Somewhere over.....

Occasionally, the dreadful weather
delights with a reminder that nature
can still be beautiful and spectacular.

This is February in the Limousin
region of France...and it's a double!

Cover for Latest Novel

The Cover says it all......

Coming soon:

The latest novel from James R. Vance, 'Something Old, Something New'.

Something Old, Something New

EXTRACTS from the NOVEL

'He said he gave the order to open fire in one of the barns. He went into detail about the whole affair, describing how wretched he felt but as an SS officer, he could not question or refuse to carry out an order. I sensed he needed to offload the remorse that was consuming his inner soul. He leaned back against one of the cabin walls, and looked skywards as if seeking redemption; he was in tears.'


'They were all responsible…even those who did not fire the weapons. Every one of those soldiers in the Das Reich Division was guilty by association. Many of those who fired the bullets were conscripts from Alsace'


'I think his resolve to revisit the area where the soldiers of the Das Reich Division committed their dreadful atrocities became his way of confronting his demons. I really cannot imagine his state of mind, and of course, we will never know. When he cried in my arms that night in the garden, he repeatedly stated that they were SS soldiers following orders. None of this excuses what took place, nor will we ever understand what drove these maniacs to act in that way in the name of Hitler’s Third Reich.'

jamesvanceauthor.wix.com/awesomefiction#!home/mainPage





 

Something Old, Something New

Interesting articles and video, coinciding with the theme of my new novel (out soon), 'Something Old, Something New':
http://www.lepopulaire.fr/limousin/actualite/2014/01/20/oradour-l-ex-waffen-ss-torture-par-le-massacre-se-dit-pret-a-etre-juge_1841643.html 
If you don't understand French, the 80 year old German admits he was at Oradour-sur-Glane as a teenage soldier of the Waffen SS Das Reich. He reckons he heard the explosion in the church & the cries of the women & children but he was positioned on the edge of the town. The soldiers had to obey orders to shoot from their mad superiors.

Robert Hébras, one of the survivors who lost his mother
& sisters in the atrocity, says that no witnesses ever admit
to firing the guns but how did 642 people die?
The memory may have haunted the SS soldier's soul
 but what about those who were massacred?
The question about who did what at Oradour remains.

He has a point.
 
                       http://jamesvanceauthor.wix.com/awesomefiction#!home/mainPage

Something Old, Something New

Extract from the novel: Despite her protests, armed guards forced her downstairs before driving her to the Maison d’Arrêt, a formidable looking prison in the district of St. Michel. They led her to a cell where she remained for the rest of the day and night, locked up with nothing to eat or drink and no contact with the outside world. The following morning, they dragged her from the cell before returning her to the Préfecture where the interrogation continued with the young officer. Following every truthful response, a second interrogator beat her. She was vaguely aware of daylight when they transported her battered and bleeding to a transit camp on the outskirts of the town. Armed guards patrolled the facility, which contained a number of wooden huts surrounded by three metres high barbed wire fencing. Overcrowded with few facilities, Marie believed that she had arrived in hell. With tears streaming down her bruised face, she crouched by one of the huts. Everywhere she looked, wretched people with vacant expressions on their faces wandered aimlessly, searching for answers to the dreaded thoughts that permeated their minds. They must have been ordinary people like me, she thought. Will I become like these poor souls? Rumours in the town had spread about such places; the reality shocked her. The stench of sweat and urine hung in the air like a portent of decay and ultimately death. Even with no information, she quickly realised that she was destined for transportation, a fate that had befallen many others victims since the Nazis moved into the unoccupied zone in 1942. My arrest happened so quickly, no one will know what became of me, she thought. How could anyone possibly find me here? She prayed—this time for a miracle.

Something Old, Something New

Draft Video of latest novel: http://www.youtube.com/v/bLNjjHJup7E?version=3&autohide=1&showinfo=1&feature=share&autohide=1&attribution_tag=NyydMjv9zqYO7wLFOHqllg&autoplay=1

Eastenders Plunges the BBC into the Depths of Banality

Who has replaced Eastenders with the pathetic production that tarnishes our television screens? I used to be a fan. Now, I find it embarrassing to watch a programme that has reached new depths of TV mediocrity. The once popular soap has become a hybrid of third-rate fantasy and badly performed farce (pronounced in this case as ‘eff-in-arse).

To spare its blushes, BBC should condense the weekly episodes into a fifteen minute ‘how not to produce drama’ slot on any Saturday morning children’s ‘knockabout/slapstick’ show.

Thank goodness, ‘The Clangers’ are making a comeback.

Apart from amateurish scripts—who writes this drivel?—and wooden acting from brainwashed actors, the plots bear as much relevance to reality as the existence of human life on Uranus. The episodes have become so predictable, the characterisations so inconsistent, the situations so unreal that Den Watts and Arthur Fowler would be welcome resurrections to save the soap from its current death-bed.

To uphold its reputation, the BBC must dismiss the producers, hire a complete new cast and engage writers who live in the real world. The current players—their careers must be in freefall to appear in such trash— could find useful commission-based employment as washing machine salespersons in some place called Albert Square. It is easily recognisable by its 24/7 market and residents who spend most of their waking hours either in the bizarrely-run public house—is there no longer a licensed trade advisor to the programme?—or the ‘caff’ that guarantees you will always meet people you do not wish to meet.

If I lived in the east end of London, I would be upset and angry at the BBC’s distorted portrayal of the vibrant community that has developed there.