Tag: Thoughts

In a word: Park

We mostly understand that a park is an area set aside for recreation, and can have trees, flowers, a lake, and vast lawns.  These parks are also sometimes called ‘gardens’.

A great example of a park is Central Park in New York.

Nearly every city has a park or some sort, some have more than one.

But the word park has a number of other uses.  For instance,

You can park a car, or bike, or yourself; in other words, it’s a place where you stop for a while.  For cars, it is a carpark.

You could say ‘it’s just a walk in the park’, which means that the job is going to be easy.  I never understood that analogy because quite a lot of parks have walks that are difficult, and not so much ‘a walk in the park’.

It is also used to describe a place where animals are kept, other than calling it a zoo, it can go by the name of a wildlife park.  Zoos though are more for cities.  Wildlife parks can be quite huge and many are found in Africa.

A park can also be used to describe a sporting arena or field.

You can park a bag in a locker.

You can park an idea in the back of your mind and come back to it later, or if you are like me, it disappears into the ether.

It can be an area of land around a manor house, but there are very few of those left now.  The most notable of these are in England, and were designed by a man called Capability Brown.

 

Searching for locations: Mount Ngauruhoe, New Zealand

Mount Ngauruhoe is apparently still an active volcano, has been for 2,500 years or so, and last erupted on 19th February 1975, and reportedly has erupted around 70 times since 1839.

The mountain is usually climbed from the western side, from the Mangatepopo track.

This photo was taken in summer from the Chateau Tongariro carpark.

In late autumn, on one of our many visits to the area, the mountain was covered with a light sprinkling of snow and ice.

On our most recent visit, this year, in winter, it was fully covered in snow.

It can be a breathtaking sight from the distance.

It all started in Venice – Episode 20

More Plans

…

Rodby’s generosity did not extend to the Citation taking me back to Venice, but he did fund a business class seat on a commercial flight the next morning.

I was in no hurry to go back, the overnight sojourn giving me time to make a plan of sorts.  A few hours after I left the police I received a message from Alfie, with an attached sound file.

A recording of a phone call between Jaime and Larry.

“Your enemy just arranged for me to be dragged off to a police station and interrogated.”

An interesting start to a conversation.

“Which enemy?”

Good to know he had more than one.

“You know who.  He was supposed to be in Venice not London, and he’s not supposed to be working with anyone, yet it seems he is.”

“On what pretext did they take you in?”

“That C4 you left in your crates in my warehouse.  They think it’s mine “

“Did you tell them about me?”

“Didn’t have to, you left your name all over the crates.  They’ll be looking for you.”

“Let them look.  What did he have to say?”

“Annoyed that you’re going after him.”

“How does he know that?”

“How does he know anything, Larry.  He does.  He says his ex-boss is the one who wants you, not him, and that story you told me about him killing your brother, it’s not true.”

“He’s lied to you, just like I said he would.”

“Then that means your mother is lying too, because I called her, and she had a different version of events.  I can’t trust you, and you are now very hot property and I can’t afford to be involved with you.  The police have taken the crates away, so as far as I’m concerned it’s the last I want to see of them, and you.  Don’t try to contact me again.”

The phone went dead.

Good.  She did the right thing, though it was as expected.  She could also quite easily contact him another way, but for the time being, I’d give her the benefit of the doubt.

Next, I called Larry’s mother.

Same background noise, it seemed she didn’t want to go home.  Larry must be ingratiating himself.

“I spoke to Jaime, the woman Larry is purported to be romancing.  He is not, or not as far as I can tell.”

“She has since then.”

“She does now.  What would Larry want with C4?”

“What’s C4?”

“Explosive.”

“Vaults. His father used to specialize in blowing safes and tried to teach the son but Larry nearly blew the both of them to the afterlife.”

“It’d have to be a very big safe.”

“You could always ask him yourself.  He’s going to be around for dinner tomorrow night.  Just be wary of the bodyguards.  There’s three of them.”

“Things might get a little rough, do you really want that in your house?”

“Someone needs to teach the bastard a lesson.  By the way, a good call from that Jaime woman, asking me about your role with my sons.  She seemed surprised.”

“I wasn’t very nice to her.”

“She’s a criminal,  not a thoroughly bad one like Larry, but one nonetheless.  You don’t have to be nice to them.  Let’s hope she doesn’t have to worry about her sons like I had to.”

That was the problem with that sort of family business.  The children really have nowhere to go but join or disappear.  Then it became a battle for survival, especially if you had a parent running the organization.  Then there were always expectations, and then that first kill.

Larry’s brother had never wanted that life, he wanted to live on his terms, but neither the father nor the eldest son and successor saw it that way.

“I thought I could escape all of this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but Larry seems to have put that on hold.  Perhaps if we have a little chat he might change his mind.”

“I think it would be better than what you had in mind.  He increased their guards too when he was not here, and it’s unsettling for her, and especially me.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It couldn’t be easy for her with a son like him, especially bow the police were looking for him.  He was not going to get back into the country because his name will be on an alert list, so it would be interesting to see how he got back home.

He had the means, simply because he had turned up in Sorrento using none of the known methods of transportation.  And he didn’t own a private jet, or at least, one that I knew of.  Something else to investigate.

I called Alfie.

“Got the message.  Interesting call.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Not really.  But we’ll know soon enough.  Um having dinner at his mother’s tomorrow night and he will be there.”

“Then play c is off the table for the moment?”

Plan c was taking his effect and child to use as leverage.  It might still be needed, depending on the upcoming meeting.

“Backburner.  Where’s Cecilia?”

“I moved her to your place.  Seemed the best option.”

“She will need a sniper rifle, and get herself to Sorrento tomorrow morning.  Give the address.  She’ll need a site that gives a good view of the dining room.  And needless to say, no advertising her presence.”

“Have you got a plan?”

“Not really.  He’s not going to do a lot with his wife and daughter there, but, again, it’s Larry and he is unpredictable.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing “

“Never.  Now, it seems the C4 was to crack a safe or create a diversion.  You need to get the team onto finding out what he’s planning.  You might want to go through ex-partners and associates in case he’s on a revenge kick.”

“Rodby said he wouldn’t be unhappy if you just shot him.”

“We’re not allowed to.”

“There are ways and means.”

“Then we’re no better than they are.  We’ve had this conversation a few times.”

“We’re not winning the war, and people are getting restless.  There’s talk Rodby will be replaced by a more aggressive department head.”

That was all the department needed, someone to hasten its demise.  It was already vastly limited in what it could do, and in recent years reduced to little more than intelligence gathering and a few side missions. After I left, it had lost its sting in the tail.  I thought Rodby was marking time for his retirement.

Now it seemed that might come earlier than expected.  Was this why he was pushing the Larry project, one last hurrah?

“It won’t happen, they can’t possibly get rid of institutions like him.”

“I hope you’re right.”

© Charles Heath 2022

There are few words that are so universally noncommittal as ‘maybe’

This word, where I live, had taken on a new meaning.  We have telephone scammers who ask your name when you answer the phone, and when you say yes, they hang up.

It doesn’t take much imagination to consider how they can use that recording.

So, I now answer the phone with ‘maybe’, which confuses the real callers who want to know if it is you.

Of course, ‘maybe’ is one of those words that can have so many meaning, but the best one is to use it while you have time to think of a proper answer.

For example, did you get the potatoes?  You haven’t been out, it slipped your mind, or you just plain forgot, but run with a ‘maybe’ so you can judge the reaction.

Angry face, you know no matter what, you’re in trouble.

Genial face, you know that it didn’t really matter and all is forgiven.

Then there’s the person who doesn’t know you and comes up to you in a crowded room.  Are you [put name here]?

Maybe.  We want to know if we’re in trouble, or if it for something good, or that it is the husband or wife of the person you’ve3 just spent the last twenty minutes in animated conversation with.

Using ‘maybe’ in writing probably isn’t the best word to us, but I like defying the experts.  You can always find a ‘maybe’ or two in any of my books.

It all started in Venice – Episode 19

An interview with Jaime Meyers

…

I went in and closed the door, leaning against it.  She glared at me, for a moment not recognising who it was, then the expression changed.

And it gave me a tell.

“You’re supposed to be in Venice,” she said, with a hint of amusement in her tone.

“You’re not supposed to be in here, and yet here you are.”

“It’s all part of a witch hunt.  We’ve been down this road before, and like the last time, and the time before that, they’ve got nothing on me.  They know it and you should know it too, but if you’re retired, why are you here?”

“Your new best friend forever, Larry.  You know he wants me dead.”

“He says you killed his brother, but he’s never said anything about killing you, just getting justice for his brother.  Through the legal system.”

“Of course he would say that.  I assure you I had nothing to do with his brother’s death but that’s another story.”  I crossed to the chair and sat down taking a moment to look at her.

Drugs, alcohol and stress had taken the shine off what had once been a stunningly beautiful young woman.  The loss of her father and betrayal of her husband had taken their toll.

“If that’s the case perhaps you should tell me what happened so I can make up my own mind.  After all, there are always two sides to a story.”

I shook my head.  “That would be a pointless exercise.  Let’s talk about you instead, and the reason why you’re sitting in that chair.  Larry.  Until you took up with him, we had no idea who you were or what you were doing and had no reason to find out.  Larry, on the other hand, well, he’s shoulder deep in a shit pile of criminal activity, and my old boss, when I used to work for him, is very interested in everyone who even looks sideways at him.  So, bottom line, you’re only here because of him, and because of him I know everything there is to know about.”

“So you say, but there’s nothing to know.  Never was, and Larry is just a friend who’s going through a rough patch.”

“If you mean losing out on a fifty-million pound inheritance because he killed his brother is a rough patch, then your right.”

“I don’t know anything about that.  All I know is his wife is being difficult.”

“That’s the same line all married men use.”

Her expression sharpened conveying annoyance.  “It’s not that sort of relationship.” 

“Not what his wife is telling his mother back in Sorrento.  And that’s saying something considering how much Brenda hates his mother.”

A change in expression.  Another tell, a nerve hit.

“How do I know this?”  I asked the question for her.  “Simple, and perhaps I will give you a side of the story.  His mother crossed paths with one of my investigations back when I worked in intelligence as an analyst and I got to know her quite well.  As a favourable, knowing I was in a position to help, she asked me to watch over his brother, her youngest son.”

I could see the question before she could ask it.

“Before you tell me I didn’t do a very good job, I was at the handoff Larry sent him to that went bad, one he was told would be a simple briefcase exchange, and ended up having to defend him in what became an impossible situation.”

“What was in the briefcases?”

An odd question but I could see from the furrowed brow that she had seized on a significant detail.

“I don’t know and didn’t ask.  In my position, it was better not to know, but you can guess.  I’m sure you are aware of Larry’s interests.”

She didn’t say, but she knew.  My guess had been drugs on one side and money on the other.  It was anything but a simple job and my reasoning was Larry tried to keep it low-key using a lesser-known courier without backup, and someone found out.  With drugs and cask on that scale, it was too much of a temptation to pass up.

“Anyway, he was shot, not fatally, I patched him up, he called Larry and I stayed with him until Larry arrived, but left before Larry saw me, for obvious reasons.  If you talk to his mother she will verify everything I said.  She was still talking to him after I left and up to the point where he could see Larry coming.  After that. He was DOA at the hospital.  You can draw your own conclusions but 50 million is a great incentive to use a particular situation to get rid of a problem.”

“An interesting story, as you say, but I’m not likely to be asking anyone anything because I’m just not interested, in you or him.”

“As I said before, a pointless exercise.  But, interested or not, you will be helping us with our problem with Larry and his explosives.”

“‘I know nothing about that.”

“Well, let’s talk about something you do know about.  Emily Broadhurst, or to Wendy, Aunt May.”

The look on that fraction a second was both malevolent and fearful.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I shrugged.  “I thought you might say that.”  I took out my cell phone and dialled one of the two numbers displayed.  “Let’s bring them in and have a chat, see what they have to say.”  A voice answered on the other end.  “George.  Bring them in.”

“Stop.”  She glared at her lawyer.  “Give us the room.”

“I strongly suggest…”

“Give me the room.  Your objection is noted.”

Her lawyer reluctantly got up and left the room.  She glared at the policewoman standing by the door.

“Pretend she’s not here,” I said.  “She has to be here for your safety and is the very soul of discretion.”  I looked up at the camera.  “This is not to be recorded or observed, so camera off.”  I waited until the red light below the camera went off.

I could see she was about to say something, more than likely regrettable, but understandable.

“Let me say this before you say something you will regret.  You’ve been lying to me.  I don’t ask questions I don’t have answers to.  Because you started working with Larry, we went the extra mile on your life and operations.  You were there when the crates were delivered, as was Larry himself and he told you what was in there.  So, where there’s one lie, what is there you can say that cannot be taken with a grain of salt.”

“Be that as it may…”

“No.  You are the head of a criminal organisation.  It might be dressed up very cleverly to look like something else, but we have a very clear view of what goes on.  To be honest, we don’t care.  You’re not the focus of my ex-bosses obsession.  And, believe me when I tell you, I don’t like being Larry’s target.”

“Then make him disappear.”

“Unfortunately, despite what you and others might think, we did not unilaterally kill people for no reason, and, even if I still worked for that organisation, I wasn’t able to make people disappear.  The paperwork would be horrendous, along with endless external, internal and government reviews.”

“Then what do you want me to do?  I’m not an informer, nor will I become an informant.”  Spoken by a person who still thought they had a choice.

“You’re going to do what you negotiate with the police, who, despite your endless denials, are aware of the truth.  So, first things first, you are going to ignore Larry, and not proceed with any of the arrangements you may have agreed with him..  You can do that with plausible deniability, telling him leaving C4 in your warehouse was not an act of good faith since the police now want your hide for it.  Once again I will reiterate, I’m not interested in you, and nor is my ex-boss, so you are in a unique position to use whatever knowledge you have as leverage for your freedom.”

“And the matter you brought up?”

“Will never see the light of day, or be mentioned by anyone ever again.  Unless you break our agreement.  I used to have the best investigative team on the planet, and they can find anyone or anything, so if you’re thinking of running, don’t.  My ex-boss will have no hesitation in destroying you and your organisation.”

“And yet you say you work for no one.”

“Haven’t for years.  I retired and hope to stay that way, but my wife died, and Larry decided to come after me.  At the moment I don’t have much to live for, so if you want to get in my bad books, believe me you’ll not live to regret it.  When I walk out of this room, don’t get in my sights.”

“And why should I take you at your word?”

“I swear it on my wife’s grave.  Good enough?”

It seemed it was.

© Charles Heath 2022

We all need a little attention now and then

When I was last in Europe we decided to get the Eurostar, from London, through the Chunnel, to Paris Disneyland.  Not exactly as fast as the Japanese bullet trains, but faster than anything we have in this country.

You are hurtling along at up to 160 kph, though it feels a lot faster, and then you begin to brake, and it seems like nothing is happening, except for some outside friction noise, and the speed dropping.

I feel like that now, on my way to the bottom of the abyss.

At the end of that fall, it is something referred to as hitting rock bottom.

I’m told once you hit rock bottom the only way is up.

The question is, who do you know that has fallen into the abyss and come back to tell you about it?

Put into layman’s terms, hurling down the abyss is like having a severe episode of depression.  There are different types, some worse than others.  Hitting the ground is roughly the equivalent of looking for a way out that eases the pain and not finding one, and that, for some people, is a quite drastic answer.

But the sign that the free fall is braking, like the express train slowing down, is a sign that you’ve seen the light, that there are external forces that can render assistance.

I see them now, the hands of friends, the hands of people I don’t know, but who are concerned.

Writers like any other professional people are the same as everyone else, but with one rather interesting difference.  It is a profession where a lot of the time you are on your own, alone with your thoughts, your characters, your fantasy world, which sometimes so frighteningly drifts into your reality.

Some of us will make a fortune, some of us will make an adequate living, and live the ‘dream’ of doing the one job they always wanted to, and most will not.

I’m not rich, I’m not one who gets an adequate income, yet.

But I will get out of this abyss.

I can feel the brakes.

My eldest granddaughter, who is 15, tells me the fantasy story where she is a princess I’m writing for her is brilliant.

The free fall has stopped.  I step out into the sunshine.

All I needed was a little praise.

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 68

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20160902_093736

This is Chester.  We’re both a little tired this morning.

I spent a little too much time on the next few chapters of my NaNoWriMo project and lost track of time.  It was going so well, I thought it best not to interrupt the flow of words.

But…

This morning, after getting to bed about 2:30 am, I found it hard to get out of bed.

Fortunately, as usual, I had the cat alarm clock wake me out of deep sleep to be informed that it was breakfast.

I looked at the clock and saw it was 6:30 am.

I mean to say, Chester was with me at 2:30 when I was writing, and he didn’t tell me that it was time to go to bed, much earlier than I did.

I think he enjoys torturing me like this.

So…

I get up, get him breakfast, some smelly fish food that even he turns his nose up at, and go out to the writing room with the intention of getting on with the story.

Next thing I know, there’s a gentle tapping on my forehead,

I wake up and it’s Chester.

What? I ask.  You can’t possibly want more food.

No.  I thought you were dead.

That’s amusing, he sees me asleep in bed and doesn’t think I’m dead.

How could you think that?

There are only two reasons why people become inanimate in their chair, they have suffered a heart attack or stroke, or they’re dead.

What about simply falling asleep because they’re too tired, and their faithful assistant didn’t tell them to go to bed earlier?

Look, let’s not make a beak deal out of this.  I was concerned.  Perhaps I won’t be next time.  A final glare and he jumps down off the keyboard, which left a page of endless d’s on the page I had been working on.

Perhaps he’s getting old and forgetful, or, suddenly he realises I mean more to him than just giving him food and cleaning the litter.  No, stop deluding yourself.  You’re his friend, he’s not your friend.

Oh, well, for a moment there…

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 41

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.

 

“That was far to bloody easy.”  I heard Monroe’s voice come over the radio, not long after we left the camp.

“It was a bit easier than I thought.  But I did make it quite clear if we didn’t all leave in one piece we’d reduce his camp to rubble with everyone in it.”

“He knows the territory.  Something’s waiting for us out here.”

Something indeed.

Back at the camp, not only had the commander’s men search for the hidden weapons, and, when everyone checked, were still there, they had also taken off the crates with the film equipment.  I was not sure what the commander was intending to do with the equipment, but what disappointed me was the fact we hadn’t taken the time to rescue the rocket launcher.

Now the commander had it.

If he bothered to search the crates properly.  I suspect he was yet to do so.  What we had rescued and successfully hidden were the C4 explosives and detonators.  They might come in useful at the airstrip.

Just before we reached the fork in the road, where we would be turning left to head towards the airfield, and surprisingly had not run into any of the commander’s men, we stopped and let Monroe and Shurl out to make a sweep towards the airstrip, not too far away.

I also called up Mobley to see how he was.

The Colonel answered.  “Everything is under control now.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.  “What happened?”

“The kidnappers send out a team to intercept us on the way to the airstrip.  It wasn’t a stretch to imagine they would know what we were planning because they’d know we would not be retracing out steps to Uganda.  Got them before they got a shot off.  I suspect there are Government troops at the airstrip, it’s too important to let anything happen to rich foreigners coming to see their wildlife reserve.  There are several troop carriers, and we’ve seen a few men on the outskirts patrolling.  There’s several at the gate if you could call it that.”

“Is there a plane there?”

“As it happens there is.  A grand old DC3.  It’s not a charter plane, so I’m guessing it belongs to an overentitled American big game hunter or the photographic variety.  At least I’m hoping that’s the case.”

“What do you recommend?”

“Not to storm the field.  You’re going to have to find another means of getting here, preferably without any fanfare.”

My first choice was to go in and get out, with as little firefight as possible, particularly in case they started shooting at the plane.  If I was reading between the lines properly, the Colonel was telling me there were more troops there than we could handle quickly and quietly.

“Very good.  Can you get sight on just how many troops are there, and if you can see who’s in charge?”

“Will try.”

Monroe had been standing next to me during the exchange.

“Three in place, two more on the perimeter, if we can cover as many as possible, you might be able to take the rest from the inside.”

Secreting the weapons again, maybe.  It was a possibility, but going in with hidden weapons, and then found by the guards at the gate, who would be more efficient and careful searchers than the kidnappers, it would create hostility and itchy trigger fingers.

“No.  We have to find some way of letting them feel as though they have complete control of the situation.  They know we’re coming; the commander would have told them.”  The only reason why he was still the cat who ate the canary.  He might even have told them he had some men waiting as the first line of defense.

The airstrip commander would then know we were armed and relatively dangerous.

It was time for yet another dangerous gambit.

I picked up the radio.  “Colonel?”

A second later, “Sergeant?”

“Whatever happens in the next twenty minutes or so, just ignore it.  It’s not much of a plan, but it will get us onto the field.”

“And then?”

“Hopefully some divine intervention.”

Monroe looked skeptical.  “You’re going to just drive up to the gate and surrender?”

“Not exactly.  It won’t be fait accompli until we reach the terminal, or hanger, or whatever the commander has set up as headquarters.  They’ll have most of our weapons, yes.  But they won’t have all of us.”

“No.  But they’ll know we have a sniper, so one of you are going to have to allow yourself to be captured, just to ease their minds.”

“Leaving one of us and Mobley and the Ugandans.  Can we trust them?”

“I hope so, otherwise this could go badly.  But, today, I’m an optimist.  We’ve got this far.”

Trying to show more confidence in the plan that I had.  It was always a worry when you had to trust people you didn’t know.  That had been the problem the last time.  At least this time we had managed to get the hostages.  It was always going to be a problem getting them out.

Monroe gave me one of her special, you’re a fool, looks.  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”  She then nodded in Shurl’s direction and they disappeared into the bush again.

I gestured to Davies to come over.

“Did you find out what sort of plane it is?”

“Hopefully.  The Colonel tells men there’s a DC3 off the airstrip.  I assume you can fly one.”

She smiled, the first time since this operation had started.  “Sure can.  I spent three summers putting one back together.  My dad has a sort of airplane museum.  A DC3, a DC4, and a Lancaster, a very sorry looking Lancaster at that.  Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Then try to not get shot.”

“Do my very best not to.”

Once again, it was time to go.  Going into the unknown was getting to be the norm, but hopefully, this would be the last time.  I didn’t consider it wise to advise the hostages, they had their own problems to worry about.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

It’s late, I’m tired…

But…

There’s more to this story.

Or that’s what I keep telling myself, struggling to stay awake and write the next sentence then the next sentence, and the one after that.

Long after I should have gone to bed.

Does that sound like your life?

Of course, it doesn’t.  The rest of the world is sane, goes to work, come home, have dinner, watch a little television or play with the children, or maybe not, then go to bed.

None of this writing business, trying to finish the page, the scene, the chapter while the ideas are fresh in your mind.

Only your mind isn’t fresh, it’s been a long day, an argument with the significant other, a bigger argument with the cat, there’s the washing, the cooking, the cleaning…

When do I get five minutes for myself?

At the dead of night when everyone else has gone to bed, getting their eight hours sleep.

In the dark with only the screen to light the keyboard, I’m trying to find the way around the keyboard and turn out what has to be the next international best selling thriller.

The dog next door barks, it means the cat got out and is terrorizing it.

A door slams, it’s old Joe getting home late from the pub, probably drunk again.

Yep, right on target, the vitriol of a bitter woman, and I have to say, I don’t blame her.

Then I hear it, that voice from the deep, “Poppy.”

The youngest of the grandchildren, the very devil to get to sleep.

Writing for the night is over, time to read other people’s stories.

Friday the Twelfth nearly turned into Friday the Thirteenth

I should have known it was near enough to be that mystical day where everything is usually turned on its head.

It started with a plague of self-doubt.  I’m writing a story that’s set in the dying days of world war two, in Italy, where I was not quite sure of what was happening there at the time.  A little reading to check some facts showed my thinking had been all wrong.

Trust me to just write a story without due regard to actual events.

And, this is what set me thinking the worst, and then heading to the encyclopedias to do some research.  I mean, we all have a modicum of general knowledge about the war, the role Germany played, and that of Italy to a certain extent.

I had read the Allies had mounted a fightback in the southern part of Italy in 1943, but hadn’t realised it only covered the bottom half of the country, and that the northern half had remained in Italian hands under Mussolini, with the help of the Germans until that collapsed and the Germans took over.

For my story to work, the allies had to be in control of the location of a particular castle, and be in a position to process fleeing scientists and useful ex Germans expatriation to Britain.

Having finally got hold of the facts, it seemed my story wouldn’t fit.  Not in the southern half of the country.  I just had to move it north, and now, with refugees coming over the mountains via Switzerland and the Dolomites, it will work.

What does it all mean?

You should do your homework first.  Lesson learned, now it’s back to research for a while if only to get the setting right.