Robert Carter's Blog: http://novelcarter.blogspot.co.uk/, page 2
November 8, 2014
Death Valley Scotty
A BEAUTIFULLY DESOLATE desert landscape shimmered in 130 degrees of heat. The ground down here was a cracked salt pan. To the west distant mountains rose up gray-purple. A little nearer, red bluffs, deeply fissured, eroded, guarded the way eastward.
A man with a white hat got down from his mule and wiped his face with his hand. He was looking intently at something in the brightness, blue eyes narrowed. When he pulled a red bandana up over his mouth and nose he looked like he was about to rob a train. But it was only to combat the stink.
The mule he had been riding was leading a second, loaded with gear. Both animals stood amiably in the dusty heat. They were apt to be a little stubborn at times, especially if they were asked to do something they didn’t think much of, but they were the right companions for this place, and hardier than any horse.
The man walked around the bodies of two horses lying dead in their traces and bloated by the heat. They had been pulling a four-wheel wagon. As he approached, a mangy black and white sheep dog crept out from the shadow of the wagon. The noise it made was pitiful. It seemed like the dog had survived by licking at the seepage from a water barrel warped by the heat. The dog might have been waiting here four or five days. It was now shaking and crazy with thirst, but its nature remained unthreatening and so he charmed it until it came to him.
“Hey, now, feller. How long you been here?” He unstoppered his canteen and gave the dog a drink of sweet water from his hand. “Who’s your master?”
The man finally steeled himself to look up at the body of the dead prospector. He was still sitting up there slouched over on the buckboard like the minute he had died. Only now he was attracting flies.“Howdy. Weather’s a mite warm for this time of year, don’t you think?” As he searched the desiccated body the man talked to it as if it was still alive. It made things seem less spooky. “I guess your heart just give out. Happens to a lot of folks who try to get across here.”
He found the man’s dusty jacket, took out a well-worn blue notebook. In the front was a name, but not a whole lot besides.
“Pleased to meet you Mr. – Jeremiah Wilson,” he said, looking up at the discolored face. “Walter E. Scott’s the name, but folks call me Scotty, and you can too, if you’ve a mind.”
Scotty set the jacket aside. He’d go through the rest of the pockets when he’d done what he knew he should.
“Say, you wouldn’t have a cold beer on you? No? Least you could do for a fellow prospector. I should have asked them in Barstow if they had any grave-digging shovels.” He grinned, despite the bad air. “Don’t mind me. Just my idea of a little joke. I can see this is going to be one hell of a job.”He unshipped a spade and a pick from the flank of one of his mules and began to bite laboriously into the rock-hard ground ...
A couple of hours later, with the grave dug and filled in again and Mr. Jeremiah Wilson decently sent to his reward, Scotty jabbed the pick and spade back into the ground with finality. He composed himself and addressed the mound of broken earth.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” he said. “Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Amen.”
It was as much as he could recall.
The jacket wasn’t of a quality worth keeping. But one of its pockets might have been worth all the tea in China because it contained a little piece of rock – a very special little piece of rock.
Scotty took off his hat and mopped his brow. “Mr. Wilson, now where in the world did you find that?”
It was what they called ‘picture rock’. A vein of yellow glittered in it. Scotty turned the rock over this way and that, appreciating the value of what he had found. Then he clasped his hand around it, knowing that he had been well paid for his labor today. A plan was already forming in his mind, a plan to multiply that payment a thousand-fold.
Want to read some more? Buy yourself a copy here http://smarturl.it/DVS.
A man with a white hat got down from his mule and wiped his face with his hand. He was looking intently at something in the brightness, blue eyes narrowed. When he pulled a red bandana up over his mouth and nose he looked like he was about to rob a train. But it was only to combat the stink.
The mule he had been riding was leading a second, loaded with gear. Both animals stood amiably in the dusty heat. They were apt to be a little stubborn at times, especially if they were asked to do something they didn’t think much of, but they were the right companions for this place, and hardier than any horse.
The man walked around the bodies of two horses lying dead in their traces and bloated by the heat. They had been pulling a four-wheel wagon. As he approached, a mangy black and white sheep dog crept out from the shadow of the wagon. The noise it made was pitiful. It seemed like the dog had survived by licking at the seepage from a water barrel warped by the heat. The dog might have been waiting here four or five days. It was now shaking and crazy with thirst, but its nature remained unthreatening and so he charmed it until it came to him.
“Hey, now, feller. How long you been here?” He unstoppered his canteen and gave the dog a drink of sweet water from his hand. “Who’s your master?”
The man finally steeled himself to look up at the body of the dead prospector. He was still sitting up there slouched over on the buckboard like the minute he had died. Only now he was attracting flies.“Howdy. Weather’s a mite warm for this time of year, don’t you think?” As he searched the desiccated body the man talked to it as if it was still alive. It made things seem less spooky. “I guess your heart just give out. Happens to a lot of folks who try to get across here.”
He found the man’s dusty jacket, took out a well-worn blue notebook. In the front was a name, but not a whole lot besides.
“Pleased to meet you Mr. – Jeremiah Wilson,” he said, looking up at the discolored face. “Walter E. Scott’s the name, but folks call me Scotty, and you can too, if you’ve a mind.”
Scotty set the jacket aside. He’d go through the rest of the pockets when he’d done what he knew he should.
“Say, you wouldn’t have a cold beer on you? No? Least you could do for a fellow prospector. I should have asked them in Barstow if they had any grave-digging shovels.” He grinned, despite the bad air. “Don’t mind me. Just my idea of a little joke. I can see this is going to be one hell of a job.”He unshipped a spade and a pick from the flank of one of his mules and began to bite laboriously into the rock-hard ground ...
A couple of hours later, with the grave dug and filled in again and Mr. Jeremiah Wilson decently sent to his reward, Scotty jabbed the pick and spade back into the ground with finality. He composed himself and addressed the mound of broken earth.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” he said. “Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Amen.”
It was as much as he could recall.
The jacket wasn’t of a quality worth keeping. But one of its pockets might have been worth all the tea in China because it contained a little piece of rock – a very special little piece of rock.
Scotty took off his hat and mopped his brow. “Mr. Wilson, now where in the world did you find that?”
It was what they called ‘picture rock’. A vein of yellow glittered in it. Scotty turned the rock over this way and that, appreciating the value of what he had found. Then he clasped his hand around it, knowing that he had been well paid for his labor today. A plan was already forming in his mind, a plan to multiply that payment a thousand-fold.
Want to read some more? Buy yourself a copy here http://smarturl.it/DVS.
Death Valley Scotty #giveaway
A BEAUTIFULLY DESOLATE desert landscape shimmered in 130 degrees of heat. The ground down here was a cracked salt pan. To the west distant mountains rose up gray-purple. A little nearer, red bluffs, deeply fissured, eroded, guarded the way eastward.
A man with a white hat got down from his mule and wiped his face with his hand. He was looking intently at something in the brightness, blue eyes narrowed. When he pulled a red bandana up over his mouth and nose he looked like he was about to rob a train. But it was only to combat the stink.
The mule he had been riding was leading a second, loaded with gear. Both animals stood amiably in the dusty heat. They were apt to be a little stubborn at times, especially if they were asked to do something they didn’t think much of, but they were the right companions for this place, and hardier than any horse.
The man walked around the bodies of two horses lying dead in their traces and bloated by the heat. They had been pulling a four-wheel wagon. As he approached, a mangy black and white sheep dog crept out from the shadow of the wagon. The noise it made was pitiful. It seemed like the dog had survived by licking at the seepage from a water barrel warped by the heat. The dog might have been waiting here four or five days. It was now shaking and crazy with thirst, but its nature remained unthreatening and so he charmed it until it came to him.
“Hey, now, feller. How long you been here?” He unstoppered his canteen and gave the dog a drink of sweet water from his hand. “Who’s your master?”
The man finally steeled himself to look up at the body of the dead prospector. He was still sitting up there slouched over on the buckboard like the minute he had died. Only now he was attracting flies.“Howdy. Weather’s a mite warm for this time of year, don’t you think?” As he searched the desiccated body the man talked to it as if it was still alive. It made things seem less spooky. “I guess your heart just give out. Happens to a lot of folks who try to get across here.”
He found the man’s dusty jacket, took out a well-worn blue notebook. In the front was a name, but not a whole lot besides.
“Pleased to meet you Mr. – Jeremiah Wilson,” he said, looking up at the discolored face. “Walter E. Scott’s the name, but folks call me Scotty, and you can too, if you’ve a mind.”
Scotty set the jacket aside. He’d go through the rest of the pockets when he’d done what he knew he should.
“Say, you wouldn’t have a cold beer on you? No? Least you could do for a fellow prospector. I should have asked them in Barstow if they had any grave-digging shovels.” He grinned, despite the bad air. “Don’t mind me. Just my idea of a little joke. I can see this is going to be one hell of a job.”He unshipped a spade and a pick from the flank of one of his mules and began to bite laboriously into the rock-hard ground ...
A couple of hours later, with the grave dug and filled in again and Mr. Jeremiah Wilson decently sent to his reward, Scotty jabbed the pick and spade back into the ground with finality. He composed himself and addressed the mound of broken earth.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” he said. “Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Amen.”
It was as much as he could recall.
The jacket wasn’t of a quality worth keeping. But one of its pockets might have been worth all the tea in China because it contained a little piece of rock – a very special little piece of rock.
Scotty took off his hat and mopped his brow. “Mr. Wilson, now where in the world did you find that?”
It was what they called ‘picture rock’. A vein of yellow glittered in it. Scotty turned the rock over this way and that, appreciating the value of what he had found. Then he clasped his hand around it, knowing that he had been well paid for his labor today. A plan was already forming in his mind, a plan to multiply that payment a thousand-fold.
Want to read some more? Enter the Goodreads Giveaway here http://smarturl.it/GADVS or buy yourself a copy here http://smarturl.it/DVS.
A man with a white hat got down from his mule and wiped his face with his hand. He was looking intently at something in the brightness, blue eyes narrowed. When he pulled a red bandana up over his mouth and nose he looked like he was about to rob a train. But it was only to combat the stink.
The mule he had been riding was leading a second, loaded with gear. Both animals stood amiably in the dusty heat. They were apt to be a little stubborn at times, especially if they were asked to do something they didn’t think much of, but they were the right companions for this place, and hardier than any horse.
The man walked around the bodies of two horses lying dead in their traces and bloated by the heat. They had been pulling a four-wheel wagon. As he approached, a mangy black and white sheep dog crept out from the shadow of the wagon. The noise it made was pitiful. It seemed like the dog had survived by licking at the seepage from a water barrel warped by the heat. The dog might have been waiting here four or five days. It was now shaking and crazy with thirst, but its nature remained unthreatening and so he charmed it until it came to him.
“Hey, now, feller. How long you been here?” He unstoppered his canteen and gave the dog a drink of sweet water from his hand. “Who’s your master?”
The man finally steeled himself to look up at the body of the dead prospector. He was still sitting up there slouched over on the buckboard like the minute he had died. Only now he was attracting flies.“Howdy. Weather’s a mite warm for this time of year, don’t you think?” As he searched the desiccated body the man talked to it as if it was still alive. It made things seem less spooky. “I guess your heart just give out. Happens to a lot of folks who try to get across here.”
He found the man’s dusty jacket, took out a well-worn blue notebook. In the front was a name, but not a whole lot besides.
“Pleased to meet you Mr. – Jeremiah Wilson,” he said, looking up at the discolored face. “Walter E. Scott’s the name, but folks call me Scotty, and you can too, if you’ve a mind.”
Scotty set the jacket aside. He’d go through the rest of the pockets when he’d done what he knew he should.
“Say, you wouldn’t have a cold beer on you? No? Least you could do for a fellow prospector. I should have asked them in Barstow if they had any grave-digging shovels.” He grinned, despite the bad air. “Don’t mind me. Just my idea of a little joke. I can see this is going to be one hell of a job.”He unshipped a spade and a pick from the flank of one of his mules and began to bite laboriously into the rock-hard ground ...
A couple of hours later, with the grave dug and filled in again and Mr. Jeremiah Wilson decently sent to his reward, Scotty jabbed the pick and spade back into the ground with finality. He composed himself and addressed the mound of broken earth.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” he said. “Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Amen.”
It was as much as he could recall.
The jacket wasn’t of a quality worth keeping. But one of its pockets might have been worth all the tea in China because it contained a little piece of rock – a very special little piece of rock.
Scotty took off his hat and mopped his brow. “Mr. Wilson, now where in the world did you find that?”
It was what they called ‘picture rock’. A vein of yellow glittered in it. Scotty turned the rock over this way and that, appreciating the value of what he had found. Then he clasped his hand around it, knowing that he had been well paid for his labor today. A plan was already forming in his mind, a plan to multiply that payment a thousand-fold.
Want to read some more? Enter the Goodreads Giveaway here http://smarturl.it/GADVS or buy yourself a copy here http://smarturl.it/DVS.
November 6, 2014
A Flying Tram?
Actually, not a tram but a Vityaz, Igor Sikorsky's 4-engined bomber of 1913.
Perhaps surprisingly, the Russians possessed some advanced aircraft in World War One. Igor didn't care much for the Bolsheviks, and emigrated to the USA in 1919, where he continued to develop aircraft, particularly helicopters, machines with which his name eventually became synonymous.
The bomber played a minor role in the Great War compared to the devastation it wrought in World War two. Apart from its Zeppelins, Germany famously operated twin-engined Gotha bombers, which terrorized London and other cities. From 1916, the British introduced the Handley-Page O-type (That's a capital letter "O".) And later the Vickers Vimy, which was too late for the war, but was the first aircraft to cross the Atlantic non-stop.
If you are interested in this period, take a look at my latest novel “The Deadly Playground, 1914” – just click here http://smarturl.it/DPAmazon
Perhaps surprisingly, the Russians possessed some advanced aircraft in World War One. Igor didn't care much for the Bolsheviks, and emigrated to the USA in 1919, where he continued to develop aircraft, particularly helicopters, machines with which his name eventually became synonymous.
The bomber played a minor role in the Great War compared to the devastation it wrought in World War two. Apart from its Zeppelins, Germany famously operated twin-engined Gotha bombers, which terrorized London and other cities. From 1916, the British introduced the Handley-Page O-type (That's a capital letter "O".) And later the Vickers Vimy, which was too late for the war, but was the first aircraft to cross the Atlantic non-stop.
If you are interested in this period, take a look at my latest novel “The Deadly Playground, 1914” – just click here http://smarturl.it/DPAmazon
October 26, 2014
Patching up Aircraft?
Everyone has heard of the Luftwaffe, the German air force of World War Two, but what about 1914?The correct term is a bit of a mouthful - "die Fliegertruppen des deutschen Kaiserreiches" – though often the word "Luftstreitkräfte" was used, which is hardly much better.
It's not obvious to a casual observer what early aircraft were made from. The rough answer is a wooden framework with a fabric of some kind stretched over it. When these planes were shot at, many of the bullets and lumps of shrapnel that scored hits actually did little damage - they passed through the fabric and, so long as they didn't hit the wooden skeleton inside, passed out again.
When aircraft came back from patrol, there was a morbid fascination in the game of going over the fabric to look for holes. Repairs were then effected by gluing on patches and sewing round the patch.
The chaps in the picture are doing just that.
Interested in finding out more? Click on this link to get a copy of my latest novel - The Deadly Playground, 1914 http://smarturl.it/DPAmazon
It's not obvious to a casual observer what early aircraft were made from. The rough answer is a wooden framework with a fabric of some kind stretched over it. When these planes were shot at, many of the bullets and lumps of shrapnel that scored hits actually did little damage - they passed through the fabric and, so long as they didn't hit the wooden skeleton inside, passed out again.
When aircraft came back from patrol, there was a morbid fascination in the game of going over the fabric to look for holes. Repairs were then effected by gluing on patches and sewing round the patch.
The chaps in the picture are doing just that.
Interested in finding out more? Click on this link to get a copy of my latest novel - The Deadly Playground, 1914 http://smarturl.it/DPAmazon
October 15, 2014
German cavalry, Polish children
In this photograph, we see German cavalry trotting through the streets of a Polish town, lance pennons flying. Dozens of Polish children have been attracted to the spectacle - note the bare feet - and are gleefully absorbing the sight of real soldiers.
It is perhaps a sobering thought that other Germans, attempting to renew their original plan of conquest in the East, would turn Poland into something resembling Hell just about the time when these children were entering the prime of life.
It is perhaps a sobering thought that other Germans, attempting to renew their original plan of conquest in the East, would turn Poland into something resembling Hell just about the time when these children were entering the prime of life.
October 8, 2014
The U-boat Threat
Sir Winston Churchill famously remarked that the only thing that gave him serious cause for concern during World War 2 was the threat posed by Germany's submarines.
They were quick and cheap to build in large numbers and they usually sank many times their own tonnage before being sunk themselves. For an island nation dependent on maritime trade, this was bad news.What is less well known is that U-boats existed in World War One also, and sank many ships, Royal Navy and merchant marine alike -- about five thousand of them, or twelve million tons in all.
Also less well known, at least in the Anglophone nations, is the fact that Austria-Hungary had a small submarine fleet, but the French managed to keep it bottled up in the Adriatic for the duration.
They were quick and cheap to build in large numbers and they usually sank many times their own tonnage before being sunk themselves. For an island nation dependent on maritime trade, this was bad news.What is less well known is that U-boats existed in World War One also, and sank many ships, Royal Navy and merchant marine alike -- about five thousand of them, or twelve million tons in all.
Also less well known, at least in the Anglophone nations, is the fact that Austria-Hungary had a small submarine fleet, but the French managed to keep it bottled up in the Adriatic for the duration.
October 2, 2014
A Russian Suffering German Ambitions
The Russian Empire in 1914 was a vast, backward absolute monarchy that extended right across present-day Ukraine, Belarus and Poland. Most people lived mediaeval lives, as subsistence farmers, in small villages or in poorly-developed towns. It seemed to the Germans a region ripe for improvement. The trouble was, "improvement" would mean replacing the Russians and Poles who lived there with Germans.
The imminent collapse of Russia eventually alarmed the United States into joining Britain and France in deploying troops. German divisions which had been fighting against Russia could now be entrained to fight in the West. It was believed that American soldiers would be required to shore up the Western Front against the expected German offensive.
The imminent collapse of Russia eventually alarmed the United States into joining Britain and France in deploying troops. German divisions which had been fighting against Russia could now be entrained to fight in the West. It was believed that American soldiers would be required to shore up the Western Front against the expected German offensive.
September 27, 2014
The Germans in Poland
Take the points off those helmets, and this could easily be a scene from 1941 instead of 1914.
Want to find out more about this period? Click here http://smarturl.it/DPAmazon to get a copy of The Deadly Playground, 1914, my latest novel.
Want to find out more about this period? Click here http://smarturl.it/DPAmazon to get a copy of The Deadly Playground, 1914, my latest novel.
September 21, 2014
All tied up ...
This cartoon shows the German chancellor's dogs of war chewing over the bones of Europe. The Reichskanzler in question is Theobald von Bethmann Hollweg, who held the post from 1909 to 1917. Our cartoon shows Bethmann Hollweg in uniform. He was never in the army, but did wear a general's uniform while about his business in Berlin. Odd, to say the least, but in 1914 Germany, a military uniform of some description was apparently de rigeur if one was to be taken at all seriously.
Bethmannn Hollweg's diplomatic deceptions in 1914 helped lead Europe to war. (His attempts beforehand to butter-up the British had failed to convince.) Just as well the British spurned his advances, because his so-called "September Programme" of 1914 revealed truly aggressive expansionist plans in which a quick European war was to be followed by grandiose victory demands.
These were the annexation of Luxembourg, Belgium and parts of Northern France, including a generous slice of the Channel coast. A fine of ten billion Reichsmarks was to be levied on France, along with crippling war reparations. The French would be forced to disarm, and their economy would be henceforth controlled by Germany. In the east, a new German empire would be created from the westernmost parts of the Russian Empire, while German Africa would be formed from French colonies and the Belgian Congo, and positioned so as to rival British overseas possessions.
In the event things didn't quite turn out that way, even after Adolf Hitler tried and failed to implement the plan a second time.
In a very real sense, what we are accustomed to call World War Two, is in reality just World War One Part Two.
Bethmannn Hollweg's diplomatic deceptions in 1914 helped lead Europe to war. (His attempts beforehand to butter-up the British had failed to convince.) Just as well the British spurned his advances, because his so-called "September Programme" of 1914 revealed truly aggressive expansionist plans in which a quick European war was to be followed by grandiose victory demands.
These were the annexation of Luxembourg, Belgium and parts of Northern France, including a generous slice of the Channel coast. A fine of ten billion Reichsmarks was to be levied on France, along with crippling war reparations. The French would be forced to disarm, and their economy would be henceforth controlled by Germany. In the east, a new German empire would be created from the westernmost parts of the Russian Empire, while German Africa would be formed from French colonies and the Belgian Congo, and positioned so as to rival British overseas possessions.
In the event things didn't quite turn out that way, even after Adolf Hitler tried and failed to implement the plan a second time.
In a very real sense, what we are accustomed to call World War Two, is in reality just World War One Part Two.
September 7, 2014
Germans Cast Themselves in an Heroic Light.
While Edith Cavell was being shot and the rest of Belgium trampled under invading jack boots, the Germans were congratulating themselves on a job well done.
Once again, the man with the chicken on his head, Wilhelm II, is playing superhero. Here he is riding about, pinning iron crosses on wounded infantrymen while a Valkyrie looks on approvingly. According to Norse mythology, it was the Valkyries who were supposed to do the riding about.
The job of the virgin Valkyries was to choose among those who died in battle and bring the bravest to Valhalla. Most of the time Valkyries went about disguised as swans and, should a Valkyrie ever be spotted by a mortal without her disguise, then she herself would become mortal and could not re-enter Valhalla. So this one appears to be well and truly snookered, poor gal.
Can you believe that 100 years ago people actually fell for this preposterous rubbish?
Once again, the man with the chicken on his head, Wilhelm II, is playing superhero. Here he is riding about, pinning iron crosses on wounded infantrymen while a Valkyrie looks on approvingly. According to Norse mythology, it was the Valkyries who were supposed to do the riding about.
The job of the virgin Valkyries was to choose among those who died in battle and bring the bravest to Valhalla. Most of the time Valkyries went about disguised as swans and, should a Valkyrie ever be spotted by a mortal without her disguise, then she herself would become mortal and could not re-enter Valhalla. So this one appears to be well and truly snookered, poor gal.
Can you believe that 100 years ago people actually fell for this preposterous rubbish?
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