Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 27

THE LONG MARCH INTO LEGEND

 

Major Richard Blaine and his Spartans find themselves, not up against a brick wall, but facing a sheer, unclimbable cliff.

The Nazi reinforcements are soon to arrive. What will they do?

THE LONG MARCH INTO LEGEND

“Legends die hard. They surviveas truth rarely does.”

 -Helen Hayes

 

Death is the only god that comeswhether you want her to or not.

I knew that because she was righton my and ’s heels.

No legend matters. But manforgets reality and remembers legend.

I wonder what legend would beborn of André’s photos of this day. Not that Life Magazine would publishhis photos of Sentient as the Angel of Death.

Too sensational. Toounbelievable.

‘No. They would not which is whyI have sent them to the McCord News Service and its attendant newspapers.’

‘But they have just been taken.’

“You have yet to learn? Time ismeaningless to me. I flit from age to age as a pollinating bee from flower toflower.’

‘Sounds like a disconcerting wayto experience life.’

‘And your way of experiencing itseem to me as static and frozen as a fly caught in amber.’

Sentient must have been playingher games with Time for André and I caught up with the other Spartans whilethey were still a third of the way to the cliffs.

We caught up with Stew Taylorfirst, of course. He did a double take when he saw André.

“That’s ….”

“That’s André Friedman. His truename. I will never tell you or any other Spartan a lie. I save that for theArmy and politicians.”

Nurse Reynolds slowed to get byhis side. “Mister, I can take my own clothes off. I don’t need any help fromyour eyes.”

Then, she sped up to run by Theo,who glared at our newest Spartan.

André flicked nervous eyes to me.“The sergeant is … dangerous, no?”

“Dangerous, yes,” surprisinglygrowled Porkins. “I’ve lost count of the men he killed right in front of me …and some of them had been too fresh with our nurse.”

Reese looked amused at his“brother.” “Yeah, and we don’t take too kindly to passes thrown at herneither.”

By that time, all of us had madeit to the sheer cliffs above which where smoked the ruins of the machine gunemplacements.

 The ashy fingers of the flames reached up to the unfeelingcloudy skies as if in mute pleas for the slain souls of the German soldiers.

I could actually smell the stenchof burnt flesh and spent cordite on the breath of the beach breeze.

Speaking of heavenly pleas, I sawJohnny Knight and Jace Mercer of all people take one look at the sheer,unblemished cliff, seemingly impossible to scale, and bow their heads in briefprayer as they crossed themselves.

Does anyone have the foggiestidea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no onebelieve a word of it?

We are children playing on thefloor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to push back thedarkness of our doubts and fears.

We should proceed with uttercaution, for the God we think asleep may actually be awake and take offense, drawing us out to where we can never return.

Agent Cloverfield snorted,“Hell’s Teeth, I left my mountain scaling boots in Auckland.”

A screech as loud as a diving,burning bomber pierced our ears.

I glanced behind me and shouted, “Hit the dirt!”

All fifteen feet of the Angel ofDeath swept down upon us. Any atheist looking up at that sight would haveimmediately reconsidered his life options. I know I did.

The black wings, trimmed inflickering fingers of crackling fire, were thirty feet wide if they were an inch. Soriveting were they that I barely took in the high-cheek-boned face.

All I saw were the slanted lids,half-closed over twin pools of white-hot lava. Then, with a hot WHOOSH! she wasflying low over me and the others …

Straight into the sheer face ofthe cliff.

A massive explosion that Krakatoamight have envied vibrated the marrow of every bone in my body. All of us werecovered in a heavy shroud of white pulverized cliff stone.

We coughed heavily like three-packs-of-cigarettes-a-daysmokers. We probably would have enjoyed it more. At least we would have theboost of the inhaled nicotine.

From the shouts of all theSpartans, they felt much the same way.

I stiffened at what Sentientmurmured in my mind.

“All right, Spartans. On yourfeet and into the tunnel the Angel of Death has just made for us. And do nottouch the sides of this new tunnel. They are white-hot.”

Predictably, Stew Taylor asked aquestion: “How come the floor of it won’t melt our boots?”

“Ant” Vincent scoffed, “You everrun out of questions, Taylor?”

“Hey, it’s just who I am is all.”

Dusting himself off with a seriesof hacking coughs, Chuck Dickens said in between them, “C. G. Jung wroteof  this very characteristic: the personahe called it.”

He spat up a clot of phlegm as acat would a hairball. “It is a complicated system of relations between individualconsciousness and society.”

Dickens blinked his eyes to clearthem of the flying dust which his slapping had only made worse.

“It fittingly is a mask designed onthe one hand to make a definite impression on others, and on the other hand, toconceal the true nature of the individual.”

Eric Evans groaned, “Would someoneplease translate that into simple English?”

Cloverfield shook his head. “I amsuddenly very afraid, for I understood most of that.”

Rachel once again earned herreputation for being unflappable as she calmly put back on her tiny Spartanhelmet and mused, “Well, you do not see that every day.”

Theo snapped, “You heard the Major.Get your as ….”

Rachel raised an amused eyebrow,and he did a midcourse correction, “ … ah, rears into gear and head into thattunnel.”

Lt. Stein moved to my side. “Anyfurther orders, Rick?”

“Like Noah, we go in two by two, stayingsafe in the center, keeping our fingers off the sides and on our hands unburned.”

As Mercer and Floyd teamedtogether, Dimitri asked, “Any particular pairing?”

I was suddenly at a loss. Havinghuge chunks of missing memories from our time in the past was truly inconvenient… and unsettling.

“You know your pairings fromSicily. If you bicker, Sgt. Savalas will gladly assign you a partner.”

The sudden outbursts of groans andprotests let me know I had guessed correctly. Each of them would have rathergargled penguin urine than have Theo pick for them.

“André Friedman and I will marchin the lead.”

He protested, “Why in the lead?”

“You are our Lowell Thomas to myT. E. Lawrence. Any charging Nazi’s we will meet head on, and you can take thepictures, becoming legend.”

He paled and looked longinglybehind us.

We had marched only a few yards,when he slowly turned to me. “Any chance I could go back on the ….”

With a low rumbling, the tunnel’sopening collapsed in on itself, leaving us trapped.

Fortunately, the glow from the white-hotwalls illuminated the darkness somewhat.

Predictably, Stew Taylor whined, “Major.what are we going to do when those walls stop …. Ow!”

Eric Evans, next to him, snapped,“Maybe we’ll set your hair on fire! Make me joyful beyond dreams, Taylor, and keepthe idiot questions to yourself.”

And so, staying true to ourpersonas, we started our long march into darkness and legend.

 

NOT THERE YET

 

Major Richard Blaine is about to pluck his latest Spartan from one of the eerie walls of water that border a stretch of dry sand upon the shore of Omaha Beach ...

much as Arthur pulled Excalibur from the grasp of the Lady of the Lake. 

NOT THERE YET

“You win by fighting one moreround than you think you have in you. You win by getting up one more time thanthey knock you down.”

– Richard Blaine

 

There is nothing noble in beingsuperior to your fellow men. True nobility lies in being superior to yourformer self.

I had made some bonehead mistakesin New Orleans. It would be nice if I could counterbalance some of them rightnow.

But then, what had MarcusAurelius written:

“Waste no more time arguing aboutwhat a good man should be. Be one.”

I decided to act.

I might be wrong. But I would bedoing something. Besides, doing nothing always leads to nowhere.

A life spent making mistakes isnot only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing. Theonly man who makes no mistakes is the man who never does anything.

I ran up to the eerily movingwall of water, reached in, and pulled out a strangely dry man. I had expected alot of resistance. 

I got none.

I smiled. I had never gonefishing. What had the poor fish ever done to me that I should end its life? Me havingno money shouldn’t translate to the fish having no life.

But here, I had gone fishing forthe first time and landed a man.

I recognized him.

He was the photographer to whom Ihad supposedly lost money on the USS Samuel Chase.

I could see why Ingrid Bergmanhad fallen for him. He would have given Agent Cloverfield a run for his moneyin the good looks department.

“About that money I owe you ….”

“Istenem! Keep the money. Justtake me back.”

“No can do. I didn’t bring youhere, so I can’t take you back. Talking about taking. We need you to take someof your infamous photos.”

He stiffened. “Istenem! Mycamera!”

He looked down at the cameraaround his neck and began patting his clothes.

“Kiszáradtak a ruháim!”

“Yes, your clothes are dry and sois your camera. Let’s put some muscle to the hustle before the Nazi’s ….”

“You speak Hungarian?”

“And Sanskrit and a dozen otherlanguages. We have to get and get NOW!”

“Then, you know my name is ….”

“Is Friedman for as long as you are with me and my Spartans.”

“Why?”

I ground my teeth and fought theurge to thump the man over the head with the butt of my Desert Eagle, throw himover my shoulder, and race towards the cliffs and what safety they afforded.

“Because that is your true name,and I refuse to deal in lies. That is the purview of the Army and politicians.Now, we have to run. It won’t be safe here for much longer.”

“No! I refuse to go with you.Take me back.”

Merde.

He chased anything in a skirt,but he refused to budge for me. Maybe Sentient should have sent Rachel to gethim.

“YOU WHAT?”

André’s voice shot up threeoctaves. “Szar!”

I turned around. Merde, indeed.

The Angel of Death was hoveringright at our face level. She had to have been fifteen feet tall if she was aninch.

Her face ….

I could speak fifty languages,and I still had no words for it … except it would have looked natural on thedoor of an African witch doctor’s hut.

‘You silver tongued devil you.’

For André, she oozed through theair until their noses actually touched. I heard a buzzing as when a fly iscaught behind a wire window screen.

“Th-That is when I will die? Soyoung?”

The Angel of Death smiled. Atleast that is what I thought she believed she was doing.

“OR NOW, IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW THE MAJOR.”

Despite his profession, he didn’tlook suicidal, so when I took off towards the cliffs, I wasn’t surprised whenhe followed.

Making his living taking photosin war zones must have kept him in good shape, for André actually passed me.

THE HUNTING OF MAN

 

With the help of an ancient entity, Richard Blaine has already seen the slaughter awaiting soldiers on Omaha Beach.

Now, that entity has promised to keep him and his men safe. But how?

THE HUNTING OF MAN

“There is no hunting like thehunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it,never care for anything else thereafter.”

- Ernest Hemingway

 

“Three!”

The ramp thumped down hard, but …

There was no splash of water.

Only a stretch of eerily drypockmarked beach lay beyond the opening revealed by the lowered ramp.

All the toweringseven-and-a-half-foot tall metal Belgian gates were gone.

No long rows of hedgehogs,five-foot structures of three crossed metal beams.

No lines of tall log posts, mostof which had mines affixed to them.

I would wager no buried mines inthe beach sands either.

The Belgian gates and log posts weredesigned to blow up entire transports of troops.

And hedgehogs were designed topierce the bottom of landing craft and make them easy targets for the Germanmachine gunners on the cliffs above.

No. I was mistaken. They were notgone.

They were flying.

Along with what appeared to besharp spools of concertina wire that had lain in ambush beyond the shinglestone behind which Lady Churchill and I had hidden in that time now not to be.

It was a mouth-drying sight.

All the Belgian gates, thehedgehogs, the long log posts, the spool of barbwire, and hundreds of mineswere sailing through the air as if spit from the mouth of an angry God …

Straight for the dug-in machinegun emplacements.

I and the other Spartans wereblown back on our heels by the concussive force of those mines going off in thecontained area of those machine gun nests.

I shook my head in dazed shock.Then, a question hit me.

Where was the ocean?

Over my head, Sentient as theAngel of Death flew shrieking like a demoness smelling fresh-shed blood.

“Tod dem Dritten Reich! Death tothe Third Reich!”

The Angel of Death pealed in wildlaughter like a hungry harpy swooping down on blind children,

“Hitler! Du hast gegen den Windgesät. Jetzt werden Sie den Wirbelwind ernten.

Hitler! Thou hast sown to thewind. Now, thou wilt reap the whirlwind.”

‘Go! I cannot hold back the oceanforever. GO!’

I got a very rude slap on my buttfrom invisible fingers. But I went, calling out to the Spartans behind me.

“The Angel of Death has plowedthe field and drained the marsh for us. It won’t last long. Follow me!”

I ran out of Rocinante andwould have frozen but for another slap of invisible fingers on my rump.

But I had cause.

Sentient had spoken true. As inOld Testament times with the Red Sea, the ocean had parted for us.

The sound was terrifying andenormous … like a thousand Niagara Falls booming right on either side of us.

The ocean was not static butrippling up and down in a gut-freezing impossible manner all along the pushed-upwalls of waters .

But then, this whole thing wasimpossible.

‘If only we had a photo of this.’

‘We do. Robert Capa is currentlytaking one as we communicate. He is wondering how you left the USS Samuel Chasewhere he and you had just been playing poker. I had you lose to him, by theway.’

My rump was slapped again.Harder. I barely felt it.

‘Now, move it or lose it!’

I moved it.

Sentient gave Capa a photographicmoment by posing mid-air in front of us for a chilling heartbeat. Then, sheflew off in a blur of black wings towards the cliffs shrieking again.

“Tod dem Dritten Reich! Hitler!Du hast gegen den Wind gesät. Jetzt werden Sie den Wirbelwind ernten.”

“Gentlemen and lady! Please donot shoot me in the butt! All the obstacles on this part of Omaha have beendealt with!”

‘I believe you may be analretentive what with your fixation on your hind parts.’

‘Very not funny.’

D-Day planners chose 06:30 as'H-Hour' because this was when the tide was at its lowest.

At low tide, most of the deadlyobstacles the Germans had placed on the beach would be exposed, allowinglanding craft to avoid them while also making it easier for demolition teams toclear them.

It also meant the soldiers wouldbe exposed, too, and for longer. But then, when had generals ever cared for thelives of those under them as long as the objective was obtained?

Serving under a general is anexercise roughly akin to picnicking with a tiger. You might enjoy the meal, butthe tiger always eats last.

Sentient sneered agreement in mymind as I ran for all I was worth. I was not eager to have tons of ocean come crashingdown on me.

‘If not for me doing this, bythis early afternoon, Omar Bradley would be ready to call off the invasion.Omaha Beach would be so bad that they were ready to say, “All right, we cannotdo this.”

Sentient was living contempt inmy mind. ‘Omaha Beach is the worst of the Normandy beaches simply because ofthe natural defenses that are here facilitates this sort of defense.’

I saw Porkins stumble, his helmet falling off. I droppedback to snare his arm. Reese stepped beside him and did it for me.

“Watch where you place thoseclodhoppers, Franklin.”

And a wisp of a memory fromSicily breathed out from the darkness of those days.

Reese had just finished sneeringat Porkins, and I slipped up beside him, murmuring, 

“You lost your kid brotheron that camping trip. The Army has given you another. Watch out for him thistime. I don’t think Life will give you a third.”

Then, the image was gone.

I watched Reese hand Porkins his fallen helmet and tousle the man's hair, racing on ahead.

Amos raced beside me near winded.“Father and his synagogue will never believe this.”

Cpl. Sam Wilson, taking hurriedstrides, panted, “Hell, lieutenant, I don’t believe this.”

Way in the rear, Stew Taylor wasrunning as if expecting to be riddled by bullets any second when he tripped,and I raced to his side, steadying him.

As soon as I touched him, anothermemory from Sicily misted before my eyes.

Stew was huddled by a feeblecampfire. He wrapped his threadbare blanket around his thin shoulders. His eyesseemed filled by some ancient hurt and loss. He was trembling.

I could see myself sit by him andwhisper, “Hey, do you know what one snowman said to the other?”

He wordlessly shook his head, andI whispered, “Is it me, or do you smell carrots?”

He laughed so loud it awakenedReese who swore at him, but Stew kept on laughing. It wasn’t that funny a joke,but I guess it caught him out of the blue, or he really needed the laugh.

Back on Omaha Beach, I smiled andsaid, “Is it me, or do you smell carrots?”

He didn’t laugh, but his stepsfirmed.

I raced ahead.

Theo ran up beside me. “You knoweach of these men would die for you.”

“I want them to live for me.”

‘To your right, sentimentalist.You see that shape struggling in that wall of moving water?’

“Yes.’

“Latch onto it and pull in ournewest Spartan to join in the festivities.’

We were halfway to the cliffs,and I didn’t want to spare the time. Who knew when replacements for the snipersand machine gunners would show up.

‘How long can you tread water?’

I sped to my right.

 

WHAT FATE HOLDS FOR US

 In a realm where space and time are constructs without meaning, Richard Blaine and the Spartan 300 head for their destiny on Omaha Beach.

WHAT FATE HOLDS FOR US

“Our wills and fates do socontrary run, that our devices still are overthrown; our thoughts are ours,their ends none of our own.”

– William Shakespeare

 

“Now, what?” Nurse Reynoldscried, echoing my own question.

‘One school of Celestial Thoughtactually negates time: it reasons that the present is indefinite, that thefuture has no reality other than as a present hope, that the past has noreality other than as a present memory.’

‘Say again?’ Imind-asked Sentient.

‘No.’

Sentient’s murmur took on amusing tone. ‘As I played God just now, I also had a dream simultaneously.’

‘You can dream?’

“Hush.’

My cheek stung as invisiblefingers slapped it.  

‘A dream of a long game of chess.The players were not two persons, but two mysterious families. The game hadbeen going on for centuries. Nobody could remember what the stakes were, but itwas rumored that they were enormous, perhaps infinite. The chessmen and theboard were in a secret tower, whose turrets slowly began to take shape.’

Sentient’s voice grew sullen.‘And then ….’

‘And then, what?’

‘And then, that shrill voicedNightingale asked that inane question.’

Our perpetual questioner criedout, “Major, where the hell are we now? Back where we were?

“No, Taylor. That was the OuterRealms, a place that was not even a place. According to Sentient, this … regionis beyond space and time … where those constructs don’t even exist, much lesshave meaning.”

Reese snorted, “I’m so glad Stewasked, Major. That cleared everything right on up for me.”

Amos frowned, “Why are we herethen?”

I turned to him. “Rabbi, isn’tthat the question you’re supposed to answer, not ask?”

“Very not funny, Rick.”

I ironed my face with a bandagedpalm.

“Right now, those battleships anddestroyers are shelling Omaha Beach. Sentient wanted to prevent rattledofficers from blasting us to bloody rag dolls by accident.”

“Or on purpose,” mutteredPorkins.

I nodded. “Or that, Franklin.What’s worse is that those shell are landing in the water, killing fish but noGermans … or landing beyond the cliffs. NONE are hitting the beach andcreating fox holes for us to hide in or destroying the gun emplacements.”

Theo started to order Porkins todrop and do fifty for speaking out of turn.

I shook my head.

“Everyone, keep hold of thosescooter handles. They are actually Inertia Dampeners … as is the whole of Rocinante.The handles just intensify the effect, keeping you from flying over the sides.”

“What would happen to us, then?”asked Pvt. Kent.

I shivered at Sentient’s answerwithin my mind.

“Alfred, you would stall inmid-air, looking as if you were in a still photograph. All of your essencewould … stall. Caught endlessly experiencing your past, present, and possiblefutures all at once … for all eternity.”

Pvt. Evans snapped, “Ah, Franklin,hold onto those damn handles!”

Porkins rasped, “My soul is fromelsewhere, I'm sure of that, and I intend to end up there not hanging in somehellish limbo.”

Reese grumbled, “I’ve noticedwhat we plan often takes a nose-dive into the ditch beside the road of life.”

Dimitri scowled, “Yes, I havenoticed what we will is sometimes merely soap bubbles blown by fate elsewhere.”

Pvt. Dickens nodded. “I concur. Ithink there's great potential for autonomy, but we have to remember that welive in a world where people may have free will but have not invented theircircumstances.”

Evans groaned, “Chuck, you knowwhat my idea of Hell is? You explaining life to me for eternity!”

Pvt. Stew Taylor shook his headnegatively (for the 1000th time that I could recall).

“Free will is an illusion. Peoplealways choose the perceived path of greatest pleasure.”

Amos chimed in, being a rabbi howcould he not? “Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of lightand another of darkness; on the confines of the two everlasting empires,necessity and free will.”

Sentient mocked them in my mind.‘I would laugh to hear ants wax philosophic if it were not so tragic.’

‘As far as I can see, Sentient, it'snot important that we have free will or not, just as long as we have theillusion of free will to stop us from going mad.’

I mind-sighed, ‘Besides, can’tyou see? They’re scared through and through down to the marrow of their bones.All this talk of free will is to distract them from the fact that they havenone in avoiding Omaha Beach and the death awaiting them there.’

I called out, “Make sure yourpacks are cinched tight and your rifles stay slinged! I don’t want to get shotin the butt until I tell you to unsling them.”

Theo grinned lopsided, “Language,Major.”

I turned to Amos and froze. Hewas as pale as a leper … and trembling. If he was like this, how were many ofmy Spartans reacting to our approach to Omaha Beach?

Sentient murmured in my helmet,and thus, in all of the Spartans’ helmets.

“You shall not be the worse forthis - I promise you. You will be much the better for it. Just believe what Isay and do as I tell you.”

Beside me, Amos was spilling allthe bullets he was trying to push into his pistol clip.

I smiled sadly at him. “A goodfriend listens to your adventures. A best friend makes them with you.”

I gently took the gun from histrembling fingers, and my artificial fingers tingled as if touched by a live wire.I felt bullets form in my palm.

I started thumbing them into theclip of his .50 caliber Desert Eagle.

He rasped, “Th-There were nobullets in that hand a second ago.”

“It’s a kind ….”

“Of magic,” he weakly grinned. “I know. I’veheard it before.”

I took his shoulder gently, for Ino longer knew how strong my new fingers were. 

“The most beautiful people I haveever known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle,known loss, and have found their way out of those depths.”

I squeezed his shoulder a bitstronger and since he didn’t wince, it was just enough.

“Amos, you, Theo, and the otherswill make it through this. I don’t know exactly how, mind you, but ….”

I stiffened as Sentient told me. Itwas wild, crazy. Like something out of the Old Testament. But she had neverlied to me.

“All right, Gentlemen! That rampis just about to drop. When it does, I want you to run onto that beach as ifthe Angel of Death were right at your heels … for she will be.”

I cleared my closing throat. 

“Thepath will be cleared for you. Do not stop for anything. If a brother stumbles,however, you pull him back up onto his feet and run with him. We are a family,and family leaves no one behind.”

Suddenly, Helen Mayfair’s delicate,haunted face appeared before me, and I smiled with all the love I had for heras if she could actually see me.

Sentient murmured within my mind.

‘How lucky you are to have someonethat makes saying goodbye so hard.’

I took a deep breath. “That rampwill drop at the count of three."

 "One …. Two ….

 

WITH THE ANGEL OF DEATH TO LEAD US

 

The bill of Destiny is coming due, and Major Richard Blaine hopes it is only he, not his Spartan 300, that will have to pay it.

WITH THE ANGEL OF DEATH TO LEAD US

“Yet the real carrier of life isthe individual.

Only man as an individual beinglives. The state is just a system, a machine for sorting the masses.” 

- Carl Jung

 

I learned many harsh truths inNew Orleans. One was:

Character is fate.

Liars and cheats eventuallydestroy themselves. The corrupt overreach. The ignorant make fatal,self-inflicted mistakes. The narcissist ignores the data that challenges themand the warnings that could save them.

Hitler’s insanity had propelledhim into a position of leadership—because of his voracious ambition, his utterruthlessness, his oblivious shamelessness—but eventually, inevitably, hissupposed “strength” had become a magnet drawing the world’s retribution to hisdoorstep.

How many thousands would die onjust this one day as a consequence of the events his grasping, cruel actionshad set into motion?

Another truth I learned in NewOrleans?

Destiny is the Bill coming due.

To say there were a lot of billscoming due in the mail, not just for Hitler, but for all the Allied troops wasan understatement.

General Marshall had not learneda thing from Operation Tiger.

The LCTs entering the channel weresailing into chaos. It was pitch black, no lights, no nothing. To saypandemonium reigned was an understatement, because they not only had LCTs butpicket boats and escort craft and all kinds of ships trying to sort themselvesout.

 Radio silence prevailed, the ships could notuse blinker lights, and the captains could not do anything but curse and swearuntil the whole thing got sorted out.

Sentient laughed within my mind,‘Let us help them sort things out, shall we?’

“All right, Gentlemen!” I yelled.“Swing those packs on your back. Sling your Sig Spears over your rightshoulders and hold on tight to the Scooter Handles in front of you.”

I followed my own orders andshouted to Amos and Theo. “You two up here! We’re about to join the party!”

No sooner had they climbed upbeside me, than the Rocinante shot out of the darkness into what seemedto be a spinning spiral of blazing stars.

The air through which we flew wasbeyond frigid into downright South Pole freezing. It stung my eyes and numbedmy face. I could feel the tears freeze under my eyes and stop stiff on mycheeks.

“Gehenna!” cried Amos.

“Oh, shit!” yelled Theo.

The Rocinante soared highabove the dark waters of the Channel in the pre-dawn dusk.

Pvt. Jace Mercer shouted, “Whathappened to our canopy?”

“You got spoiled, Jace,” Ibarked. “Real Higgins boats don’t have them. Besides, the troops on thosedestroyers have to look down and see us … and our colors!”

“What colors?” Kent asked.

“These!” I yelled and pointed upat the flag at the end of the pole which shot from the middle of the deck with a WHOOSH!

The ancient Phoenicians representeda confederation of maritime traders rather than a defined country. What thePhoenicians actually called themselves is unknown, though it may have been theancient term” Canaanite.”

Whatever their true name,whatever knowledge they possessed and lost … they once had the ability to maketheir sails glow bright in the night.

As our Spartan Helmet flag nowshone with the brightness of a neon light.

Klaxons from all the destroyersunder our flying boat thundered loud in the night. So much for radio silence.

We certainly were making anentrance.

Cloverfield swore, “Our bulkheadsare shrinking!”

“The better to see us!” Ishouted. “We have a legend to create.”

“What about the music?” laughedNurse Reynolds.

Theo grumbled, “Of course, thisstrikes her as funny.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t askabout the fireworks,” said Amos.

I stiffened as Sentient murmuredin my thoughts and groaned, “She’s about to get both.”

In the light of the possibilitiesof Man’s intuition, his nature is certainly a lamentable imperfection.

But you work with what you have.

‘I was thinking the same thingabout you, my champion.’

The Rocinante was stillshooting straight out into the night as if shot from Artemis’ bow.

Searchlights stabbed up at usfrom the destroyers. Controlled by sound locators and radars, searchlightscould track bombers, indicating targets to anti-aircraft guns and nightfighters and dazzling crews.

We were definitely going to catchit if Sentient didn’t act.

I no sooner thought that, when myears shrank from the booming voice of Kate Smith which thundered as if screamedfrom each inch of the Rocinante.

Sentient slammed our craft besidea huge destroyer as Kate Smith belted out “God Bless America!”

I read the lips of NurseReynolds, “When I said I wanted something with swing, I didn’t mean swingingthe flag of a country not my own.”

I thought darkly it was a countrygood enough to fight for hers. But then, I was feeling a little edgy as I sawthe guns of two destroyers slowly aiming our way.

Abruptly, it seemed Sentientwanted to show the destroyers for what country we were fighting.

A cannon of our own clicked out fromthe middle of our deck into unfolding metal joints, and a huge series ofexplosions of fireworks erupted from it. 

My Spartans ducked their helmetedheads … including the usually unflappable Nurse Reynolds.

I followed the blazing arcs offiery arrows. I hushed in a breath.

The fireworks became a blazingAmerican flag over our heads. I frowned.

There was something wrong withthe star section of the fiery flag shimmering in the night.

There were fifty stars notforty-eight.

‘I was feeling nostalgic for thefuture.’

The deafening music changed. Iguess Sentient heard Rachel’s complaint.

Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.”

Sentient had her own sense ofhumor … and of revenge.

The Rocinante turnedsharply, heading full tilt as if to ram the nearest destroyer whose gun hadbeen aiming at it.

We didn’t slow as we neared. Wesped up.

Pvt. Evans cried, “Oh, atruckload of ‘Hell No’s!’”

Rabbi Stein yelped. “Jesus, Mary,and Joseph!”

Theo grinned, “Hey, I thought youwas Jewish?”

“I just converted.”

Impossibly, a void appeared inthe destroyer’s center. Blazing spirals of brightly burning stars appeared torace out towards us. 

Then, as if the vacuum of space grasped for us, we flewinto the celestial apparition.

With a flash of blinding whitelight, we shot out the other side of the destroyer.

Klaxons bellowed behind us as wesped towards the dimly seen horizon.

“Doc” Tennyson swore, “Oh, theyare definitely going to blow us out of the water for that!”

Sentient spoke to us all throughour helmet speakers.

 “Oh, no, they will not! Behold, the Angel of Death as shecarries you over that yonder battleship!”

I didn’t think a single Spartankept from yelping in fright … me included … as the Rocinante seemed tobe propelled from underneath by some mighty force which sped us through thelightening twilight.

Contrary to what many think: twilighthappens twice every day:

Once before the sun rises as thesky is getting light, and again after sunset before the sky is truly dark.

Earth's atmosphere scatters thesun's rays to create the colors of twilight. On worlds with no atmospheres,such as the moon, it gets instantly dark when the sun sets.

The winds of our passage blew thelong hair of Nurse Reynolds out from under her Spartan Helmet as if she were anew recruit to the Olympian goddesses.

Knocking all of us so that westaggered, the Rocinante slammed down hard on the waters on the otherside of the battleship whose own klaxons were blaring to high heaven.

Heaven answered back.

Just before the Rocinante hitthe water, a huge, winged figure soared out from under us.

I don’t know if the others criedout, for I was too busy doing it myself.

I couldn’t make out many details.A heavenly clot of blood, the dawn’s brilliant blazing sun nearly blinded me.

The Angel of Death.

Though I knew it was merely aphysical manifestation of Sentient, it still unnerved me.

Black armor upon whose surfacethe Sun struck eye-stinging fire. Flaring wings of deepest ebony, rimmed withflickering flames of fire which lapped at the surrounding air as if thirsty.

An eerie voice rippled from theAngel of Death. It should have left its vocal cords bleeding and raw.

 It was Winter shrieking heartless victory asthe last Ice Age shrouded the world in an eternal frozen crypt.

I heard a thousand cries from thehundreds of destroyers and battleships from men driven to near madness at thesight of her.

“Tod dem Dritten Reich! Death tothe Third Reich!”

The Angel of Death pealed in wildlaughter like a demoness released from Hell to devour souls,

“Hitler! Du hast gegen den Windgesät. Jetzt werden Sie den Wirbelwind ernten.

Hitler! Thou hast sown to thewind. Now, thou wilt reap the whirlwind.”

With that, black mists swallowedus.

 

WHAT DRIVES A SPARTAN?

 Major Richard Blaine is faced with the daunting task of saving the men who believe in him when he does not believe in himself.

WHAT DRIVES A SPARTAN?

“You have no control over how youare perceived. But you can make a damn good stab at it.”

– Major Richard Blaine

 

The greatest and most importantproblems of life are all fundamentally insoluble. They can never be solved butonly outgrown.

Like war and its resultant tragicwaste of life.

Sadly, I didn’t see Mankindoutgrowing them anytime soon.

I guess I would just have to workmy damnedest to survive it … and if I could wrangle the survival of my Spartan3oo at the same time that would be … well, more than seemed humanly possible.

‘Which is where I step in.’

‘That better be some stepping.’

‘It will not exactly be stepping.’

I looked down at Sgt. Savalasrousting my men out of their bunks and brooded.

Not many of them were in the Armyby choice. Only a few of them had any patriotic passion that they would speakabout.

To my Spartans, Churchill’s radiorhetoric sounded a bit embarrassing. They had no great faith in the new world,they had no belief in any great liberating mission.

 They knew it was going to be a charnel house.All they wanted was to put an end to it all.

In my mind, I went over what Iknew of their personal lives.

Men who had only little of life,men with little education and less knowledge and with no philosophical supports.

 Men with ailing, estranged or poor or needyfamilies. Men who had never been loved, men who had never had high ambitions orwanted a new world order.

Yet, here we were all going, asordered into the meatgrinder that was named Omaha Beach.

But nearly all of them would ratherhave died than let down their buddies or look the coward in front of theirbunkmates.

Of all the things that our bloodytime in Sicily had accomplished, this sense of group solidarity was the mostimportant.

If only I had been mentally withthem at the time.

‘”If only” are the two mostuseless words in the human tongue.’

I spoke loud to get theirattention, “General Bradley has called our invasion the greatest show on earth.And we are honored to have the grandstand seats.”

Pvt. Pablo Dimitri snorted, ““Hell!We’re not in the grandstand! We’re down on the damn gridiron!”

Chuckles echoed all through theSpartans, and Theo snapped, “The Major was talking, Dimitri. Drop and give mefifty.”

There were more than a fewsmiles, for Pablo could have easily done that many one-armed.

Pvt. Alfred Kent, a formerstudent of archaeology, called up, “Major, we’re here on the Rocinante,but where does the Brass think we are?”

“Funny you should ask, Kent. Sentienthas given them the illusion that we’re on LST 500, crammed alongside 2,727 otherships, ranging from battleships to transports and landing craft that will crosson their own steam.”

I laughed, “More vessels, asAdmiral Morison has pointed out, than there were in all the world whenElizabeth I was Queen of England.”

I swept out both arms as if Iwere P.T. Barnum. “And we’re about to give them a show they will never forget.”

‘And to create myths while we areat it.’

‘Why is it so important for you tocreate a myth around me and the Spartans?’

‘To be a good human being is tohave a kind of openness to the world, an ability to trust uncertain thingsbeyond your own control.’

‘Like this war?’

‘Like the war within and this warwithout.’

I saw Theo stiffen, and Irealized that the strange helmets Sentient had given him and the other Spartansallowed him to hear her.

‘The paradox of the humancondition is that while your capacity for vulnerability — and, by extension, yourability to trust others — may be what allows for tragedy to befall you.  The greatest tragedy of all is the attempt toguard against hurt by petrifying that essential softness of the soul, for thatdenies your basic humanity.’

I felt the hair brushed back frommy eyes again. ‘I have seen entire civilizations retreat into the thought, “I’lllive for my own comfort, for my own revenge, for my own anger, and I just won’tbe a member of any type of society anymore.” That really means, “I won’t bea human being anymore.”’

I nodded. ‘I see people doingthat all around me where they feel that society has let them down, and theycan’t ask anything of it, and they can’t put their hopes on anything outsidethemselves. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.’

Cloverfield scowled up at me.“You have these kinds of conversations with Sentient all the time?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder no one understandsyou.”

“Helen Mayfair did.”

Reese snorted, “Then, she must bea saint.”

I nodded in agreement. “As in St.Joan who killed for her God.”

Reese grunted, “I really have tomeet this gal.”

A door silently slid open in thebulkhead to his left, and Nurse Reynolds stepped out in tailored combatfatigues and her own diminutive Spartan helmet.

“Me, too.”

Theo sputtered, “R-Rachel!?”

“Doc” Tennyson caught Theo’seyes. “I asked her to join us, Sergeant. Her skill and unshakable calm savedlives with those Tiger survivors.”

“I outrank you, mister!”

I shook my head. “Not in medicalmatters, Sergeant. In medical matters, Tennyson outranks us all.”

“You still should have asked me.”

Rachel said, “I asked him notto.”

Theo glared at me. “You know thatbeach is suicide!”

“If I thought that, I’d be theonly one going, Theo.”

His face was a sight. “Yeah,maybe. But everyone knows you’re crazy.”

‘Enough! We are done with lurkingin the Outer Realms. It is time to birth Legend … Myth … Magic … Madness! Letthe Führer beware! We are coming!’

Over our helmet speakers cameEisenhower’s Order of the Day:

“You are about to embark upon theGreat Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of theworld are upon you. The hope and prayers of liberty-loving people everywheremarch with you. . . .

“Your task will not be an easyone. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He willfight savagely.

“But this is the year1944! . . .

The tide has turned! The free menof the world are marching together to Victory!

“I have full confidence in yourcourage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less thanfull victory!”

Reese cat-called, “Tell that toyour suicide note, Ike!”

“Corporal,” I said,  “it is easy to mock if you’re not carrying theburden yourself.”

Pvt. Stewart Taylor protested,“You forgive him? But he tried to kill you in your hospital bed!”

“The weak can never forgive.Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong. And we Spartans do not know how tobe anything else, do we?”

The chorus of support was a biton the anemic side, so I guess that is why Sentient pipped Axis Sally into ourspeakers:

“Come on over. We are waiting foryou. Your spilled blood will grease the treads of our Panzer tanks.”

Even some of my men thought that the Nazi's named their tanks "Panzers" because of the black jungle cats.

But Panzer, in German, literallymeant "armor."

Pvt. Evans laughed, “Sally, youcome on over here. I got something for you that I know you will like.”

“Language, Private!” I snapped.“There’s a lady present.”

Theo glared at me and mouthed,“Whose fault is that?”

Rachel mouthed, “Mine” to Theo.

She and most of my Spartansyelped as all the bunks disappeared into the deck with a grinding of gears.Overfull backpacks thrust up into the spots vacated by the bunks.

Beside them arched glisteningmetal handles at the end of long metal rods that looked nothing so much as thesteering handles of a child’s scooter.

“All right, gentlemen. Put on thebackpacks and grab those handles tight. We’re about to put on a real show forthe invasion fleet.”

“A show?” frowned our residentdoubter, Stew Taylor.

“Oh, yeah,” I smiled. “Daredevilacts, music, and fireworks. The whole shebang.”

Theo grumbled, “General Marshallwill court martial your ass for a stunt like this.”

I shrugged, “Better to be hungfor a wolf than a sheep.”

Amos shook his head. “I’d rathernot be hung at all.”

If I was being honest, that wasmy thinking as well.

HOW TO MAKE YOUR BOOK A PAGE TURNER

 

A book is a journey we do not have to take.  We must be persuaded to do it.
Usually it is the set-up that does that for us: a unique or intriguing situation.
But once the book is picked up, 
it will be the characters who will tug us along to find out what they will do and say next. 
Do they make us laugh?  Do they make us root for them?
As humans, we are driven to seek an understanding of others,
for in understanding them, we come close to understanding ourselves ... 
and perhaps we will not feel quite so isolated, alone.
HOW TO ENGAGE THE READER
1.) EACH STEP MUST TAKE YOU SOMEWHERE 
As I've said: each book is a journey.  Characters, descriptions, or dialogue ... must move that journey along ...
or you are making the reader simply jog in place!

2.) TONY STARK ON A ROAD TRIP
Wouldn't he be a hoot on a road trip to anywhere?  Your characters must entertain in some form or fashion
or your reader will opt for more enjoyable companions.

3.)  WHERE IS THE DARTH VADER OF YOUR TRIP?
Success conceals; adversity reveals.
Is he looming like a storm cloud on the horizon?
Or is she sitting, smiling like the false friend she is, right beside your hero?
Does his motivation make sense to the reader or does he exist merely to be the Big Bad of your story?
Your reader should see that he/she is just one bad day away from becoming that person.

4.) WHERE IS THE TICKING BOMB?
Imagine a tense company board meeting: 
the founder is being betrayed by his best friend in a hostile take-over.
He is bravely, intelligently fighting for his dream while the Judas is smugly smiling.
Unknown to them both, but known to the reader, a terrorist bomb is ticking beneath the table ...
right in plain sight should someone just bend down to pick up a fallen pen.
Tick ... Tick ... Tick.
Can you see all the various ways that could play out?
Your hero staggers out of the board room, having lost it all as his wife rushes into his arms ...
just as the bomb goes off, killing all those within the office.
The Judas in betraying his best friend ends up saving his life.

5.) WHERE IS THE WONDER, THE MAGIC?

It does not have to be literal magic but the wonder has to be there to draw your readers in and keep them.
SAME OLD, SAME OLD plots can become riveting if you spin them.
Robin Hood is the villain; 
the sheriff is the valiant, misunderstood man of honor 
trying to keep peace in order to prevent the King from ordering mass executions of the peasants.
A simple view out of a stagecoach window can become magical if your protagonist describes it so that the reader views it with new eyes.
My tagline to the front page of THE NOT-SO-INNOCENTS AT LARGE is

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but in acquiring new eyes.”
– Samuel McCord
Hope this has helped in some small way, Roland

STEPHEN KING'S WRITING TIPS

 

The darkness was alive, pressing in around my table at Meilori's.  

These shadows knew my secrets: 

when Kathryn, my fiancée, died in the surgery that removed both her tumor ... and her life;

when I was all alone as a frightened six year old abandoned on Skid Row in Detroit;

when my mother died holding my hand.

These shadows knew what abandonment, fear, and loss felt like.  I tapped into them as I wrote.

On my laptop screen were the paragraphs that detailed how Sam McCord cheated death by dragon 

and sowed the seeds for the great 1906 earthquake in San Francisco.


Funny.  No matter how hard we humans try to be smart, we end up only out-smarting ourselves.

I jumped in my chair in what felt like a whole foot as Stephen King sat down opposite me at the table.  

"Shit!" we both exclaimed ... but for different reasons.

King shivered.  "I hope you're writing a horror novel because this is sure the place to get in the mood!"

He pointed at the table to far left of us.  "Is that Hemingway?  The man is stabbing himself in the left arm and then writing in his journal."

"Ghost.  It is his ghost, and he always said there was nothing to writing -- you just opened up a vein and bled the words on the page."

King shook his head.  "You know I only come here for the 'free' whiskey.  What will it cost me tonight?"

"A few tips for my friends on how to write well.  One tip, two fingers of whiskey."

King shook his head.  "After my walk to your table, I'll need at least five shots to make it back out of here half-way sane."

Alice Wentworth, the Victorian ghoul, flowed like mist to the table with five shot glasses held steady on a silver tray.

As she gracefully placed them in front of him, he raised an eyebrow that could pierce steel.  "You trust me, Miss?"

Alice smiled demurely, but still showing him her pointed teeth.  "I, too, like fingers, Mr. King ... finger sandwiches."

He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. "Ah, yeah.  Well, the first tip is this:

 "Description -- it begins in the writer's imagination, but it should end in the reader's.  Give the reader just enough to give the wheels of his imagination a push."

Looking after the departing Alice who moved like a specter through the shadows, King downed the first drink in one gulp.

"The second tip," I asked softly.

King traced his forefinger along the edge of the second shot glass.  

"Quality -- the best stories always end up being about the people rather than the events in which they find themselves -- in essence, the best stories are character-driven."

King slowed a bit, taking two gulps to finish his second shot.

"Style -- the road to Hell is paved with adverbs.  A thing is what it is.  Pumping it up with prose steroids only makes it seem less natural not more."

King blinked his eyes.  "Whoa!  That girl served me the good stuff.  My head is spinning.  I better get on with the remaining tips while my tongue is still working.

"Meaning -- a story is like a house.  Words are the lumber.  With sufficient, quality lumber you build a sturdy paragraph.  With carefully laid paragraphs, you create a chapter.  Enough of those gives you a house or a story to be proud of."

Despite his earlier words, King took a sip from his third drink.  The fine whiskey was beginning to hit him, and he began to wax eloquent.

"Happiness -- 

Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. 

In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. 

It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.”

King stared at his empty glass as if not remembering drinking it. He pointed an unsteady forefinger at me.

"Getting ideas --

Let's get one thing clear right now, shall we, Roland? 

There is no Idea Dump, no Story Central, no Island of the Buried Bestsellers."

He sipped his fourth drink and continued, 

"Good story ideas, old chum, seem to come quite literally from nowhere, sailing at you right out of the empty sky: 

two previously unrelated ideas come together and make something new under the sun. 

Your job isn't to find these ideas but to recognize them when they show up.”

He pushed away the fifth drink.  

"I think I best decline to stay vertical and avoid horizonal.  But I'll give you the fifth tip any way."

"Sir, you've already given me ...."

King shook a forefinger at me.  "A friend has to keep his word to a friend ... makes him different than a politician.

Hard Work --"

King smiled fatherly at me.

 “There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your laptop. 

No, siree.  He lives in the ground. He’s a basement kind of guy. 

You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. 

You have to do all the grunt labor, 

in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. 

Do you think it’s fair? I think it’s fair. 

He may not be much to look at, that muse-guy, and he may not be much of a conversationalist, 

but he’s got inspiration. 

It’s right that you should do all the work and burn all the mid-night oil, 

because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. 

There’s stuff in there that can change your life." 

King smiled benignly.  Believe me, I know.”

Samuel McCord walked up to my table, looked down at King sleeping happily on his forearms, 

and raised his own eyebrow under his Stetson.

"The ghost of Mark Twain has been a bad influence on you, son." 

HOW TO WRITE A GREAT 1ST CHAPTER

 

We all know how important first impressions are ...

Well, first chapters are our first impressions with readers, editors, and agents.

Take the LOOK INSIDE feature to your book on its Amazon page.  The prospective buyer will probably give you 30 seconds ...

which is the first paragraph at the most.  

If it teases them to read the whole first chapter, then that chapter better be Oscar Worthy.


1.) TENSE AREN'T YOU?

First person, past tense tends to draw the reader into the mind of your character, 

but write in the tense in which you think your novel's action in your head.  

It will feel most natural to you and in the end, to the reader.



2.) IN THE BEGINNING ...

The first chapter must ensnare the reader.  

I still remember that iconic scene in ROGUE NATION with Rebecca Fergeson in the opera house high back-stage ...

arching her long leg in the slit skirt to rest her elbow of the arm holding the rifle to kill Tom Cruise.


Scenes teasing sex and action always rivet.

But the first scene of that movie was Tom Cruise hanging on for his life on a plane's wing as it took off, yelling for Simon Pegg to open that damn door!

Start where your story hits the ground running.


3.) BOND.  JAMES BOND

Introduce a strong character right away.  "Call me Ishmael."

When designing your Chapter One, establish your characters’ situation(s). 

What do they know at the beginning? 


 What will they learn going forward? 


What does their world mean to them?



4.) IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

As with movie monsters, less is more with a novel's setting right at the beginning.

Your reader will fill in the blanks for you if you but deftly sketch in a few striking details.

"It was the sort of alley where a wino would hole up in to die." 


5.) THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS

Despite what I wrote above, details are important.  

But you must be laser-accurate with as few of them as you can manage.

The plastic restraints hurt.  But they did not hurt as much as that scalpel would.  It hovered over his right eye.

His nose wrinkled at the whisky on the breath of the surgeon as she slurred, "I know you are wondering why I am doing this to you."


6.) MAKE YOUR 1ST CHAPTER A MINI-ME

It’s no accident that many great novels have first chapters 

that were excerpted in magazines, where they essentially stood as short stories.

 Every chapter should have its own plot, none more important than Chapter One.

 Focus on action.

 Be decisive. 

A good way to do that is to make a character take decisive action.

The first chapter should have an arc and closure 

that promises more of the same or that the victory was really a hollow one unrealized by the protagonist.


Here's wishing you a best-seller that will make you rich and famous! 

REJUVENATE

 “There was no respect for youth when I was young, and now that I am old, there is no respect for age. 

I missed it coming and going.”
 - J B Priestley

Countess Elizabeth Báthory
Considered by many to be the world's worst female serial killer,
She was the true inspiration for Bram Stoker's Dracula. 
Legend has it that she bathed in the blood of at least 650 servant girls she had tortured and killed to retain her youth.

Did you know that Vampire Facelifts and Young Blood Transfusions are a Thing, now?

Older people are transfusing the blood of the youngto try to halt or reverse the effects of aging.
 
Plasma from young people between 16 and 25 is transfused into patients over 30

 as part of a clinical trial called “Ambrosia.”

 The treatment costs $8,000 for one liter or $12,000 for two!

Creepy, much?