David Burrows's Blog, page 13

Short (Sad) Story for Armistice Day

This is where I had died.I stood overlooking verdant fields that were alien to me. In my day this was mud and shell craters; barbed wire and death. Even the sky was different, intensely blue and probably crisp on this October day. Ghosts do not feel cold, but I remember it, clutching my rifle which seemed to suck the heat from my hands. My hands white and nerveless, shaking from cold and fear. I looked to my left; others were appearing. Friends and comrades that I had known so well in a past so long ago. Jack nodded to me, a smile hovering on his lips. I nodded back, a response enacted every year on this day. My actions were not my own, this was how it had happened. I knew what was to come, but I could not change it. I was in a play and we were mannequin's, our strings pulled by an unseen hand, making us dance to a tune no longer remembered. Corporals dressed the line, there was no sound, ghosts do not hear, but I could see Old Frank's mouth forming the words I knew so well. Old Frank was his nickname, but he wasn't old. Twenty three, whereas I was twenty. We looked up to him; he seemed to know what to do and when and we followed him. That I couldn't hear him was a blessing in anticipation of the hell to come.To my right others were appearing. Why did we dress the line? I no longer remembered. It was probably important once, but not now. The line was moving and I took a few steps. Tentative at first and then more firmly. We were the second wave and the men in front of us, including Frank, blocked our view. We could afford to be brave for that line of soft, yielding flesh was a barrier against the hail of lead to come. Such an inadequate and over used phrase to describe the reality of war. One throw away line that encompasses all the terror and horror to come. I cried, but tears would not come, the puppet master had not yet decided it was time for tears. What a waste. I had wanted a wife and children and even grandchildren perhaps. A dream far too distant for a twenty year old boy. All too soon someone fell in the line in front and to my right. It looked as though he had tripped. My eyes were riveted on the men in front of me, praying that my protection would remain. I needed them to absorb the horror to come. Perhaps this time I would live? I remembered hope and prayers. My eyes flickered to the heavens. It was at this point that Old Frank had sworn, his left arm ripped from his body as something unseen violated his body. A preacher had told me that swearing was a sin. I prayed that Old Frank went to heaven and not hell. Swearing was not too bad. Not among all this terror. Please God, forgive Frank and do not commit his soul to purgatory. His blood and flesh had splattered my face and I ducked, as I had done, so many years ago. I felt the warmth of his blood and remembered the copper taste of his blood in my mouth. I spat and wanted to vomit. This was not how war was meant to be. When we joined up we had talked of heroic deeds and how swiftly the enemy would capitulate. A gap had formed in the line of men to my front and I could see the barbed wire and beyond that the enemy trench. Terror tore at my heart. I remember I had wailed then, not for Frank but out of fear for myself. I felt the wind of a round buffet my cheek and my wail turned to a scream. That had been close and I looked to my left just as Jack spun on the spot; I watched as he collapsed to the ground; I could almost hear the puppet master's glee as his strings were cut. Jack, a furrier from Blackheath. A man who had comforted me as I crouched crying at the bottom of our trench last night, so long ago. He had given me his chocolate. Such a princely gift in this time of deprivation and squalor. I crouched as more men in the front line fell. Blood misted the air and again I tasted it's coppery tang. I wiped my eyes, nearly dropping my rifle and having to fumble to hold it firm. I should have dropped it. I should have jumped in a shell hole like some men did. The terror of failure and cowardice outshone the fear of bullets. Why? Bullets are far more deadly; a testimony to the front rank thinning dangerously now to the point that we were the first wave. I could see helmets above the enemy trench and flashes from muzzles. I remember the sound: the din, the screams and the bangs and the thumps. The slap of something fast hitting flesh. Men to my side fell and I stumbled, thinking that I was hit. I remember the screams of incoherent rage from my remaining comrades, the only act of defiance as we walked to our deaths. The enemy suffered then, our screams must have haunted their dreams. We suffered more though. Flesh against lead. It was a very uneven contest. Simon fell. We had worked at the same hop farm for several summers past. Our summer holiday away from the colourless terrace street we called home. A different life. Cool summer evenings spent outdoors under cloudless skies. Stars rather than shells. I prayed that I was invisible, which I was. I was a ghost and yet terror tore at every fibre of my once body. Memory is a terrible thing. I remember men funnelling towards a gap in the wire. We had been told not to do this. It was a death trap covered by more than one machine gun. Such a terrible weapon where more than one round span bodies around, the puppet master working hard, tugging at strings in time to some forgotten beat. My time was coming. I remember no longer caring. Death was better than this hell. Was I a coward? I still walked forward, but my rifle was forgotten. I was doing my duty, sacrificing myself for my king. I couldn't even claim that. I had been told to advance. I had been trained to do so. Failure and the fear of cowardice still dogging my steps. I spun then as something punched me in the kidney and then the other way as something slapped my right shoulder impossibly hard. The sky and the earth exchanged places and I looked up into a blue sky, a bird winging its way as though fleeing the battle. I should have done that. I should have had the sense to flee. I would have had children and spent my summers working at the hop farm. Life was leaving my body. I remembered the pain fading and night surrounding me.
My thoughts turned to my comrades. We would meet again. Next year.

Last entry for Halloween - a trifle late, but awesome

Wow - this is a great and very amusing picture. How did they do that??

https://www.facebook.com/Harley.Indian.World/?fref=photo

Has Reading Become a Chore? Any suggestions?

I have found at times reading is a chore, which is a great shame. There's a lot of books (some that turn out to be good) where I read a couple of pages then put it down. I have some historical fiction books that I've read recently and overall they are good but they don't have that wow factor.

I want books that keep me up all night and I want to read the next chapter. Only a few authors achieve that. I recently read some less well known authors Karen Azinger and Michael Sullivan and theirs were very easy to read books with a nice flow (in my view). There are on the cusp of not-put-downable (which I am finding rare), but they are better than most.

I also like Bernard Cornwell and his books are certainly un-put-downable. Not always guaranteed but nearly always. Simmon Scarrow's books are the same. Tolkien certainly hit a high note and I always liked David Gemmell's Legend.

I am struggling though to find authors that hit that un-put-downable standard. Any views?

Why do Swords Feature so Strongly in fantasy Books?

They are eye catching I suppose. Most novels are set in a medieval type setting so weapons are numerous and even then swords featured strongly, but not exclusively. So what about the other weapons?

I am a Saxon re-enactor and have used a sword, single handed spear (6 foot), double handed spear (9 foot), scramseax (long knife) and an axe. Many of you are correct that swords are a status symbol and a sign of wealth. In terms of using weapons, I found the axe clumsy and the head too small. With a sword you could get away with moire mistakes. The sword has a cross guard and that and its length protect the hand. I have broken fingers fighting with the seax as I occasionally blocked with my hand rather than the blade. Ideally I liked a short spear to start a fight as that had longer reach, but when a fight became messy I dropped the spear (if possible) and ended up with the sword.

Perhaps we need to see heroes with other weapons a bit more often. The Silmarillion certainly had at least one hero with a bow. Any thoughts?

What Music Inspires you When Either Reading or Writing a Book?

I like listening to music when reading or writing, but finding appropriate mood music for fantasy is difficult. Music really helps to set the scene and can really deepen the impact of a tale. If you haven't tried it, give it a go.

Here are a few of my favourite albums and which books I enjoyed reading to them. I set the music low and usually wear headphones to cut out the background noise.

1. Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and the Silmarillion, Mike Oldfield's Hergest Ridge or Ommadawn
2. Stephen Donaldson's Lord Foul's Bane and other books - Mike Oldfield's Incantations
3. Enjya - good for most fantasy books.

When I listen to the above tracks years later I still revive the mood that accompanied the tale. I feel that I'm in the presence of Elves, Dwarves, Orcs and Goblins,

Anyone else out there like to read/write to a good album?

Apologies, Mixing my Genres

I must apologies to fantasy fans who visit this site as quite a few reviews have been historical fiction orientated. It's an easy leap for fantasy fans and many novels about Rome, Egypt and other civilisations feature epic battles, gods, politics and much more that make fantasy tales so great. So if you are short of something to read, and have finished all my novels if course, there is always historical fiction.

#Bookreview Rome's Lost Son, by Robert Fabri

Rome's Lost Son by Robert Fabbri
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The book has some slow moments, but also some fast action. What I like about this series is several authors have included Vespasian (the main character in this novel) in their tales. Narcissus also features, the Emperor's freedman. It's interesting to see the different viewpoints and there is some general agreement. It's good to read about Vespasian in his own right. I think I've read all the previous books and the tale is certainly epic, stretching from Armenia to Britannia (earlier novels).

This book sees Vespasian on the brink of despair. That part of the tale is nicely handled and quite believable. There's a lot of politics and at times too many names to keep up. The writing doesn't have the same depth or pace as some other writers in this genre, but it is still a good tale. There's not many battles in this book and one of the ones there is makes you marvel that Rome was such a top military power for so long. Some of the opposition sound horrific.


View all my reviews

The Last Kingdom - TV Series

The series is based on Bernard Cornwell's books, so how well does it do as a TV series? The plot line is excellent and fairly close to the book. That's good as the books are a success and popular. It follows the tale of a young Saxon boy, renamed Uhtred when his brother is killed. Uhtred is captured by Danes and because of his plucky spirit they spare him and he is raised as a Dane.

If the series continues to follow the books it will be pretty good. England at the time is close to defeat and Uhtred plays a significant role, helping King Alfred. Bernard Cornwall always has a twist. In Sharp it was having an officer raised from the ranks that others didn't see him as a gentleman and therefore an officer. In Rebel it was a Northerner joining the Southern cause and again not being quite accepted. Here, Uhtred is never really trusted as he is a pagan (being raised by Danes) among some of the most god-fearing people of the time. It makes for an interesting clash of personalities.

However, there are some glaring mistakes. The interpretation of a shield wall is all too wrong. It may be that this first adaptation was unique to the first battle. In the scene the Danes form a three wall tall shield wall with no gaps and men crouching at the front to cover their feet. This is fine against arrows, but against another on-foot army it wouldn't work. You simply wouldn't have the numbers and the enemy would just outflank you.

This is a shield wall as demonstrated by Regia Anglorum. The battle is more fluid than a static wall of several layers.

Let's hope that the Last Kingdom changes battle tactics in future episodes, otherwise two armies facing each other in a shield wall would be very dull indeed. Otherwise, a very interesting programme.

Dragon Rider - Book 2 of the Prophecy of the Kings

The eternal; question, who would win -- a dragon or a demon horde? Add sorcery to the mix and any outcome is no longer clear. War overshadows all reason.

Read Dragon Rider, Book 2 of the Prophecy of the Kings, http://davidburrows.org.uk/dragon_rider_burrows.html

Agincourt by Bernard Cornwell: a Book Review

Azincourt by Bernard Cornwell
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It seems appropriate writing a review on the anniversary of the battle.

History is incredible. The similarity between Crecy and Agincourt (Azincourt as used in the title of Bernard Cornwell's book) is incredible and yet no one, especially the French knights of the time, seemed to have learned from that. The two battles are nearly 80 years apart and there are a lot of similarities. The long bow proves a dominant weapon in both battles.

In Agincourt the English, having spent far too long besieging Harfleur, decided to snub the French and march to Calais through France rather than prolong what was meant to be an invasion. The french army shadow the English army and Cornwell's description is excellent, of the starvation and illness dogging the English army's footsteps. It seems that every river crossing was blocked by the French and so the English route became far longer than necessary.

Cornwell describes the battle from the viewpoint of an English archer, Hook. The French were incensed that "rabble" were fighting knights, the gentry of the French aristocracy. Hook, is a down to earth, pragmatic character who comes across really well . As in most of Cornwell's books, the battle is not the main theme, rather it is Hook's clash with a knight in a massacre earlier in the war in Soisson. The tale involves saints and a terrible French knight who Hook knows he must face, although of course there is a twist in that tale.

Bernard Cornwell makes you feel as though you are living in through that period, which is no mean achievement for a writer and sometimes historical fiction novels fail to achieve that. I describe this issue in an earlier article World Building Tips for Authors


View all my reviews