Well, that’s his, and this is mine. Possession is 9 points of the law, or so they say.
What’s mine is mine and what’s his is mine. Sound like a divorce settlement? Sure is!
There are often a lot of arguments over the possession of goods, and who they belong to. Perhaps it’s best to own nothing, then no one can take it from you.
Sound like a lawyer contesting his own divorce? Probably.
But that’s not the only mine. Take for instance a land mine or a sea mine.
Devilish things to walk on or brush up against. It spawned a new type of ship, a minesweeper, and I’ve read a few books about the exploits of those aboard, and how close they come to death when a ship hits one.
And land mines, the damage they can cause.
Then, of course, you can go underground, way underground, into a mine.
Gold in South Africa, coal in Wales, tin in Sumatra, copper in New Guinea.
And it doesn’t have to be underground. You can have an open-cut mine, which accounts for a lot of coal mines in Australia.
Oddly, you can mine data, the sort that’s stored in databases on computers. I’ve done a bit of that in a former life.
You can mine talent,
Or you can mine Bitcoin, but that’s a whole different ballgame, and everyone seems to be in on some sort of scam when it comes to Bitcoin. It seems to me the only way you would make money out of Bitcoin was to buy units the very first day it was released.
It’s not, and never will be, something I’ll dabble in.
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.
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.
…
At least the helicopter pilot hadn’t hit the fuel tanks or any of the control wires.
Because of the holes in the fuselage, we couldn’t fly any higher than between two and five thousand feet or go as fast as Davies would like, but the plane settled into a routine and got us where we wanted to go.
Just a few miles from the base, fuel almost exhausted, we got a fighter escort.
At first, I thought the base commander thought we were an unidentified flying object, mainly because something else had been hit, our communications. We couldn’t tell the base we were coming, and they only had the Colonel’s transmission of an approximate arrival time, much earlier than the actual time we were supposed to arrive.
On the ground, we were met with fire trucks, and a military escort, with weapons that could take out a mouse at one thousand yards. Just in case we were terrorists, I suppose.
We were parked in a bay away from the main terminal area and had to wait for a half-hour before we were met by Lallo. Monroe’s comment, that he was probably finishing his lunch which would be more important than meeting us, had kept us waiting.
The two abductees were the first to leave the aircraft, then Shurl’s body was removed after the doctor certified he was dead.
Then the rest of us were allowed to leave the aircraft. A bus was waiting, and everyone bar Monroe and I had boarded and been taken away. Under guard. Perhaps their service had not mitigated their prison sentences. I didn’t ask Lallo why; I’d probably not get the truth anyway.
“Good job,” he said, after watching the bus depart. “Pity, it wasn’t done right the first time.”
A compliment followed by disparagement.
“Next time you can do the job yourself,” Monroe said. “And until you’ve been in the field and actually got shot at, you’d do well to keep that trap of yours shut.”
“May I …”
“…remind me you’re my superior officer? No. I’m sure that status won’t last much longer. I’m applying for a transfer.”
He looked at me. “What about you?”
“Nothing to say, except I don’t blame her. Now, since all you’ve done is prove to me you’re an idiot, I’ll take my leave.”
In the distance I could see a large American car, the sort that proliferated in the 1950s and 1960s before petrol prices were a problem, cutting across the runway at speed. Was it the owner of the DC3 coming to see the damage?
No. When it got closer I could see Bamfield, cigar in mouth, beaming. I suppose no one felt they had the authority to tell him not to.
The car stopped behind Lallo’s jeep and Bamfield got out, then leaned against the driver’s side door and looked at us over the roof.
“James, Monroe. Still alive I see. Pity about the plane; I know the chap who owns it. He’s going to be pissed when he sees the cannon holes. What happened?”
“Bad guys,” Monroe said.
“Of course. Get in, I’ll give you a ride back to the terminal. We can talk on the way.”
Neither of us moved. If Monroe wasn’t going to suffer fools gladly, neither was I.
“Well…”
“I’d rather walk,” I said.
“We’d rather walk, sir.” With a heavy emphasis on the ‘sir’.
“Look, you did a great job, minimal losses, and we got two assets back. Everyone is happy. But, we have a small problem down in South America…”
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
——
Johannesen went to find Wallace. He had seen Jackerby leave the castle alone, which couldn’t be a good thing. He had also noticed most of the Resistance members had gone too and had considered going back to the dungeons,
If he had been picking team members, Jackerby would not have been one of them. He might act British and speak perfect British English, but he was a Nazi at heart, perhaps more Nazi than the Nazis’
It was not unsurprising. The file Wallace had on him along with one for all of them, wasn’t exactly describing a life of roses. His grandparents were German, and the British had killed them during the first world war. There was no doubting he had based his whole life on one day avenging them, and this war had given him the opportunity.
To be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Johannesen guessed that was an apt description of him. He was a devoted follower of Mosley and the English Fascists, openly supporting Hitler until it came to choosing a side. That was easy, become part of a fifth column, Worthing from within.
And when the Reich became the all-powerful country when they won the war, there would be a position for him, a war hero.
Losing the war hadn’t figured in the story, but despite the successes, there were more failures, and tactical errors, like trying to invade Russia, and he could see that it was going to be the reason Germany lost. Superior weapons were not going to staunch the losses, and it was only a matter of time.
The time he would use to figure out how not to get shot as a spy and somehow get back on the other side.
But, not today.
Wallace was trying a new wine, have the same thirst for wine, but not as swill as those Resistance members like Leonardo, a deep-colored red.
“You should try a glass, Johannes. It’s an exceptional vintage.” He picked up the bottle and looked at the label, then cleaning the dust off the label, said, “1907 no less. Bastards never sold any of this to us to try. We should liberate the cellar, and share it with our compatriots after the war. At a price, of course.”
Like all the soldiers he’d met along the way, always looking to make a profit. Goering and Hitler steal all the paintings, they were talking about the wine. What did the people finish up with?
“Not really a red man, sir.”
“That’s because you’ve never had one like this.”
“Why not.”
Wallace poured him a glass.
Johannesen sipped it. Wallace was right, it was better than any other he had tasted, not that he could really remember the last time he had the opportunity.
“It is quite good, sir.”
“It is. You know Jackerby says you are a double agent, which is pretty rich coming from him. Strictly speaking, if wouldn’t be a double agent, but a triple agent, if that was the case. You’re not, are you?”
The smile on Wallace’s face didn’t extend to the eyes. He was not amused, or annoyed.
Just fishing.
“That’s the problem with our situation. We’ve been lying to everyone for so long, that it’s hard t tell what is the truth and what isn’t. At the moment, the British don’t know where my allegiances lie, they think I’m the sleeper in this group, and Atherton, well, he’s not sure if that’s the case or not. No doubt Jackerby told you about my trip to the dungeons to get the woman to talk. Jackerby offers the big stick and that isn’t going to work on these people. She’ll die before she gives up any secrets. They all will. And by all accounts that breute Leonardo was executing her compatriots in front of her to make her talk, and all they are is dead, and we’re no closer to anything. What do you think I am?”
“Clever. But that isn’t going to be my problem in,” he looked at his watch, “two hours. We have a new commander, and a few more people arriving to weed out this elusive Atherton and the few resistance that’s left. People higher than me want Meyer returned to Germany. Whatever you are, Johannesen, you might have to plead your case to someone else far less understanding.” He stood. “Enjoy the wine. It might be your last.”
Reading between the lines, Johannesen got the impression Wallace no longer cared what happened. For all of them, it had been a long war, and it was dragging on with no success in sight.
And it was becoming abundantly clear he picked the wrong side. Now, all that was going to happen was that he would end up in the crossfire. Perhaps he had known all along that the German notion that no one could ever be trusted, that everyone should be treated as a traitor first, was going to be the death of all of them.
He had no doubt the new arrivals would be Waffen SS, battle-hardened, and sent on this mission as a sort of holiday. They would find Atherton and the remnants very quickly and snuff out a problem Jackerby couldn’t.
Or, if Jackerby knew the Waffen SS was coming, had he left, knowing his loyalties would be called into question. Pure German soldiers versus double agents, Johannesen knew who’d he believe first.
For the first time, Johannesen knew he was not going to see the end of this war, or that Germany had any hope of winning.
He needed a plan of escape, and that woman in the dungeons was the only one who could help him.
V is for – Valhalla, where the souls of those who died bravely in battle go
…
For some, death comes when you least expect it.
I was not a soldier. I was never meant to be on a battlefield. I had no interest in slaying the enemy, whoever that enemy might be.
And yet there I was, trying to figure out how it came to be.
Six hours earlier, I was asleep on a cot in a tent, one of about a hundred scattered back from the river in a valley that belied the fact that it was near a contentious border being fought over.
Two facts I learned before crawling exhausted into that cot, religion, and disputed borders were in the top three reasons to start a war against your neighbour.
It started out with two men, one on either side of the river, stating the river belonged to them and the other paid ‘rent’. Then shots were fired.
In three months, it escalated, turning the river and valley surrounding it into a killing field and two previously friendly countries into bitter enemies.
I had been sent over by my media company to report first-hand on the effect it was having on the people, international relations, and responses by the rest of the world.
The latest report, not by me but one of my brethren, was that we were heading inevitably towards World War three. Given the rhetoric I had just heard, I was almost convinced he was right.
I managed to get three hours before being woken by my army liaison officer, the leader of a small group of soldiers who were charged with surveillance. I had been attached to them, mainly because they did not approach the front line.
They were simply there to observe enemy locations and report back. Their position gave me a very good view of the battlefield, the destruction of mortars, cannons, air force strafing, bomb runs, and snipers.
To a layman, it was terrifying and horrifying. To the hawks of war, it was a proving ground for their new weapons.
“Were up. Sorry about the short notice. There’s going to be an offensive in a few hours. Want to join us?”
My first instinct was to say no, but being embedded with this group afforded me an excellent view of the war and the uselessness of it all.
The two men could have sat down and worked it out. But no, they had to settle their differences with guns. Both were dead, as were their families, and most of the valley’s inhabitants. Now, it was extending beyond the valley and into the bigger cities and infrastructure like power stations and refineries. Bullets had gone to mortar bombs to cannons to drones to missiles.
Thousands had been killed, and negotiations for peace had failed. The only people winning in this war were the arms manufacturers.
How could I say no? “Of course. When?”
“Fifteen minutes. Outside the mess tent.”
The two trucks carrying the men slowly crawled over the rough ground that led up to our lookout. The road was constantly bombed to stop troops’ movements in and out, and was pockmarked with bomb craters.
The trip was a mile, but in the time it took, three mortar shells exploded in front and behind us, the last showering us in dirt and rubble. Missiles passed overhead and exploded some distance on the enemy side. A prelude to the new offensive. War didn’t stop at night or at weekends.
We made it in one piece and offloaded, the last shift climbing into the truck. They looked exhausted. There were three sets of men who manned the lookout 24 hours a day. Invariably, at least one man died each shift. This had two, stretched out and put in the truck.
The leaders exchanged paperwork, and he saluted and left with his men.
The replacements had taken up their positions. We had two anti-aircraft guns and three snipers who tried to take out the drones. Every change of shift, a surveillance drone would come and check us out.
I wore my neutrality vest, but that wouldn’t necessarily save me. I would not be the first media representative to be killed in battle.
As I went into the bunker, I heard a loud crump of a bomb exploding and turned. At first, I thought it had missed the truck because I couldn’t see it behind the wall of rubble.
Then it cleared, and there was nothing, no wreckage, no people, nothing. It was as if it had just disappeared.
I shrugged. There was nothing we could do.
I just shut the door when there was another loud crump, so close and so loud it was deafening. The bunker could withstand several direct hits, and this one had hit the roof.
Eight feet of concrete on top of six-inch steel plating.
The bunker was filled with dust and grit, and men were on the ground. It’s not the best way to start a shift.
The morning was given over to watching the missile attack, one that involved more missiles than ever before, targeted strikes on allegedly military targets on the other side, and the observers charting the hits and misses
Most notably, the gun that targeted the truck and our bunker had fallen silent, and it was written down as a possible success.
Everything had fallen silent on the other side of the river, and we were relaxing in that euphoria of not waiting for the next bomb to fall. Anticipation was a terrible thing.
I went up the ladder to the lookout, temporarily unmanned due to the silence, for the first time in a year.
There was nothing but desolation, bomb craters, little vegetation, and once or twice the scene also had the bodies of men who had charged at the enemy and mown down.
Worse than any scene from World War One in France. We had learned very little from that or any other war.
I then saw movement, like a rabbit in the thicket, and then a bang.
Then nothing.
Last thought: you do hear the bullet that has your name on it. You just don’t see it coming.
I was standing in a hall, well not so much a hall but a huge building that had statues on either side evely spaced and which armour, weapons and heraldry.
High up windows allowed the daylight to shine in such a way that it illuminated the statues.
They were not all men, but those there were of strong, muscled, tall, and bearded who would have no trouble holding the swords that were next to them lying across the statue base.
I don’t think I could lift one, let alone use it.
I turned slightly, and the man beside me was almost an exact relica of that on the statue.
“Welcome to Valhalla, sir.”
“Where?”
“It is where hero’s stand for eternity.”
“I am no hero.”
“Not in the sense these people might be but a hero none the less. Words and actions, there are many forms heroism can take. You will write a document that will bring peace to an unsettled land when men have temporarily forgotten what it is to be men.”
Was her speaking in riddles? Was I dead, and just dreaming about a place my mind had taken me because it couldn’t deal with the reality of my death?
I doubted any of my work here would stop anything other than a draught under the door. My grandmother used newspapers in many novel and interesting ways. She never cared much for the news that was in them.
“Am I dead?”
“That depends on you. If you don’t fight, then it will be the end, but you will not be coming here. As I said, you have a job to do, and when you do, here I will be to welcome you.”
“These are all genuine heroes if this is Valhalla.”
“Semantics, but your time is up. You must go back.”
I opened my eyes and saw three men standing at the end of the bed.
The platoon leader, the camp commandant, and my editor.
The room was in a hospital.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You were shot by a sniper from the other side. Near killed you.” My editor, with an undertone of outrage in his tone.
I took a moment to take in what he said, then to realise I was lucky to be alive. It had been a shot to the head.
“I should not be here.”
“No, but you were lucky. The bullet missed everything useful, though you might suffer a little amnesia and inbalance from time to time. We’re glad you survived. Quite a few didn’t.”
The platoon leader came over and shook my hand, and did the commandant. Then they left, leaving me with my editor.
It seemed odd that he came all this way out to see me, injured or not. He sat beside the bed.
“Damn fine piece you wrote.”
“When?”
“After you were shot. You insisted that they get what you had to say down. They reckon you being mad as hell was what kept you alive.”
“I don’t remember…”
“Possibly not. But it’s there down in black and white, and it was enough to precipitate a ceasefire, and you being shot, well, that wasn’t taken lightly. Stupid men who could have sat down over a glass of wine and simply agreed to share the bounty Mother Earth had granted them all. It was the clarity that all of them had lost. The pen truly is mightier than the sword.”
I shook my head. Where had I heard similar words said? Somewhere lost in my imagination I guess.
“The war over?
“Yes. The one person who could stop the madness read your piece and decided to stop supplying weapons if the other side agreed. Perhaps they might not have listened had you not been shot, but there it is. You are now in the history books, like it or not. I just thank God you were working for us.”
OK, I know some of you do, and lock yourself away until the next bestseller is written, but that’s only an option if you saved up a million dollars so you could take the year off.
And if you are like me, I’d probably be out partying every day rather than put words on paper. Sometimes it is easier to just party.
However, for the more serious of us, our day job could work in our favour in several ways. Firstly, it gives us time away from the project so that we can dwell on how the story might progress the moment we get back in the door at home.
Besides that, the job may be so utterly stultifying that you can have the time to work through plotting and planning during the day, and writing by night.
There again you might have exactly the job that provides the inspiration for writing the story, and it is very useful.
That aspect worked for me because I was in the exact place that was a company like the one I was writing about, in a remote location, on an island with isolation and native people. And I had photos of the operations running since 1898.
All the more reason to seriously consider whether or not to give up your day job.
Oh, and there is one other thing. If you’re not living with your parents, you still need to pay the bills.
I’m sure a lot of people have considered the prospect of whale watching. I’m not sure how the subject came up on one of our visits to New Zealand, but I suspect it was one of those tourist activity leaflets you find in the foyer of motels, hotels, and guesthouses.
Needless to say, it was only a short detour to go to Kaikoura and check out the prospect.
Yes, the ocean at the time seemed manageable. My wife has a bad time with sea sickness, but she was prepared to make the trip, after some necessary preparations. Seasickness tablets and special bands to wear on her wrist were recommended and used.
The boat was large and had two decks, and mostly enclosed. There were a lot of people on board, and we sat inside for the beginning of the voyage. The sea wasn’t rough, but there was about a meter and a half swell, easily managed by the boat while it was moving.
It took about a half hour or so to reach the spot where the boat stopped and a member of the crew used a listening device to see if there were any whales.
That led to the first wave of sickness.
We stopped for about ten minutes, and the boat moved up and down on the waves. It was enough to start the queasy stomachs of a number of passengers. Myself, it was a matter of going out on deck and taking in the sea air. Fortunately, I don’t get seasick.
Another longish journey to the next prospective site settled a number of the queasy stomachs, but when we stopped again, the swell had increased, along with the boat’s motion. Seasick bags were made available for the few that had succumbed.
By the time we reached the site where there was a whale, over half the passengers had been sick, and I was hoping they had enough seasick bags, and then enough bin space for them.
The whale, of course, put on a show for us, and those that could went out on deck to get their photos.
By the end of the voyage, nearly everyone on board was sick, and I was helping to hand out seasick bags.
Despite the anti sickness preparations, my wife had also succumbed. When we returned and she was asked if the device had worked, she said no.
But perhaps it had because within half an hour we were at a cafe eating lunch, fish and chips of course.
This activity has been crossed off the bucket list, and there’s no more whale watching in our traveling future. Nor, it seems, will we be going of ocean liners.
Perhaps a cruise down the Rhine might be on the cards. I don’t think that river, wide as it is in places, will ever have any sort of swell.
Eleanor, a princess by birth, was selected by the new king’s mother as his perfect match, and yes, in this principality and the other arranged marriages for their children were still done.
Marriage for love was frowned upon, but our new King was by virtue of the fact he had moved away because fourth sons were not going to be crowned king any time soon, was allowed to annul the arrangement.
The truth of the matter was that although they were good together, temperament-wise, they would have ended up killing each other.
Too young and too silly, that first attraction died away before they reached an age to know what love meant, and for our prince, what responsibility was.
Now, she was Richard’s choice, again not in line for the throne, and she found him a far more suitable and placid person to be with.
The truth was she had fallen in love with the country, and the lifestyle that she freely confessed was far better than her home.
When our new king meets up with his old paramour, whom he has not seen for many years, there are feelings there, but not enough to make an impression.
Now that Richard is gone, it’s a question of what she is going to do with the rest of her life, and it seems she wants to stay.
With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.
That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.
He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.
I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.
Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.
Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.
At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.
A yellow car stopped inches from me.
It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.
Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.
My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.
At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.
At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.
At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.
I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.
Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.
Now my imagination was playing tricks.
It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.
In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.
I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.
This is something you don’t see every day of the week, or once in a lifetime, perhaps.
We arrived at the Hilton Auckland hotel somewhere between one and two in the morning after arriving from Australia by plane around midnight.
Sometimes there is a benefit in arriving late, and, of course, being a very high tier HHonors guest, where the room you book is upgraded.
This stay we got one hell of a surprise.
We got to spend the night in the Presidential Suite.
The lounge and extra bathroom.
Looking towards the private bathroom.
A bathroom fit for a King and a Queen
And the royal bed
There was a note to say that we should keep the blinds closed for privacy and that a ship would be arriving in the port, but I did not expect it to be literally fifty feet from our balcony.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 