Category: Fiction

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 20

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

A day of research…

So the first thing that was on my mind:  could the children of the rich or titled aristocracy still purchase a commission in the army or navy?

That, it seems, was taken away in the late 1800s, and they had to go to Sandhurst and join the rest of the hopefuls to get a commission or spend the time at the naval academy to become an officer.

So, our protagonist and his brothers had to go to Sandhurst after their exclusive boarding school.

More study is required to make sure I’ve got their backgrounds correct.

The duke is attached to the Admiralty, but he cannot and would not advance his son unless the boy had done the hard yards.  Sailing on the Mediterranean in a private yacht doesn’t quite reach the standards required of a naval officer.

So, once we’ve established his eligibility for a commission, if not, at what rank and where he might fit will be determined

Then there’s Egypt, the camp, the training, and the assignment to a theatre of war.  His preference would be in France, where his brother had been.

He also has no interest in not being at the front, but we will look at who was, and who was not, and why.  Certainly, Generals rarely came to the front-line trenches.

I’ve been looking at the manning of the trenches, learning there were three, and the men rotated, the second for resting, the third for supplies.

We need to know about how the artillery worked in aiding the front-line men.

We need to know the frequency of thrusts, inside and outside the larger-scale attacks, and when.

We need to know where the German lines were, the nature and size of no man’s land and the difficulties of getting across it.

It’s not the physical descriptions we will be relating, but the feelings of those participating, what they see, what happens to them, and how they recover when they are still alive at the end of just another day at the office.  What they think, especially if they will see their loved ones or family again.

I want to sit in that trench waiting for the whistle, I want to go over the top, hear the bullets whizzing past, the thwack when it finds a target, the machine gun fire, and whether it’s exhilaration running towards the enemy, or utter despair at the futility of it.

…

2315 words, for a total of 33280 words.

Writing about writing a book – Research

Day 25 – Research involving the protagonist’s friend – a man who can disassociate from the past, but cannot, for the time being, bring himself back into the real world except when there is a job that interests him (not all that often)

…

The Exile in Suburbia: Deconstructing the Phenomenological Transformation of the Senseless War Veteran

Abstract

This paper examines the complex psychological and behavioural transformation of the so-called “normal man” who experiences a “senseless war,” tracing his journey from conventional societal integration to profound post-war dissociation and isolation. Utilising frameworks of Moral Injury (MI), Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD), and theories of functional survivability under extreme stress, this analysis details how the protagonist’s evolving awareness of the war’s meaninglessness precipitates a shift towards anti-authoritarianism, localised heroism, and a paradoxical cycle of valour and punishment. The paper posits that the necessary adaptations required for survival in the combat theatre—namely, functional disconnection—render the veteran incapable of reintegrating into the sterile predictability of suburban life, ultimately leading to disassociation and social hermitage.

1. Introduction: Defining Normalcy and the War Crucible

The figure of the returning veteran, particularly one scarred by conflicts perceived as strategically or morally ambiguous, serves as a critical case study in the interaction between individual psyche and state violence. The initial state of the protagonist—the “normal man”—represents a foundation of unchallenged social conformity, ready to accept the state-sanctioned narrative of the conflict. This normalcy acts as a tabula rasa upon which the trauma of war is inscribed.

This paper addresses the central question: How does an individual, subjected to the cognitive dissonance of participating in a morally bankrupt conflict, navigate extreme behavioural shifts (anti-authority, heroism, criminality), maintain functional capacity despite internal fragmentation, and ultimately fail to re-establish a foothold in civilian society?

This analysis proceeds through four phases: (1) The shattering of the initial narrative; (2) The functional paradox of wartime behaviour (heroism and defiance); (3) The mechanisms of sustained function; and (4) The failure of reintegration and subsequent dissociation. The core thesis is that the moral clarity and anti-institutional identity forged in the senseless war become antithetical to the shallow morality and conformity required for suburban existence, forcing the veteran into isolated exile.

2. The Shattering Narrative: From Conformity to Moral Injury

2.1. The Erosion of Initial Belief

The transition from a conflict perceived as necessary to one recognised as “senseless” is the critical inciting incident for the protagonist’s shift. Initially, the man is supported by the prevailing ideologies of duty, honour, and national interest. As the reality of the war unfolds—characterized by arbitrary violence, unclear objectives, and high costs for negligible gains—the foundational military narrative collapses.

This collapse initiates Moral Injury (MI), a concept extending beyond PTSD, defined by Shay (1994) as the violation of core moral beliefs by oneself or others in positions of legitimate authority. The protagonist witnesses or is forced to participate in acts that violate his deepest ethical standards, often under the direct order of the hierarchy he is supposed to respect.

2.2. The Emergence of Anti-Authority

The systemic realisation of the war’s senselessness directly implicates the military command structure as incompetent or malicious. The protagonist’s initial acceptance of authority transforms into deep-seated mistrust and outright rejection. This anti-authority stance is not merely insubordination; it is a profound moral judgment.

The soldier realises that survival and ethical action often require bypassing or actively resisting the institutional chain of command. This rejection serves as a psychological defence mechanism, creating an internal locus of control and moral clarity separate from the confusing and often criminal official mission. This anti-authoritarian identity becomes pathognomonic of his wartime experience.

3. The Paradox of Functional Disconnection: Heroism and the Stockade

3.1. Localised Heroism and Survival

Paradoxically, the individual’s profound disconnection from the large institutional mission often fuels intense, localised loyalty. Heroism in the senseless war is rarely motivated by national strategic goals; it is driven by the immediate, visceral need to protect the small unit (the “band of brothers”).

These acts of bravery, defined by extraordinary courage in the face of imminent danger (“incredible odds”), are sudden eruptions of moral action. There are instances where the protagonist’s self-efficacy and moral imperative align perfectly with the localised need for survival, temporarily overcoming the pervasive feeling of meaninglessness.

3.2. The Vicious Cycle: Valour, Defiance, and Punishment

The protagonist is trapped in a cognitive dissonance loop created by the institution:

  1. Valour: The soldier acts heroically, often defying orders to save lives or complete a necessary mission locally.
  2. Defiance: His heroism often involves clear insubordination or violation of regulation (driven by anti-authority).
  3. Punishment: The same institution that benefits from his skill immediately penalises him for his independence and defiance (e.g., “one minute in the stockade the next”).

This cycle reinforces the veteran’s identity as an outsider and validates his anti-authority belief. The stockade is not just punishment; it is institutional confirmation that the military values blind obedience over moral action or effectiveness. The individual learns that the only reliable moral compass is his internal system, further isolating him from the command structure.

3.3. Mechanisms of Sustained Function

Despite profound psychological fragmentation, the protagonist “still function[s] at a certain level.” This sustained capacity is explained by several survival mechanisms (Grossman, 1995):

  • Compartmentalisation: The ability to mentally wall off the emotional and moral horror of the war while executing complex tasks (e.g., combat maneuvers).
  • Dissociative Adaptation: Minor dissociation during key stress periods allows the body to act autonomously, often referred to as “autopilot.”
  • Hyper-Vigilance: An intense, focus-driven awareness that ironically enhances combat performance but is destructive in peacetime.

These adaptations, crucial for physical survival, come at the cost of unified psychological integrity. The soldier survives by functionally disconnecting the self that acts from the self that feels.

4. The Exile in Suburbia: Dissociation and Alienation

4.1. The Incompatibility of Worlds

Returning home places the veteran in the “suburban setting,” a space characterised by material comfort, routine, and a pervasive societal pressure to perform “normalcy.” This environment is the psychological antithesis of the war zone.

The war-forged identity—defined by urgency, moral extremity, quick judgments, and anti-authoritarianism—is utterly incompatible with the expectations of quiet compliance and banal consumerism inherent to the suburb. He is fluent in the language of survival but mute in the language of small talk and routine.

4.2. Disassociation and Hermitage

The failure of reintegration manifests primarily as disassociation. The veteran has experienced a profound shattering of the ego, exacerbated by the required compartmentalisation during the war. Back home, where the extreme stimuli are absent, the mind struggles to unify the memories and the current environment.

Dissociation functions as a means of self-preservation:

  • Emotional Numbing: The veteran restricts emotional engagement to avoid the overwhelming anxiety triggered by the banal nature of civilian life, which feels insignificant or ridiculous compared to the stakes of war.
  • Depersonalization: He may feel detached from his own body or actions, observing his life from a distance.
  • Isolation (Hermitage): The decision to become “almost a hermit” is a logical extension of his disassociation. He seeks to minimize external stimuli and interaction because the required emotional work to fake normalcy is too taxing. He withdraws to the only space where his authentic, morally injured self can exist without constant performance—a private, silent exile within his own home.

4.3. Existential Alienation

Beyond clinical dissociation, the veteran suffers from acute Existential Alienation. His realisation of the war’s meaninglessness stripped him of easy answers about human purpose and morality. He returns to a society that has retained its comfortable illusions, talking about trivial matters while he carries the burden of undeniable truths about human cruelty and bureaucratic indifference.

The suburban setting, therefore, does not offer peaceful refuge; it becomes a constant reminder of the profound gulf between his lived experience and the sanitised reality of home. His refusal to participate in the suburban performance is a silent, but profound, act of anti-authority against the collective delusion of peaceful Western life.

5. Conclusion

The journey of the “normal man” through a senseless war is a compelling illustration of psychological disintegration under extreme moral and physical duress. His eventual transformation into an anti-authoritarian hero, fluctuating between valour and punishment, is not random but a coherent moral response to institutional failure. The survival mechanisms developed—functional disconnection and profound compartmentalisation—ultimately doom his attempt at civilian life.

The final state of the veteran, the disassociative hermit in suburbia, is the tragic outcome of a man who achieved a terrifying moral clarity in chaos, yet finds that clarity disqualifying in peace. His isolation is not a sign of failure but a determined refusal to sacrifice the painful truths he earned for the hollow comfort of societal reintegration. Further research is necessary to explore effective therapeutic interventions that address Moral Injury and facilitate the reintegration of the wartime identity into a stable civilian self.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 43

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

The hut was a barracks, with bedding and ablutions for twenty men.  Since this was one of two, I assumed the other hut housed the twenty soldiers that the Colonel had alluded to.  There would be no more than one or two others including the Captain.

Hopefully, there were not more in Nagero.

The two hostages had been taken to the Captain’s office where I assumed there was probably a brig for them to be locked in.  Not quite what I was expecting, but no plan was ever perfect.

I went to the rear and sat down at a table that could accommodate about ten.

Davies and Shurl joined me.

I looked at Shurl.  “Good work, and glad they didn’t shoot you.”

“So am I.  Monroe had joined the others.  I had to make a lot of noise before they found me, so I don’t think this is a crack troop.”

“The Captain, or whatever he is, looks sharp,” Davies said.

“New command perhaps.  Can’t believe his luck, I’m guessing.  Did you get a look at the plane?”

“As much as I could without looking like I was looking at it.  It’s been well maintained, and I have no doubt we can get it off the ground.  It just depends if we need help to get the engines started.  It’s possible they don’t, though it’s not usual for this type of plane.  We shall see when the time comes.”

“Can you take off at night?”

“It’s a bit dangerous without lights.  I see they have a lighting system, so I suggest, if and when we break out of here you get someone to find the switch.”

“Noted.”

“Any idea when that’ll be?”

“I’m sure we have people working on that as we speak.”

The door at the entrance to the hut opened and the Captain stood next to his officer, with a gun pointed loosely in our direction, just in case we got the idea we could escape.

“Mr. James.  Time to tell me all about your escape plans.”

“I’m not so sure they could be called that, now.”

His tone hardened.  “Don’t keep me waiting.  I have people waiting for my report.”

I shrugged and got up.  “Just make sure everyone is ready to move when the time comes.  Tell Baines that I expect him to find the generator and get the lights working.”

The Captain’s impatient look told me not to keep him waiting any longer.

The Captain led the way, and his officer kept the gun pointed at me, just in case of what I’m not sure.  Inside his office, rather spacious, and with a door which likely led to some form of accommodation and the brig where the hostages were being held.  The door was closed so I couldn’t see, so it had to be an assumption.

The officer remained in the doorway, while the Captain sat behind a large desk, and gestured for me to sit the other side.  It didn’t look like a comfortable chair.

I thought I’d start the ball rolling.  “I’m assuming that there isn’t always an army guard on this airstrip?”

“No.  When we heard you were coming for the prisoners, a detachment was sent.  Fortuitous wouldn’t you say?”

“For who.”  Time to sow some seeds of discontent.

“What do you mean Mr. James?”

“Your mate back at the militia camp just pocketed two million US dollars’ worth of diamonds for those two men.  What was your cut?”

A shocked look, one that eased back into benign slowly.  No cut from that look, I’d say.

“We pride ourselves on being above bribery.  That was the old way of doing things.”

“Clearly the militia don’t agree.  Are you going to give them back to the commander so he can raffle them again?”

The Captain didn’t seem to understand the word ‘raffle’.

“Sell them back to us for another two million.  Maybe you should talk to your superiors and see what they think.  If you left us go, I can arrange for five million, for you and your friends to share.”

Disdain, or disappointment.

“What did I just say about bribery.”

“That it’s not the way things are done.  Maybe not in the capital, but this is the boondocks, and you’re the man in charge.  Five million can go a long way, but I suspect if you tell your superiors, you won’t get to see any of it.  Or perhaps you should take a few men over to the Militia commander’s camp and demand your share, or just take it.  After all, Captain, who is in charge of this sector, him or you?”

At least he was thinking about it.  Five million was a lot of money, but in US dollars, that could take him anywhere.

I remembered my old instructor saying, one, ‘every man has his price’.

I just had to find the Captains.

“Aside from trying to bribe me, Mr. James, what were you hoping to achieve here?”

“A rescue.  I know we tried once before and not succeeded, but you know how it is, if you at first don’t succeed, try, try, try again.”

“That it failed before should be a warning that we are not as weak as you might think we are.  The US Army is not necessarily the best in the world.”

“So I’m beginning to discover.  Did we train you?”

“No.  I spent some time in England, training with the British Army.”

So that was where he got his accent and ramrod stiff never a crease out of place posture.

“But,” he said, “this not about me, but you.  And your so-called film crew.  How did you expect top escape through this airstrip, flights are restricted, and you can’t possibly fly in a Hercules?  The runway is not long enough.

“No, we were hoping for something a bit smaller than that, but we’ll find out tomorrow what it is.  I’ll be standing on the patio looking as surprised as you are when it arrives.  Now, let me ask you a question.  Do you know who those men are that you have in detention?”

“Militia prisoners.”

“For doing what?”

“I don’t ask questions.  I obey orders.

“Then I’ll tell you.  They were trying to set up a trade agreement for some precious metal you have in abundance here.  Good for the country for income, and employment.  Might even help you get on better terms with the rest of the world.  Unless of course, you don’t want to.”

“I am a soldier, not a politician.  That’s their problem.  I was told to hold you until my superiors arrive.”

“Who told you?”

“The Colonel.  He’s based in Ada.”

So, we had a leak.  Surprising given the limited circulation of the plan.  It might be down to Jacobi, but somehow, I didn’t think it was him.  He had several opportunities to turn on us and he didn’t.

“So, you’re saying we basically drove into a trap?”

“Yes.  So much for the smart Americans who have all the technology and answers.

I could understand his contempt, especially when the attempt had failed so badly.  Pity then he didn’t understand what was about to happen to him.

© Charles Heath 2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 307

Day 307

What can be explained is not poetry

…

The Unexplainable Truth: Why Yeats Said ‘What Can Be Explained Is Not Poetry’

W.B. Yeats, the towering figure of Irish literature and a Nobel laureate, often seemed to speak in riddles that contained profound universal truths. One such truth, delivered not from a stage but in a quiet moment with his son, Michael, cuts directly to the soul of creativity:

“What can be explained is not poetry.”

This deceptively simple statement is not merely a critique of literary analysis; it is a philosophy of art, a defence of mystery, and a guide for how we must approach the most cherished parts of our existence.

If poetry is built from words—the very tools of explanation—how can the final product simultaneously resist understanding? The answer lies in the fundamental difference between information and resonance.

1. The Reductionist Trap: Explanation as Destruction

When Yeats dismisses explanation, he is pushing back against the modern impulse to dissect, categorise, and summarise. Explanation seeks clarity, certainty, and a definitive endpoint. It wants to give you the meaning in a neat bullet point.

But for the poet, this act of definition is fatal.

Think of a poem like Yeats’s own “The Second Coming.” If you were asked to explain it, you might say: “It is about the breakdown of societal order, historical cycles, and the fear of a looming, savage future.” This is factually correct. But by the time you have finished this explanation, the poem itself—the terrifying rhythm, the shocking image of the “blood-dimmed tide,” the sheer visceral dread of the “rough beast, its hour come round at last”—has completely evaporated.

The Elements That Resist Explanation:

  • Rhythm and Sound: Poetry operates on the level of music. You can explain the notes on a score, but you cannot explain the feeling of the music’s vibration in your chest.
  • Ambiguity: A great poem holds multiple, often contradictory, truths simultaneously. Explanation forces a choice, killing the rich tension that gives the poem its power.
  • The Ineffable: Poetry deals in the realm of the subconscious, the spiritual, and the deeply felt human condition—areas that words can only point toward, never fully capture.

As the great poet Archibald MacLeish wrote, “A poem should not mean / But be.” If you can swap a poem for a paragraph of summarised meaning without losing anything vital, it was never truly poetry to begin with.

2. The Domain of True Art: Mystery and Aura

If explanation is the enemy, what elevates language into poetry? It is the successful creation of Aura—that inexplicable shimmer of authenticity and power surrounding a work of art.

Poetry, painting, and music—when successful—establish an immediate, emotional connection that bypasses the logical mind. They don’t give us facts; they provide us with an experience of being human.

A true poem resonates because it touches a nerve we didn’t know existed. It uses familiar words in unfamiliar arrangements that create a shock of recognition: Ah, yes, I have felt that thing, though I lacked the words for it.

This resonance cannot be taught, explained, or quantified. It is a mystery that the poet labors to create, and a mystery the reader must consent to receive. The poem’s job is to compel you to stop asking why and simply start feeling.

Art as a Sacred Language

For Yeats, an artist and a mystic, poetry was a sacred endeavour that tapped into universal symbols and mythic memory. This is why his poems are so dense with swans, spirals, gyres, and masks. These are not symbols to be easily decoded; they are portals meant to shift the reader’s consciousness.

To demand an explanation of a spiritual experience is to completely misunderstand the nature of the sacred. Yeats viewed poetry in the same light.

3. Beyond the Poem: Embracing the Unexplained Life

Yeats’s dictum is not just a lesson for the classroom; it is a profound commentary on how we live. The things we value most highly in life are often the things that defy bullet points and clear definitions.

If we can fully explain something, we often lose our sense of wonder for it. The minute we treat life as a logical equation, we forfeit the magic.

Love, Grief, and Beauty

Consider the deepest human experiences:

  1. Love: Can you truly explain why you love a particular person? You can list their qualities (kindness, intelligence), but those are merely the ingredients. The love itself—the specific, irrational, overwhelming devotion—is the chemical reaction that cannot be explained. If it could, it would be a transaction, not love.
  2. Beauty: Why is a specific sunset breathtaking? You can explain the atmospheric condition, the refraction of light, and the Rayleigh scattering effect. But none of that science touches the awe you feel when watching the sky turn orange.
  3. Grief: Grief is not a set of stages to be rationally completed; it is a primal force that washes over you. No explanation can contain the depth of loss.

These are the poetic aspects of life. They are what make living rich, maddening, and profoundly meaningful. They require us to accept ambiguity and to tolerate the fact that the most important truths lie just beyond the reach of language.

The Call to Wonder

Yeats’s quiet lesson to his son remains a powerful challenge to us today: In an age where every phenomenon is instantly broken down by algorithms and summarised in 280 characters, are we losing our capacity for wonder?

If we insist on explaining everything, we risk reducing the rich tapestry of existence to a dry instruction manual.

True poetry—in literature and in life—requires us to put down the defining pencil, step away from the summary, and simply stand in the presence of the powerful, beautiful, bewildering thing that is.

The challenge of the reader, the lover, and the appreciative human being is to honour the mystery that remains when all the explanations have failed.

What truths in your life have you accepted as unexplainable? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

What I learned about writing – It is easy to get lost in your make-believe world.

It seems that we can be completely focused on a single task to the detriment of all else, and, when that task is complete, suddenly we feel totally drained.

That’s how I feel right now.

The current year is almost half over…  Where did the time go?

All I have to do is get past the publication of my next two books, take some time away from writing, and then I should be invigorated.  Perhaps COVID had something to do with it because I found it very easy to get lost in and stay in my new imaginary world,  rather than the horrible new world that had been thrust upon us, with more heads down and tail up, with nowhere to go, no travel to plan, and not able to go anywhere.

This is despite our fearless leaders telling us that COVID is no longer a problem, which it probably isn’t, but what do I care?  And for computer programmers who never leave their semi-darkened lair, ordering pizza and Coke, it must have been a Godsend.

Given that I prefer to be at home, working on any number of stories, it usually is for me too.

But have I been working too hard, and it’s finally got to me?  I mean, you can only write so much before the brain starts to fry?  Or you disappear down that proverbial rabbit hole and gradually turn into the character.

I have been working on the two novels that needed to be completed, and they are finally there. And other than NaNoWriMo, which saw another go through the mill, I’m still writing a few pages a night, and another two that I have been working on here and there are now ready for the first edit.

This has all happened to the detriment of my episodic stories, which have lain idle for almost a year, but in recent weeks I picked up one or two and wrote two or three more episodes, just to keep it ticking over.  Another has five episodes, and I hope to publish them soon.  The last I’ve finally finished, and I am feeling pleased with myself.  My editor has it now.

Something else that pleases me, and is entirely unexpected, is that I have sold several copies of my books in the last few months or so.  I know I’m not about to be vying for the top of the bestseller list, but it’s still satisfying.

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

Writing a book in 365 days – 307

Day 307

What can be explained is not poetry

…

The Unexplainable Truth: Why Yeats Said ‘What Can Be Explained Is Not Poetry’

W.B. Yeats, the towering figure of Irish literature and a Nobel laureate, often seemed to speak in riddles that contained profound universal truths. One such truth, delivered not from a stage but in a quiet moment with his son, Michael, cuts directly to the soul of creativity:

“What can be explained is not poetry.”

This deceptively simple statement is not merely a critique of literary analysis; it is a philosophy of art, a defence of mystery, and a guide for how we must approach the most cherished parts of our existence.

If poetry is built from words—the very tools of explanation—how can the final product simultaneously resist understanding? The answer lies in the fundamental difference between information and resonance.

1. The Reductionist Trap: Explanation as Destruction

When Yeats dismisses explanation, he is pushing back against the modern impulse to dissect, categorise, and summarise. Explanation seeks clarity, certainty, and a definitive endpoint. It wants to give you the meaning in a neat bullet point.

But for the poet, this act of definition is fatal.

Think of a poem like Yeats’s own “The Second Coming.” If you were asked to explain it, you might say: “It is about the breakdown of societal order, historical cycles, and the fear of a looming, savage future.” This is factually correct. But by the time you have finished this explanation, the poem itself—the terrifying rhythm, the shocking image of the “blood-dimmed tide,” the sheer visceral dread of the “rough beast, its hour come round at last”—has completely evaporated.

The Elements That Resist Explanation:

  • Rhythm and Sound: Poetry operates on the level of music. You can explain the notes on a score, but you cannot explain the feeling of the music’s vibration in your chest.
  • Ambiguity: A great poem holds multiple, often contradictory, truths simultaneously. Explanation forces a choice, killing the rich tension that gives the poem its power.
  • The Ineffable: Poetry deals in the realm of the subconscious, the spiritual, and the deeply felt human condition—areas that words can only point toward, never fully capture.

As the great poet Archibald MacLeish wrote, “A poem should not mean / But be.” If you can swap a poem for a paragraph of summarised meaning without losing anything vital, it was never truly poetry to begin with.

2. The Domain of True Art: Mystery and Aura

If explanation is the enemy, what elevates language into poetry? It is the successful creation of Aura—that inexplicable shimmer of authenticity and power surrounding a work of art.

Poetry, painting, and music—when successful—establish an immediate, emotional connection that bypasses the logical mind. They don’t give us facts; they provide us with an experience of being human.

A true poem resonates because it touches a nerve we didn’t know existed. It uses familiar words in unfamiliar arrangements that create a shock of recognition: Ah, yes, I have felt that thing, though I lacked the words for it.

This resonance cannot be taught, explained, or quantified. It is a mystery that the poet labors to create, and a mystery the reader must consent to receive. The poem’s job is to compel you to stop asking why and simply start feeling.

Art as a Sacred Language

For Yeats, an artist and a mystic, poetry was a sacred endeavour that tapped into universal symbols and mythic memory. This is why his poems are so dense with swans, spirals, gyres, and masks. These are not symbols to be easily decoded; they are portals meant to shift the reader’s consciousness.

To demand an explanation of a spiritual experience is to completely misunderstand the nature of the sacred. Yeats viewed poetry in the same light.

3. Beyond the Poem: Embracing the Unexplained Life

Yeats’s dictum is not just a lesson for the classroom; it is a profound commentary on how we live. The things we value most highly in life are often the things that defy bullet points and clear definitions.

If we can fully explain something, we often lose our sense of wonder for it. The minute we treat life as a logical equation, we forfeit the magic.

Love, Grief, and Beauty

Consider the deepest human experiences:

  1. Love: Can you truly explain why you love a particular person? You can list their qualities (kindness, intelligence), but those are merely the ingredients. The love itself—the specific, irrational, overwhelming devotion—is the chemical reaction that cannot be explained. If it could, it would be a transaction, not love.
  2. Beauty: Why is a specific sunset breathtaking? You can explain the atmospheric condition, the refraction of light, and the Rayleigh scattering effect. But none of that science touches the awe you feel when watching the sky turn orange.
  3. Grief: Grief is not a set of stages to be rationally completed; it is a primal force that washes over you. No explanation can contain the depth of loss.

These are the poetic aspects of life. They are what make living rich, maddening, and profoundly meaningful. They require us to accept ambiguity and to tolerate the fact that the most important truths lie just beyond the reach of language.

The Call to Wonder

Yeats’s quiet lesson to his son remains a powerful challenge to us today: In an age where every phenomenon is instantly broken down by algorithms and summarised in 280 characters, are we losing our capacity for wonder?

If we insist on explaining everything, we risk reducing the rich tapestry of existence to a dry instruction manual.

True poetry—in literature and in life—requires us to put down the defining pencil, step away from the summary, and simply stand in the presence of the powerful, beautiful, bewildering thing that is.

The challenge of the reader, the lover, and the appreciative human being is to honour the mystery that remains when all the explanations have failed.

What truths in your life have you accepted as unexplainable? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…