MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

A Life in Secrets

A Life in Secrets…The story of Vera Atkins and the Lost Agents of SOE by Sarah Helm

(An account of the role of Special Operations Executive agents during the Second World War).

  

The book, A Life in Secrets, reveals the utter disregard for human lives through British incompetence and German savagery. On one hand, it highlights the naïve stupidity, the stubborn prejudices and inherent righteousness of the Allies, whilst condemning the evil brutality, the blind faith and the rigid obedience of the German war machine.

Failures and malpractice on both sides led to the unnecessary torture and deaths of individuals who had been led like ‘lambs to the slaughter’ for the sake of the ideological ambitions of those in power.

The book is a gripping exposé of the worst traits of the human race.

A Life in Secrets  http://www.amazon.com/Life-Secrets-Atkins-Missing-Agents/dp/1400031400/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1324655329&sr=1-1

Les Ruines by James R. Vance: A Preview

In memory of those who fought and died for freedom 

Prologue

Gilbert Pinson and his wife lived in a hamlet close to Magnac Laval in southwest France; he was ninety years old and still very active. His wife was thirteen years younger, but suffered from Parkinson’s disease.

In 2005, an Englishman with a limited knowledge of the French language purchased a nearby property to renovate as a holiday home. Early one evening that summer, covered in plasterboard dust and almost knee-deep in wood shavings, he answered a knock at his door. He opened it to find the stooped figure of Gilbert before him. The diminutive Frenchman with his shock of silvery hair and wrinkled features looked like one of Tolkien’s hobbits. The old man must have been similarly surprised to behold a tall, skinny apparition enveloped by white dust reminiscent of the ghost of Christmas past.

Gilbert introduced himself in softly spoken French and asked his new neighbour if he knew anything about the battle of Cambrai during the First World War. Eventually, the Englishman gathered from Gilbert’s explanation that there was little information in French history books because that particular conflict involved only British and German troops. A tormented existence had left Gilbert with many bitter recollections of traumatic events but few cherished memories of that period. A void remained that he sought to resolve before the final days of his eventful life. Unanswered questions plagued him from the blur of upheaval and turmoil that had clouded his early years. Learning of the Englishman’s arrival, he saw his neighbour as a possible resource to generate a true insight into his lost childhood.  

In one of the unopened cartons of books that he had brought over with him, the Englishman had several volumes of The History of the Great War produced by The Waverley Book Company in London. He offered to help and promised to call on him the following day. Unfortunately, some volumes were missing and he was unable to find any reference to the battle at Cambrai. After trawling through various Web sites on the internet, he found an abundance of useful information including an interesting account by Arthur Conan Doyle. Using an on-line translation service, he copied the material and printed off the articles for his neighbour.

The following day, Gilbert welcomed the now presentable Englishman into his house. He introduced him to his wife who acknowledged the visitor with the hint of a smile and a gentle nod of the head but little else. She remained silent throughout the visit. The two men sat at a rectangular wooden table in a large kitchen-living room, where the Englishman tried not to pay too much attention to the obvious distress caused by the old woman’s tremors. She sat in an armchair by the fireplace; her hands, lined with protruding veins, shook constantly. Thanking him for his efforts in acquiring the information, Gilbert offered his new neighbour a glass of wine.

Despite the language barrier, Gilbert began to explain the reasons for his strange enquiry. At the outbreak of the Great War, his father Monsieur André Pinson and his family farmed land near Cambrai between Bourlon and Graincourt. To escape the heavy fighting as the conflict raged closer, they had to evacuate to a safer area. Eventually in the spring of 1919, the Pinsons returned with their two young sons to find their farmhouse partially demolished and the land laid waste by the ferocious engagement of the opposing armies. The constant pounding of shells had reduced scores of towns and villages to rubble and dust. Streets were barely discernible amongst the blackened ruins of part-demolished buildings, shattered walls and charred timbers. During the next two years, the boys worked alongside their parents to renovate the farm buildings and to regenerate the shell-deformed landscape.

Gilbert, the younger of the two boys was born in 1915. He was not old enough to understand, but dutifully shadowed his elder brother, Antoine, in their thankless task. They unearthed numerous vestiges of the conflict: live ammunition including grenades, weapons, corpses, detached body parts and fragments of exploded army vehicles. The horrific experience was a portent of what awaited the brothers during the Second World War when Gilbert would become a prisoner of war and his brother would die during fierce fighting in nearby Arras. Piecing together fragments that he could understand, the Englishman listened patiently to the old man’s life history. Gilbert was using this unique opportunity to narrate and simultaneously put into context an account of events that had surrounded his long-forgotten childhood. At last, he could learn a little more about his roots and the experiences that had influenced the development of his early years.

Stoical in his attitude towards most issues, Gilbert had learned to tolerate the pain and suffering that he had overcome during his lifetime. He now believed that the trauma of his childhood had set the seal on his future. He was beginning to understand how he had acquired the capability of enduring constant hardship. Though never physically strong, mentally he had coped with every obstacle and disappointment that had invaded his personal space: the gruesome horrors of two world wars, his miserable time as a prisoner, the forced labour, his post-war refugee status and a marriage that, despite its longevity, had offered little respite from a depressing existence. Though beset by almost a century of deprivation, he had survived and remained of sound mind. This inner strength had allowed him to stay loyal to his sick wife in her hour of need. The detailed background to his childhood provided by his guest had clarified his raison d’être.

He thanked his visitor who also had gained some satisfaction from his ability to surmount the language difficulties by responding to his neighbour’s request with the translation of a useful document. Effusing entente cordiale from his first neighbourhood contact, the Englishman left the house, unaware that Gilbert’s wife had a far more interesting story to tell. Six years would pass before her remarkable tale would unfold, causing ripples that would surge far beyond the local community. 

Part One

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité

“It must have been a long time ago because so many others have arrived since that moment. I was suffering; the pain was excruciating. I remember someone else being there. It could have been the man or even that dreadful girl. Suddenly, the unbearable agony ceased. I came here and became reunited with my friends.”

“What about your colleague? Did he arrive here at that time?”

“Ah, the strange one who never uttered a single word. I think that he must have moved on at the same time, but in a different direction. I doubt that he would have fit in here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It was his whole demeanour. Though he seemed incapable of any form of communication, it was obvious to me that he was a good man. Everyone here is evil.”

Chapter 1: 1944

Her father, René, had died during the early hours following the night of the incident on the railway track. Young Marcel was normally an odd-job man for the commune and occasionally a farm labourer; today he had adopted the role of gravedigger. Despite his feelings of guilt, the internment was yet another unnecessary result of mortality amongst many recent victims. Death was a frequent visitor at that time. To some degree, it had become the norm. He stood in the background, leaning casually in the shelter of the cemetery’s perimeter wall. With his grubby fingers, he rolled some tobacco in a cigarette paper and licked the edges. Lighting the thin roll-up, he looked across at the handful of mourners. He took a draw, exhaled the smoke and licked his lips. He was more interested in the teenage girl than the sombre ritual.

Fine drizzle from leaden skies prompted a desperate desire amongst those present for the ceremony to finish quickly. Unusually for mid-June, a cutting wind from the northwest swept over the proceedings, stinging the faces of mourners who stood in silence as they witnessed the coffin descend to its final resting place. At the head of the excavated grave, a woman draped in black stood with the teenage girl, also in black.

The girl’s mother reached out a hand to her distressed daughter. She nodded briefly to the few that had attended, silently expressing her gratitude for their presence. With her head held high, she led the girl through the south gate of the graveyard. They walked in silence before reaching the horse and trap that they had tethered by the cemetery wall. Minutes later, they trundled homewards down the lane where they could melt into the peace and solitude of their distant farmhouse. Whilst it was still in view, the girl would turn and look back towards the cemetery, sadness on her tear-stained face. As they approached open countryside, she lowered her head against the damp gusts, wrapping a woollen shawl across her pale features like a nomadic Bedouin in a sandstorm.

After stabling the horse, her mother returned to the house. The hollow ring of her steps on the tiled floor of the entrance hall was strangely more perceptible, echoing the new sensation of emptiness not only in the house, but also in her heart. The daughter took to her bed and sobbed herself to sleep.

A sheaf of chrysanthemums, blooms symbolic of the festival of the dead, had accompanied the coffin. Fallen and forgotten, a single stem lay on the kitchen floor. Before drawing up a chair, the deceased’s widow picked up the flower, placed it on the worn surface of a well-scrubbed table and, with misty eyes, stared at it. Her hopes and future aspirations, inspired by the news of the D-day landings, were scattering like the petals of the flower. It is not meant to be like this, she thought.

The morning after the funeral, the young girl rose early and quietly left the farmhouse. Nothing stirred; a heavy mist hung ominously in the silence of the hour. She glanced about her and hurried towards the barn. She knew what she must do. Her father had been a hero; his death would not be in vain. His revelations earlier that week still gnawed at her soul; the horrors that he had described were slowly consuming her religious beliefs.

After several minutes, she emerged from the barn, patiently looking about her as far as the poor visibility allowed. Before moving, she stood quite still, listening attentively for any sound that might spell danger. An impenetrable stillness enveloped the courtyard as though nothing existed beyond the farm. Beneath her heavy topcoat, she clasped a large cloth bundle close to her body. Swiftly and stealthily, she passed through a wooden gate alongside the barn before blurring into the damp, grey swirls as though swallowed by a vortex.

Although the dense blanket would eclipse her resolute act of vengeance, mists eventually clear to expose all that previously lay hidden. Like the corpse of her father, the consequences of the act that she was about to perform would lie buried, where they would fester undisturbed for almost seventy years.
                           

Life Is Too Short & Unpredictable

Though the manuscript of my latest novel, Les Ruines (see first chapter excerpt on my blog), is complete, I continue to research the events of the Second World War. As I browsed the anecdotal content of All Hell Let Loose, the latest book on WWII by historian, Max Hastings: http://www.amazon.com/All-Hell-Let-Loose-Hastings/dp/0007431201/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1322749219&sr=8-2 , my thoughts turned to the more recent and tangible images that swamped our television screens as we watched the horrors of 9/11 unfold.

It is impossible to attempt to comprehend how those who died must have felt when facing certain death. The only comfort is that they are now at peace. However, for their friends and relatives, the nightmare lives on. I wonder how many had a spat with a loved one that morning and now suffer not only the loss but also the regret.

Sometimes, life itself can be a punishment for our behaviour, whereas death can be an escape. Perhaps we should always celebrate our differences and move on.

France v Angleterre U19 Tournois à Limoges

I spent last night at the Beaublanc Stade in Limoges to watch the future talent of Engish football (and French, of course). The match was accorded all the trappings of a full France-England international and it did not disappoint. I was full of admiration at the high quality of football from both teams: skill, pace, technique and fair play. The match ended in a 2-2 draw, merited as there did not deserve to be a loser.
Will Keane fired in the first goal after some rapid movement in the box by Cole. France deservedly equalised just before the interval with an overhead kick by their number 9. England's second goal, a free-kick by Robinson that fizzed low through the French wall galvanised the French into pressing the England defense resulting in a 'soft' penalty decision for a diving header to clear a cross that brushed the defender's arm. Justice was served when their goalscorer ballooned over the bar. They finally gained their reward with a goal 5 minutes from time...another 'soft' decision for an innocuous push. I thought that Blackman in goal was too far off his line when the ball flew high over the England wall and the 'keeper into the net. However, a fair result in the end.
Amid all the finacial doom & gloom, this spectacle raised my hopes for English football...a great team performance worthy of the senior squad. Perhaps the media & especially those sports writers poised to write-off England's future should spend more time focussing on the brilliant talent in our future young sports stars instead of 'digging the dirt'.  

MEMORIAL de la RESISTANCE du NORD de la HAUTE VIENNE

Now on Wikimedia Commons: The memorial dedicated to the French Resistance as pictured in Les Ruines

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:MEMORIAL_de_la_RESISTANCE_du_NORD_de_la_HAUTE-VIENNE.jpg

Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay v Les Ruines by James R. Vance

I have just finished reading Sarah’s Key, a fascinating novel. Consequently, I have pre-ordered delivery of the DVD on its November release. I am intrigued by the similarities to my recently completed manuscript, Les Ruines.

Both are historical fiction novels set in France during WWII and have a central female character attempting to resolve a mystery from that period. Sarah’s Key examines the persecution of Jewish families by the French police. Les Ruines focuses on atrocities committed by the Germans against innocent French citizens. Throughout both novels, there is a continuous juxtaposition with the present day and the period of occupation 67 years previously. The ensuing results of the quest undertaken by the women in both novels leads to personal family links.

The parallels are quite bizarre. 

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004UPFYWK

http://www.tatianaderosnay.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=70&Itemid=68

Les Ruines by James R. Vance

Les Ruines paints a picture of life in southwest France during the dark years of the German occupation towards the end of the Second World War. Almost seventy years later, a young woman stumbles on a mystery from that period and embarks on a mission to seek the truth.

Her quest takes her on a journey of revelation about the chaotic weeks that led to the fragmented liberation of France. With her marriage falling apart, she invites a close friend to accompany her, leaving her husband at home. The two women begin to uncover an atmosphere of reticence  as they uncover evidence of gruesome secrets buried in the ruins of a former chateau.  

Her obsessive investigation brings her into contact with Marcel, a former member of the maquis. His reticence to discuss his own involvement leads her to delve deeper into the past. As she learns about the terrifying exploits of the Das Reich 2nd Panzer Division during its march from Montauban to Normandy, dark secrets begin to emerge.

On her return to England, her personal life continues to unravel causing her domestic situation to reach crisis point. As the mystery in France appears about to be resolved, tragedy strikes.         

Les Ruines

I have finally completed my latest manuscript, Les Ruines. Having spent several months redrafting, I have sent PDF copies to several acquaintances for their feedback and plot review. Already, I have made changes following some early comments. Even the front cover may differ, losing the image of the Nazi war machine and replacing it with a more subtle image relevant to the title.
The new proposed picture is the actual ruined chateau of La Perrière, as depicted in the novel. This new style of cover is quite different to my previous novels. The change is probably the correct decision as the genre of Les Ruines is historical fiction instead of mystery crime.  

Bayern Munich CEO condemns FIFA

http://www.linkedin.com/share?viewLink=&sid=s493054206&url=http%3A%2F%2Ft%2Eco%2FmEK2mlC&urlhash=0Ys7&uid=5501878588766429184&trk=EML_nus_share-F17

http://www.super8-movie.com/intl/fr/videowidget/videoWidget.html?v=video1

http://www.super8-movie.com/intl/fr/videowidget/videoWidget.html?v=video1

Having been fascinated by ET and Close Encounters some years ago, this looks interesting too.

Agricultural Changes

Where have all the sheep gone? For years, the surrounding fields have been the domain of sheep and cattle. Currently, apart from a small herd of light golden cows, set-aside appears to have overtaken the landscape behind my property with wheat and sunflowers dominating the view. Perhaps local farmers receive better EU subsidies for arable farming. Though pretty to look at, it's sad without the prospect of lambs each Spring.

C L semi-final

Celebrating in France

Champions League

Comment of the night from my daughter:

Drogba scores for Chelsea.
Immediately, commentator says, "Game on!"

Minutes later, Park scores for United.
Daughter quips, "Game off!"

…led by donkeys

Living in France, I watch the news on U.K. television channels with utter bewilderment. I gave up on the government (irrespective of their politics) long ago. They appear incapable of running the proverbial ‘p*** up in a brewery, let alone a once major western democracy.

Now I see that those other people in an all-powerful clandestine authority, the Football Association, are bringing charges against a footballer for swearing. Are they going to charge every footballer who swears at all the games each week? Is this some ingenious way of funding the cost of the new Wembley stadium? I find it bizarre that another footballer can bring his gun to the training ground, shoot and hospitalise someone with no action taken by the F.A.

Apparently, according to the grey suits of the F.A., it is acceptable to shoot someone but not to swear at them. Has British society finally lost the plot? 

When Imagination tempts Fate

I am in the course of drafting the manuscript of my current novel, Les Ruines (The Ruins), a modern day adventure linked to the activities of the Résistance in France during WWII. Earlier today, a report in a local newspaper of a most unusual tragedy grabbed my attention. It concerned the death of a man who had attempted to open an old safe with the metal cutting blade of an angle grinder to discover its contents. Because of its missing key, the safe had remained locked and unopened since the sixties in a local chateau. Disaster struck when it exploded; it had contained old ammunitions and explosives.

A snippet of the newspaper report:

Un habitant de Couzeix (Haute-Vienne) âgé de 50 ans a trouvé la mort, hier, en tentant d'ouvrir avec une disqueuse un coffre des années 60 qui contenait de la poudre et des vieilles munitions. Tout a explosé.

A few weeks ago, I decided to use the location of this very same chateau as a rendezvous and arms distribution centre for the maquis in this area during the occupation.

I attach three excerpts from my new novel, written over the past weeks. The location names are blanked, as I am sure that an investigation into the original causes leading to this tragic episode will take place.    

EXCERPT 1:

“Where are these meetings held,” Simone asked, showing keen interest in her father’s role in the maquis.

“Mostly at *********, the chateau near *******. Its location is ideal with unrestricted views across the valley towards *******. Lookouts can spot any unwelcome guests such as the milice or German patrols as they approach. It also affords several easy exits for rapid dispersal. Prior to the Normandy invasion, I often used the ruins at ******* for individual meetings. The underground passageways make ideal hideouts.”

EXCERPT 2:

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s possible. She was a few years younger than I was. The owner of ********* might know. His father was a close friend of Simone’s father. I know that René used to spend a lot of time at the chateau.”

EXCERPT 3:

They turned off the main road onto a gravel track that led down a winding slope to the chateau. The imposing residence stood on an elevated promontory above the river. The entrance to the main courtyard was beneath a stone archway connecting a perimeter wall to a smaller building that possibly started life as a lodge. The first spots of rain descended as they stepped from the vehicles.

Gary Moore

My favourite singer, Gary Moore died yesterday aged 58. Who can forget Parisienne Walkways LIVE?
What is it with 6th February and 58?    My favourite footballers died 6th February 1958...The Busby Babes of Manchester United when their plane crashed on take-off at Munich airport.    R.I.P.

The Ipcress File

I've just watched a DVD of the sixties 'classic spy' film that allegedly launched Michael Caine to stardom as the 'cool, laconic anti-hero Harry Palmer'. What a crap film for such a great actor.

Thought for Today

Life is just an existence of indeterminable shades.
One arrives with nothing; one departs with nothing.
The gap between is not about wealth or materialism.
One experiences merely the emotional ups and downs of life's roller-coaster.
Of all these emotions, the only one of value is LOVE.

James R. Vance   2011

Woe is Wogan

I recently read an article by Terry Wogan in the Telegraph, entitled “A Frenchman’s home is his castle”. He is entitled to make derisory remarks about the French…after all it is only his opinion. I find the man extremely smug and full of his own self-importance. Consequently, his generalisations of the French are typical of his insular attitude to other mere mortals.

Having lived for almost ten years amongst the “agricoles”, as he refers to the local hard-working farmers, I have learned to accept that their history, their culture and their pride is special and unique. If “Brits” choose to visit or live amongst them, we should accept that we are guests and, as such, we should respect their way of life.

To quote Mr. Wogan: “These agricoles, the very salt of the earth of France, across whose darkened thresholds you are unlikely ever to be asked…”. What is the point of such dramatic terminology? I live in rural Limousin, a region of rivers, lakes, forests and rolling hills…an area of natural beauty. I see no “darkened thresholds”…only picturesque hamlets of stone houses with red tiled roofs, wisteria, roses and grape vines adorning their entrances. “The Gascon guards his privacy and his land fiercely,” he declares. I despair at his narrow-mindedness. Is the Wogan family retreat open to all and sundry?    

Yes, the French are very private in the presence of strangers, but once accepted, you are welcomed into their lives. I have often heard “Brits” complaining about their attitude, but for the most part, they have only themselves to blame. So many arrive here with no language skills and expect the French to make the effort. Could you imagine that in the UK?      

I suggest that Mr. Wogan (I refuse to acknowledge an undeserved title) sticks to what he does best…promoting his ego. At least there are alternative channels when he blights our television screens and his newspaper articles are useful fodder for the wood-burner.  

                                                                                   James R. Vance       janvier 2011

TEN THINGS YOU DID NOT KNOW ABOUT JAMES R. VANCE

He…….

1. Sang as a chorister in Chester Cathedral
2. Drove three circuits around Silverstone F1 track
3. Took the eleven-plus examination aged ten and passed
4. Was a disc-jockey
5. Has been inside the KGB’s Lubyanka headquarters in Moscow
6. Played soccer for a team in Rapallo, Italy
7. Crashed a 36ft Sadler sailing yacht into the marina at Port Solent
8. Lives on a former dairy farm in France
9. Spent a day with Miss United Kingdom when she was George Best’s girlfriend
10. Played the role of ‘The Common Man’ in award-winning production of ‘Man for All Seasons’

BIRDS NO LONGER SING

My current work in progress, The Ruin, features the impact of a major atrocity during the occupation of France in WWII. Some years ago, I watched a series on television entitled “The World at War”. One particular episode stayed with me. The opening sequence was an aerial view of a village in France which had been destroyed on the 10^th June 1944 by the S.S. “Der Fuhrer” regiment, a part of the 2^nd Panzer division known as “Das Reich”. The town had been surrounded; the inhabitants and visitors (642 men, women and children) on that fateful day were rounded up and brutally massacred. The buildings and the corpses were then destroyed by fire.

After the war, General de Gaulle decreed that the ruined village should remain as a memorial to the victims of the atrocity and as a reminder to future generations. A new town was built nearby and inaugurated in 1953. More recently a visitor centre was established to welcome the thousands of visitors to the martyred village. I often wondered where the village was situated as I was a frequent visitor to France before I chose to live here permanently. I was intrigued to discover that Oradour-sur-Glane was a short distance from my new abode.

I have visited the site six times; each visit is a moving experience. On entering the ruined village a sign simply asks “Souviens-toi” (remember). As one treads the ghostly streets in silence, it is impossible not to comply. No birds fly in Oradour-sur-Glane. Always I find something new, something I have not witnessed previously, something to stir my emotions:

The tomb in the cemetery displaying photographs of several generations of the same family who all lost their lives in the massacre, a baby, young children, a mother, a father, an uncle and grandparents. The underground ‘crypt’ with its glass display cases filled with bric-a-brac and personal items of the victims…watches, spectacles, thimbles, children’s toys, ornaments, items of clothing, etc. The wall plaques listing the names of family members together with the nationalities of refugees and visitors who also died in the horror.

The houses strewn with rusted, twisted skeletons of bedsteads, sewing machines, bicycles and cars of the period. The burned out church where the women and children were machine-gunned and burned. The remains of a child’s pushchair lying before the bullet-ridden altar. The huge metal bell which crashed from the oculus of the tower, shattered and melted by the ferocity of the inferno. All images of the appalling tragedy which destroyed a complete community.

During my visits I have seen coach-loads of schoolchildren arriving to witness the horror of man’s barbaric moment of madness. I have seen coaches from other European countries, even from Germany (what must they think?). I have spoken to local French people about it. With typical Gallic stoicism they shrug their shoulders and declare, ‘C’est la guerre’. Oradour-sur-Glane has become a national shrine and reminds us of our inhumanity. Unfortunately, such atrocities continue in this world.

We must remember more often………….. “Souviens-toi”.