowledge we have, whether industrial, technological, psychological, medical or what have you, would have come about so quickly or at all if we did not spend so much time, money and effort figuring out ways to kill each other.
And with that, I bring "As I Please" to a close. If you noticed my absence from the platform, I apoligize; if you didn't, that is still my fault.
* I just referenced MacArthur. Well, I also just watched a John Wayne war movie called "They Were Expendable," about a PT boat squadron based out of Hawaii in WW2. The movie is interesting because it is much less rah-rah than I was expecting for a wartime-produced movie starring the Duke, and therefore more realistic and gritty. The film follows the squadron as it fights the Japanese at sea in the early months of the war, and is finally whittled down to a few ragged survivors on Battaan and Corregidor who have to fight with rifles as they no longer have any boats. Most of the characters die or are left by the movie in positions where they are certainly doomed. In one scene, for example, a bunch of officers are awating evacuation to the States via the last cargo plane, but there is not enough room and several are pulled off the aircraft to meet their fate. Grim, grim stuff, but one thing that stuck in my craw was the depiction of the sailors as they evacuated General MacArthur from the Phillippines so he could fight another day. The sailors look joyfully privileged to be escorting their general to safety while they must return to the lost battle to die or be captured -- a fate equivalent to death, considering what the Japanese did to POWs. In reality, MacArthur was hated by many, perhaps most, of his troops, partly because they blamed his decisions for their defeat in battle, partly because he left them to their fate. This song, meant to be sung to the tune of "Battle Hymn of the Republic," was popular among them as they defended Bataan from the Japanese while he was assumed safe on Corregidor Island:
Dugout Doug MacArthur lies a shaking on the Rock
Safe from all the bombers and from any sudden shock
Dugout Doug is eating of the best food on Bataan
And his troops go starving on.
Dugout Doug’s not timid, he’s just cautious, not afraid
He’s protecting carefully the stars that Franklin made
Four-star generals are rare as good food on Bataan
And his troops go starving on.
Dugout Doug is ready in his Kris Craft for the flee
Over bounding billows and the wildly raging sea
For the Japs are pounding on the gates of Old Bataan
And his troops go starving on…
I mention all this because myth-making is a fascinating process both during and after the creation of the myth. Often it involves taking a disohonorable or cowardly action and turning it upside-down, so that it refracts the glow of military genius and civic virtue. It is an illusionist's trick which throws off a dazzle which, if you squint a little, allows you to see that it's all just stagecraft. But most of us do not squint. It is easier to applaud the illusionist than to point out the flaws in his trick. MacArthur is defeated in battle, runs away while his troops are left to die, and then goes on to crown himself, and to be crowned, as a kind of American Caesar, the man who won the Pacific War, ruled postwar Japan as unofficial emperor, and masterminded the Inchon landings in Korea. At any point this narrative falls apart under even the most cursory scrutiny (please see "The Legend of Dougout Doug," Episode 103 of the Unauthorized History of the Pacific War Podcast if you want details delivered by historical experts on the subject), but how often do we subject our national myths to even cursory scrutiny? In this age, it is more important than ever to put any narrative through a scientific wringer before even tentatively accepting it is true.
* I also watched another WW2-era war movie starring Errol Flynn called "Objective: Burma!" Now this was a really excellent film. Flynn gives a surprisingly warm and understated performance as an Army captain tasked with leading a raid on Japanese radar installations in Burma in early 1945. The grinning swashbuckler of Hollywood puts his grin and his swashbuckling aside to portray a quietly professional officer who does everything right, only to discover that everything goes wrong anyway. "Burma!" is surprisingly skilled in the craft of its narrative, bait-and-switching the audience by having our heroic paratoopers pull off their coup with ease. The movie seems complete a third of the way through, and then, well, shit goes south in a hurry, and instead of a smooth plane ride back to base, they must make a hellish 200 mile trek on foot, through malaria-ridden swamp in blistering heat, while being attacked and ambushed every step of the way by irate Japanese who show them no mercy. A "men on a mission" commando flick becomes a cinematic study in survival under pressure, as Flynn's character, fighting hunger as well as exhaustion, disease, despair and the Japanese army, tries to get his dwindling survivors to safety. I really enjoyed this movie, not merely because it is a surprisingly realistic depiction of battle for its time (1945), but because unlike John Wayne, in actuality a gifted actor yet who made a career playing essentially the same character over and over again, Errol Flynn sets aside his usual rakish grin and devil-may-care antics to show the burden of command on a well-trained professional struggling not to succumb to despair.
* I just finished "Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo," a memoir by Captain Ted Lawson, of the famous surprise "Doolittle Raid" on Japan carried out by the US Army and US Navy on Japan in early 1942. As an account of a carefully and meticulously planned military operation, carried out in uttermost secrecy as a means of boosting American civilian morale during a period of defeat and despair, it is very interesting, but where the book is truly remarkable is in Lawson's depiction of the aftermath. His bomber, "The Ruptured Duck," crashed in China after the raid, and his crew were all badly injured, worst off himself -- he was thrown through the bullet-resistant windshield at 110 mph into the water, then washed up on the shore. His face caved in and his leg badly injured, he and the others had to be carried by friendly Chinese peasants from village to village over several hundreds of miles without any anesthetic or medical care, all the while being hunted by Japanese patrols. Then Lawson's leg became gangrenous and had to be amputated...it just goes on an on, bad to worse, to worse yet. A truly astounding story of human endurance and survival, and also of the human ability to suffer, and to endure, pain in every form. Indeed, when Lawson finally returned to the States, the plastic surgeons discovered the impact had driven some of his teeth into his sinuses, and when they were removed, the astonished surgeons found beach sand in the wounds. How he made it through all of this is beyond me, but Lawson, incidentally, lived to be 74 years old.
* In the back of my copy of "Tokyo," which is an original (1943 publishing date), there is an advertisement for a book called "Psychology For The Fighting Man." This is an interesting book which you can peruse for free on the wonderful Internet Archive (archive.org), cobbled together by a whole slew of psychologists, psychiatrists, military men and spies, to help the American fighting man, regardless of branch of service, cope with some of the challenges he faced during wartime: not just physical challenges posed by military life and combat, but loneliness, sexual starvation, resentment against superiors, et cetera and so on. A lot of the topics seem to fall far afield from psychology, venturing into things like sight, hearing, noise, color sense, use of camouflage, etc., but are eventually shown through a psychological lens, such as "how to find your way when lost." There are also chapters on leadership and organization, and how psychology plays into each. I found the book quite interesting simply as a discussion of the human condition, but also because it shows how science, biology, psychology and other disciplines come together to create a better fighting man. The great body of knowledge which exists in a society is harnessed to the goal of training men for war. When the book discusses caloric needs, sexual hygiene, colds and flus, temperatures, oxygen requirements, tolerances for noise, and so forth, it is all in the service of making the better and more efficient soldier. On the one hand, tremendous thought and care, and on the other, the full knowledge that all of this thought and care will be put into a body which may soon be blown to bits. The ethical and moral problems raised by this are fascinating, and it is interesting to ponder whether much of the knowledge we have, whether industrial, technological, psychological, medical or what have you, would have come about so quickly or at all if we did not spend so much time, money and effort figuring out ways to kill each other.
And with that, I bring "As I Please" to a close. If you noticed my absence from the platform, I apoligize; if you didn't, that is still my fault.
ANTAGONY: BECAUSE EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO MY OPINION
A blog about everything. Literally. Everything. Coming out twice a week until I run out of everything.
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