I was just watching the 1979 film of Alistair MacLean’s Bear Island.
It has been said that the quality of his work was uneven. You
could say that about any writer, if one compares the first thing they ever
wrote against the last thing they ever wrote, along with some of the really
great stuff when they were at their peak. Of course their work was variable,
and so is mine and so is yours.
Author John Creasy wrote something like six hundred books, and
there are a few in there, which I have read, where one wonders how it actually
got published in the first place. Truth was, he was grinding them out relentlessly,
at the dining room table, and trying to feed a family, when the going rate for
a novel might have been a measly twenty-five pounds.
(How in the hell do you even do that? - ed.)
There is a big difference between six hundred books and twenty or
thirty, that difference is the luxury of
time.
I wanted to talk about Alistair MacLean due to the number of films
that were adapted from his works.
Where Eagles Dare
consistently ranks among the top five war adventure films of all times, and
that’s pretty good company to be keeping for any writer. The Guns of Navarone is an acknowledged classic, one I have viewed
many times. Force 10 from Navarone,
another classic film.
Alistair at about twenty.
In terms of comparisons, River
of Death is quite terrible, at least in the film version. And I have read
the book, in fact I used to check for new titles at our local mall book shop,
way back in the days when we had time, money, and plenty of hair on the old
noggin…a leather jacket and a seventeen-hair mustache, if you really want to
know.
Fear is the Key, this
film has one of the best car chase scenes ever. What might have been described in the book is fully brought
to life in this one. MacLean loved sending things over cliffs, for example
vehicles in Where Eagles Dare and Guns of Navarone, as well as Bear Island. There are probably others,
and this is one reason why they’re called action-adventure stories. Oh, yeah. In Breakheart Pass, a train goes over a cliff.
He wasn't exactly messing around, when it came time for things to go off of cliffs.
H.M.S. Ulysses, his first
novel, was based on his wartime experience in the Royal Navy.
This accounts for some of the naval themes, arctic themes, for
example Night without End.There are
lots of ships in his novels, Golden
Rendezvous for example.
The list of actors that have appeared in the films is impressive.
Richard Burton, Clint Eastwood, Donald Sutherland, Vanessa Redgrave, Harrison
Ford, Robert Shaw, Rock Hudson, Charles Bronson, Christopher Lee, Patrick
McGoohan, Carl Weathers, Lloyd Bridges, Anthony Hopkins, Jack Hawkins, Robert
Morley, Edward Fox, Franco Nero, the list, ladies and gentlemen, goes on and on
and on. Barry Newman, Ben Kingsley, John Vernon. Richard Harris and Anne
Turkel, Burgess Meredith and David Janssen, John Carradine.
Robert Vaughn and Donald Pleasance and Michael Dudikoff in River of Death, just to name a few more.
And I know I’ve left a few out—I had to, there’s just too many films and too
many names.
Gregory Peck, David Niven, Richard Widmark, Ed Lauter, Ben
Johnson, Charles Durning, Richard Crenna. Gia Scala and Irene Papas. As I
said, this is a very long list.
Throw in a hundred more
character actors, whose faces you might recognize, and whose names may be
vaguely familiar, and you start to get the idea of just how successful Alistair
MacLean actually was. Patrick Wymark and Michael Hordern, in Where Eagles Dare, for example, these
actors each have very long lists of credits, starring and supporting roles, in
film and theatre. Barbara Bach and Michael Byrne in Force 10 from Navarone is (or are), just one more example, then
there were Mary Ure and Ingrid Pitt. Jill Ireland.
These are just a few of the ‘vapid
females’ (essentially, Bond Girls), in what are called stories ‘of good Englishmen and bad Germans’.
Which would appear to be an entire genre in itself, at least when a good writer
gets hold of it.
It’s different for everybody of course, but when I read these
books and saw the films for the first time, I was a young man, impressionable,
an inveterate reader above all else. I soaked it all up like a sponge.
These are the stories that make a young man’s fancy turn towards
writing a few stories of his own someday…
The books that kind of stick to your ribs, like soul food for the
adventurous home-boy.
When I fantasize about my own humble bookshelves, which I do from
time to time, (if only we had money!), this would be one box set I might be
willing to pay money for—just for the purposes of study, scholarship, and maybe
even stealing a few ideas here and there as a writer myself. Maybe even just
learning a little something at the knee of a master. Or maybe it’s just some
kind of an escape.
It always was, an escape.
There is nothing wrong with a little escapism, at the time we
probably needed it, and there are times when we still do.
In which case, we will always have someplace to go.
I have written a critique of Where
Eagles Dare, and you can read it at the link below. I describe it as ‘a series of plot
holes flying in close formation’, and yet I still enjoy the film, just as much
as I did the book, such a very long time ago.
MacLean figured out how to make it work for him, and perhaps that
is the real lesson here. I have no idea of who the reader is, I have no idea if
the lesson is relevant to you, although plenty of folks write, and plenty more
dream about it just as I did. I can only hope you enjoyed reading this story.
No, ladies and gentlemen, it turns out the lesson was for me.
Heidi, Major Smith, and Mary Ellison in Where Eagles Dare.
Louis Shalako
Alistair Maclean’sWhere Eagles Dare is one of the most
popular war films of all time. I bought the book at about the age of eighteen.
I liked Alistair Maclean so much, that I bought every book of his that I could
find. Over the course of time I owned, and have read many of them, (some of them, many, many times), but by no means all of them.
Every so often, I search the internet looking for
crummy old movies, which I like very much. I watch this film several times a
year, as well as Ice Station Zebra,The Guns of Navarone, Force 10 from
Navarone, When Eight Bells Toll, Bear Island, Puppet on a Chain and of
course Breakheart Pass. There are
some I simply can’t find. One or two, I can find
them but the thing is unwatchable, either due to poor reproduction or poor
sound.
Some of these old films were taken off a television
screen with a camcorder, dubbed more than once, and it really shows sometimes.
Also, volume is often an issue, if you’re going to upload videos to the
internet, for crying out loud, turn up the fucking volume already…we can turn
it down ourselves if we have to.
River of Death
is just plain bad, Donald Pleasance, Michael Dudikoff and Robert Vaughn,
Herbert Lom and L.Q. Jones are unable to save it by mere presence alone. One
pretty girl cannot save a bad film, ladies and gentlemen. (Full
cast.)
***
As entertaining as the film is, Where Eagles
Dare is riddled with plot holes and just plain inconsistencies.
Hopefully the reader understands that as a student of
writing, one can learn a lot by attention to detail—a good lesson for any writer
or director, then there is a bit of logical analysis, and then there is good
old fact-checking.
For example, in the opening scene, a Junkers JU-52 aircraft
simply does not have the range to fly from the U.K. to southern Germany, and
return. The range is quoted at 620 miles, top speed of 165 mph. Cruising speed
would be less. The town of
Werfen is a real town, it’s in Austria, part of Germany after the
Anschluss, not far from the Bavarian border. At its maximum speed, even if
it had the range, you would be flying in enemy airspace for hours and hours at
a time. You would have to do it twice in what looks like about twenty-four
hours, for they parachute and land in darkness, hang out all day, leave in the night and take
off in at least some daylight…
The action takes place before D-Day, in fact the fake
General Carnaby was supposedly flying to Crete to consult with his Russian
counterparts prior to the invasion, where some sort of coordination, or maybe
just notification, would be in order.
Only problem there, is that Crete was not liberated
until 1945—a simple statement of fact, which can be checked.
Also, assuming you just stole a JU-52 off a nearby airbase, every fighter and anti-aircraft
battery in Western Europe would be looking for that plane, which would be
lumbering along at 130-mph or whatever. Your best bet would be to head for
Switzerland, and if the plane was simply stolen, there would be no way for
Colonel Turner to be there in the final, climactic scene. And why send the
Colonel along in the first place? It would be so much wiser just to arrest him
while he’s still in England, still at headquarters, where armed people abound,
hell, they might even have a cell to put him in. This is the significance of the scene where the Admiral asks, 'do you have it?' as Colonel Turner and the others have been under suspicion for some time. One wonders why they didn't just arrest him and sweat him a little, but then there would be no film...right? At this point, the other enemy agents are expendable and nothing but a hindrance to any escape plan...
Google. 2,292.9 miles.
It gets better. The fake general was aboard a de Havilland
Mosquito, which might have had the range for a one-way trip to Crete in the
long-range reconnaissance version which was developed for the Pacific Campaign,
and they did range all over Europe. The bomber version has a quoted range of
1,300 miles. Launched from Suffolk, the distance to Crete is over 2,200 miles.
Riddled with English bullet holes, as Major Smith (Richard Burton) says, it
crash landed, conveniently enough, ten miles away at a German military
airfield. No mention is ever made of what happened to the British pilot of that
aircraft, one supposes the prisoners were kept separated in what is standard
operating procedure.
Standard operating procedure is virtually ignored all
through this film.
Okay, upon arrival by parachute, which would have made
more sense if it had been from a Stirling bomber, or the
Halifax, both
of which were used by airborne forces, Sergeant Harrod is found dead. Assuming
all of the others were wearing the same, standard issue boots, even so, it
would have been possible to simply follow the tracks, for surely Harrod himself
didn’t make too many. Seven people come down scattered. To rendezvous with the
gear, seven (or six, to be accurate) sets of tracks converge on a point.
Searching for the missing Harrod, six sets of tracks go out from that point in
some kind of search pattern. Bearing this in mind, watching the film, we can
see any number of tracks, one of the challenges of filming on location in
wintertime. Yet Smith makes no attempt to follow any tracks. Yet he knows that Harrod has been murdered, taking into account all the bullshit about marks on the neck and stuff. Presumably the mission comes first. Presumably, they already have their suspicions of at least some of this crew already...in the film, the next to go is Jock, which tends to indicate his innocence.
Ingrid Pitt as Heidi.
As for Lieutenant Schaffer, (Clint Eastwood in one of many iconic roles), we know he's innocent, as Smith points out he's an American, and brought in for just this purpose...he's untainted by Britishness or something. Right.
Bloody well right...
(Louis is getting ahead of the plot here. - ed.)
The party proceeds to a small farmhouse in a high
alpine meadow, seasonal accommodation fairly common in that part of the world.
And he says, that while grabbing the radio, he has forgotten the codebooks. He
has to go back, theoretically, for he actually did take them, this after sending the party back for the equipment. He goes out to
the barn, where he meets the Mary Ellison character, after ordering the others
not to leave the building. Yet it seems odd that not one of them ever needs to
go the outhouse, for there is no likelihood of indoor plumbing in such a
dwelling…
What is interesting is that never, at any time in the film,
do they use code. They use call-signs, broadcasting in the clear, “Broadsword
calling Danny Boy,” and all that sort of a thing.
Codes are codes. There is such a thing as a spoken
code, or word-substitution text codes, but code books were basically a series
of numbers, meant to be sent by something akin to Morse code—a series of dots
and dashes sent by clicking a momentary switch.
***
We’ll skip over the clear, physical impossibility of
leaping off the top of a cable-car and then half-running up a snow-covered
roof. It’s a dramatic scene, full of suspense and dread, and yet there is just
no way you could do it. Why would you, when you could just get some forged
documents and ride up inside the cable-car, just like everybody else.
The whole premise of the film is bogus. A lie can be
just as revealing as the truth, and this guy is supposed to allow himself to be
tortured, according to Smith, into revealing false plans for the Second Front.
I also find it difficult to believe that anyone, including a second-rate actor,
would volunteer or allow themselves to be inveigled into undertaking such a
mission. No one has that much faith, no one—as operations go, this one is awful
hairy. Think about it: you are under torture. You have fake plans for D-Day. You most emphatically do not have the real plans for D-Day. How far would you push your luck? Right about the point where they're going to slice your pecker off, that's where.
It is true that a successful disinformation
campaign was carried out prior to D-Day, much of it involving fake radio
traffic, which emanated from the U.K.
Prior to the invasion of Sicily, (see The Man Who Never
Was), there was an operation to convince the enemy, Germany and Italy, that
the next invasion would be of the Balkans—rather than Sicily.
***
Der Schloss Adler. I bet there's a road, ladies and gentlemen.
Radio
rooms. Once inside the castle, Smith and Schaffer take a
look, Smith says they must disable the helicopter…Schaffer kills the guy in the
Funkraum, (German for radio room), while Smith goes out and finds the
helicopter pilot. There is literally a sign on the wall, this is for the audience to know its a radio room. He tells him there is a phone call, directing him to the
Funkraum (radio room in German), just around the corner, where Schaffer stabs
him. All very well, but the equipment in no way resembles a telephone
switchboard. There would be an internal switchboard, connected within the
castle. Outside lines would go through a switchboard down the mountain in the
village.
I may tend to jump around in this analysis, if one has
seen the film, you should be able to keep up, if you’ve never seen the film,
then reading this post is essentially useless. There is a lot to cover, and I
may not be able to hit every little thing.
Road
work. The car accident. One wonders why three prisoners
were taken to the castle via the cable car, whereas Smith and Schaffer were
taken by car, which leads to the car accident scene. One wonders why their
hands were not bound, when Schaffer moves to ‘tie up his shoelaces’, for
example. One wonders what kind of road work, in the middle of winter, involves
a piddly little cement mixer, or a few boards leaning up against the cliff, or
various little racks that just stand there. There are two piles of gravel and
some road barricades…after going out of control, the car goes up and over the
first gravel pile and then crashes into the next one. Yet somehow, they manage
to push the car back far enough, turn the wheel and then send it over the
cliff. Now they walk back to town. All of this leads up to the question of
where exactly does that road go…??? Presumably the castle. This just brings us back to question of why use the cable car at all. With good forged documents,
the odds are, senior officers would have been admitted at the gate, even if
they were unexpected. Truth is, they would have been brought in and then
checked out very thoroughly. If the road does not go to the castle, just where
in the hell were they going. A contradiction, if you will.
Himmler’s
brother. When the six survivors arrive in town, stash their
packs and enter zum Wilden Hirsh, (German for wild stag or wild hart), Smith informs another German officer that he
is Himmler’s brother. This is about as stupid as it gets, ladies and gentlemen.
A public figure in his own right, he might have been recognizable to anyone
that read a newspaper, especially considering his older brother, but also as
well as his employment at Berlin Radio.
Anti-aircraft
gun in courtyard. This is more a matter of detail. With
thirty or forty-foot curtain walls, the field of fire is severely restricted,
and this weapon really should have been put up on the walls, or even outside
the building, on a nearby hilltop, overlooking the valuable target it is meant
to protect.
S.S.
versus Gestapo. I became curious, as I often do. The
Gestapo did indeed have a full-dress military style uniform. The average
Gestapo in the civilian street
really did wear the long, brown leather coats and various civilian attire. The
psychology of a Gestapo officer wearing a uniform while surrounded by other
military types is pretty obvious, it was meant to show rank, status, and
perhaps to be taken seriously when surrounded by senior German officers. As far
as that goes, there might not be too much love lost between S.S. and Gestapo,
service rivalries being what they are in any army past and present.
***
The
so-called proof. This is where the second radio room comes in...once we get to the scene in the great
hall, where the assembled guests are comfortably seated around the table, with
General Carnaby, soon to be revealed as Corporal Cartright-Jones, once we get
past the fact that his hands are not bound, a clear violation of standard
procedures, there is the question of so-called proof. This is when Major Smith
suggests that the Germans have ‘one of the most powerful radio-telephones in
Europe’ and that they contact Wilhelm Wilner in Italy to confirm his identity.
One, the operator in the first Funkraum is dead, along with the helicopter
pilot. Two, no one has discovered the bodies, and if this is indeed the
telephone room, one wonders why no internal phone traffic, in what is purported
to be the headquarters of the S.S. or Gestapo in southern Bavaria. How come no
off-duty troopers use their privilege, pay the tolls and make a quick call home
to the wife and family. But now, we see the need for a second radio room. That
guy hasn’t been killed yet, right? And they obviously can't use the phone in the regular fashion. They're using the 'radio telephone', a real thing which actually did exist in WW II, referred to by British types as the r/t in many a book and film. Would it be possible to patch a phone line into the inputs of a radio set? Presumably, yes. The castle is described as the headquarters of the German Secret Service in Bavaria, yet seems to be populated with uniformed officers of the S.S. and Gestapo, and down below is a training camp for what are likely mountain troops...details, details.
#details
As far as the actual proof, it is of course ludicrous
and no self-respecting senior officer would ever take it at face value. The
very fact that two unknown officers come tramping down the stairs and into the
room, unannounced, would have been something of a dead giveaway. Also, telling
the enemy anything is bad practice. Yet the Germans bring in three spies to
impress Carnaby, and Smith admits he’s been feeding bad info to Willi Wilner in
Italy.
The poster.
There may be more, (maybe even plenty more), but you get the flavour of it. I
have fantasized on occasion, of trying to find every Alistair Maclean book,
perhaps in the thrift stores or buying them on Amazon. River of Death might be better enjoyed as a book than as a bad
film, for example. I would love to read some of them again, that is for sure,
ladies and gentlemen.
Films of this era have good colour, there are no
computer generated images. Sets, vehicles, weapons are period, the locations
are good, the acting is good, the budget was adequate. The pyrotechnics are good. It’s got a lot going for
it, don’t get me wrong. Some guys like the Heidi character, for a couple of
pretty obvious reasons. I like the Mary Ure character, but then I’ve always
admired a girl that can shoot—that one’s more than just a pretty face.
Fighting on top of a cable-car is just plain nuts, yet
the scene is reprised in Moonraker, with
Bond and Jaws, and of course Doctor Goodhead—a real bad name, but Ian Fleming was famous for
that sort of thing.
The film is fun, full of eye-candy for the war movie buff. In so many respects, it is a very good film and probably one of the best, for war movies fall down so very, very often...that, is a story for another day.
Other than that, you can learn much from almost any
film, good or bad, if you have a jaundiced eye and a penchant for writing. One
of the reasons I wanted to write in the first place, and this is not a thing to
say lightly: because so much of film and television was just bad, ladies and
gentlemen. That was true back then, and I reckon it’s still true today.
Notes. What was the German Secret Service. The answer is complicated. Heydrich and Himmler had their own ideas and their own empires to build, but the Abwehr existed until the assassination attempt of July 20, 1944, after which Hitler did away with the Abwehr, and Admiral Canaris and Colonel Oster ended up in concentration camps, ultimately murdered in the most cruel and obscene ways.
Brat-a-tat-barattata-tatt—the
siren song of battle.
Hot fumes
stung my nostrils, as an enemy machine hurtled below, belching white vapor. The
gas tank was all shot to hell, and he was going the same way.
You can
almost hear, but it is probably the imagination, which supplies the whoof, as she goes up in a big orange
and black fireball.
Some poor
bastard was screaming his life out in there.
“Cut to the
bone, cut through the wire.” For some reason I would talk to myself.
“Swing away,
little girl, swing away.” And yet another one blasted past, with a pair of
Camels hot on his tail.
My fingers
had that characteristic sting to them, but not frostbite. Not yet.
Twisting,
turning, rolling, diving and climbing, and all the while it was dog eat dog.
When a
target presents itself, blaze away at it. Sometimes, he’s gone as quickly as he
appeared, and you’re unlikely to hit him.
They just go
whizzing past. Other times, you get in close behind, where the bullets are
traveling along his flight-path, and they converge in the middle.
The stench
as they catch fire, and crumple up in a ball, and begin the long fall to earth.
Terminal
velocity depends on shape, which causes drag, and mass, which determines the
pull of gravity. Terminal velocity might be a hundred miles per hour in a
burning plane, with failed engine, all twisted out of shape. It could be two
hundred miles an hour.
I don’t care
to find out.
From 20,000
feet, to fall in flames could last an eternity.
Twenty
thousand feet, that’s almost four miles up in the air.
One hundred
miles an hour is one and a half miles per minute. You could fall in flames for
up to three minutes. Even longer in a spin or a fluttering, falling-leaf type
of state. That’s why guys jumped out. That’s why the German fliegers were beginning to use
parachutes. We were seeing more of them lately.
Basically I
told the men to ignore parachutes. Don’t shoot at them, just rally up with some
pals and take it from there. Don’t sit around watching the novelty of it.
Down to
one-quarter tank. Check the altitude. Two guys, then three, and they did rally.
We broke off pursuit and headed for home. It would appear that we have again
splashed a few bad guys. We’d find out soon enough. By all appearances we’ve
severely mauled a couple of German ‘hunting-squadrons.’
The deep
robin’s-egg blue of the sky was punctuated by fairy fart clouds. Little white
puffs artlessly cast aside by some goddess, seated at the Olympian vanity
mirror. Used cosmetic swipes, tinted by the setting sun.
Leaves
floating on the surface of the brook, and like a good minnow should, we used
them for cover, watching for predators above and behind them as well.
It was
surreal. The view went on for miles. The shadows of late afternoon lengthened.
While ever-scanning the sky, I also counted shadows on the ground when
possible. Just habit. Too many shadows would be bad news, though.
Sea gulls
soared over the battlefield. The white, wheeling shapes were a reminder of more
peaceful times. It’s just like when the farmer ploughs his field, and the
flocks come into the field to get the grubs. Sea gulls, geese, and ducks.
The gulls
also come to the battlefield. So do crows, vultures, and other scavengers.
“Take me to
the river.” I sang sweetly to the instrument panel, as the compass held steady
and true.
It’s not
always easy to locate yourself after a big dogfight. We tended to get blown
back over enemy lines, but the wind wasn’t constant at any level, and we flew
at all levels.
In a ten or
twenty-minute scuffle we drifted five or six miles. The fact that a few of the
boys were with me was a good sign. Here we were. The river, as requested.
“Seek and
you shall find.” I reminded myself.
I wondered
how those enemy sound detectors were doing, and how the enemy observers were
faring. The new squadron to our north was doing a good job of taking care of
the balloons in this sector. The Huns put one up, they shot it down. Day in and
day out.
They were
pretty keen.
It was our
turn tomorrow, and I needed to do some thinking about that. In order to get
cooperation from them, we had to give something back. Blake’s boys were pretty
darned good to us. They passed on the good word to the new set.
The whole
bunch of us landed in good order. Most of the boys were already back.
Two planes
shot up, one minor wound. We were lucky again.
One of the
gunners had a scratch on the left hip. Machine gun bullet. Back in a day or
two. I always tried to give a guy a couple of days off for even the most minor
wound received in combat. The psychological impact of discovering one’s
mortality can be pretty profound, but he would be fine. A pat on the back, and
a good long sleep can work wonders sometimes. He’s pretty young. Hopefully a
good drunk, maybe get laid or something. He’ll be bursting at the seams to
return to duty so he can tell us all about it.
Nothing
lasts forever. Sooner or later we would have a bad day. Often I felt a long
moment of dread, especially when walking into the briefing room, and seeing all
those innocent young faces beaming after their latest escapade.
Oh, yeah,
Biggsy and Brubaker had really screwed up, so they were on the carpet.
***
Poor bastard.
They say
truth is stranger than fiction. That’s because fiction has to make sense,
otherwise the editor sends it back. Sometimes life doesn’t make sense, and war
is of course the greatest absurdity of all.
You have to
keep that in mind.
Rome was
governed by ‘bread and circuses.’ Modern ‘civilization’ works the same way.
Even Bismarck knew that, which is why he brought in social security for the
aged, and lots of big military spectacles, parades and such.
No
Englishman, (or Frenchman, or Belgian,) ever thought to ask why an aristocrat,
a conservative reactionary, had concerned himself with the problems of the
aged, the sick and the crippled, or the working classes.
It was the
price he was willing to pay, to weld together a state from something like three
hundred and fifty lesser Germanic states. The Germans had a long history. They
had states like Prussia, Saxony, Mecklenberg, Bavaria, little Duchies and
Princedoms all over the place. Symbolism is important. Bismarck gave them a
flag and an emperor. They had lots of Bishoprics and ‘free cities.’ He needed
to weld Germany together in order to lead it into war.
The
Sleschwig-Holstein thing, the whole Bohemian thing. The Austro-Hungarian thing.
They had to weld it all together with a lot of propaganda. It’s not that we
didn’t have our own propaganda, but theirs was very effective. They built
heroes, where our policy officially discouraged heroes. I agreed with the
policy but for different reasons.
I wanted
professional war-pilots. Heroes are dangerous to themselves and to others.
They think
they don’t have to play by the rules. Much of what I ‘knew,’ about German fliegers came out of our own popular
press. In the early days, the Baron’s red Albatros lent itself to all kinds of
crazy rumors.
Some thought
the pilot was a girl, due to the garish hue. But the Baron experimented with
paint jobs for a number of reasons. For one thing, on his Albatros, which I saw
months earlier in other encounters, he did away with the white on the crosses.
The red plane with dull black markings served him well. As a hunter, he used
what cover or deception he could find. And unlike a stag, or grouse, or
partridge, his new quarry could shoot back.
Lothar was
an interesting character. Younger, more impulsive than Manfred, he was probably
in awe of his brother. Little bit of hero-worship, a little of the show-off.
According
to, ‘information obtained by a source close to Lothar,’ the Baron first
experimented with earth tones, but found that no color made him invisible in
the air. In my own experience, even pale blue, which might be fine if seen from
below at a distance, clearly distinguished itself when seen against the ground
from almost any distance, and it showed up against a white cloud as dark and
against a dark cloud as light.
It seemed
almost luminous at dusk and dawn, no matter what the angle.
The Boche
called him, ‘the Rote Kampflieger,’ which translates more or less as ‘red
battle-flyer.’ Manfred wrote a popular book by that title. Oddly enough a
couple of English publishers tried to get hold of it. Sheer profit motivation,
right?
One
interesting thing Lothar told our source, possibly an American journalist,
while they were still neutral…? Lothar said it was ‘fun,’ at first, ‘like a
game.’
It quickly
became more serious. His brother had changed since his head wound.
Always a
loner, he became more reserved and withdrawn. Perhaps Lothar got drunk at a
party, shooting his mouth off to diplomats from a neutral state? Something like
that? I don’t necessarily trust my own sources.
Is this
person in a position to know something like that? One of the first rules of
criticism. When you grab an enemy trooper out of a trench in the middle of the
night, and under questioning, he tells you, ‘Twenty divisions are planning to
attack at dawn,’ we usually just laugh in his face.
Then we smack
‘em around a bit.
That’s
neither here nor there.
Later, in
the diminutive little tri-plane, his black crosses were backed up by big white
squares. Red, white and black is the most visible color combination in the sky,
due to its good contrast. It’s a lot easier to focus on the little details, and
that makes it easier to judge distance. Dazzle-paint might work on ships. Had
anyone tried it on a plane? To break up that distinctive airplane shape?
Aircraft look like black dots in the sky, long before color becomes apparent.
Maybe a
nice, soft, medium grey, a milky color would work.
He painted
his aircraft bright red to let people know who he was, which wasn’t very smart.
He wanted to be feared, and he got his wish. At some point everyone wanted his
head. I gave careful study to everything Dawley and Bernie had provided on the
subject of Manfred von Richtofen.
It was
interesting reading.
Young
Manfred joined the First Regiment of the Kaiser Alexander III cavalry, the
renowned ‘Uhlans.’ Iron Cross at Verdun in September 1914. As a cavalry officer
he was trained in observation, reconnaissance, and for command.
In a letter
dated August 28, 1917, Manfred admitted: ‘I’ve noticed that I’m not quite right
myself. I have just made two patrols. Of course, both were successful, but
after each one I was completely exhausted.’
Holy shit.
Where was I
in late August 1917?
On his first
patrol after being wounded, ‘something almost happened,’ and he also wrote that
his head wound was healing ‘frightfully slowly.’ He got hit when an ‘excited’
enemy opened fire from the unheard-of range of about three hundred yards. He
got hit by the observer’s fire. That happened July 6, 1917.
Heart
pounding. Where was I that day…but it just wouldn’t come. Nah. Couldn’t have
been me…could it?
We’ll never
know.
I tried not
to think of how we obtained this information. Someone like the Countess? The
Baron’s servant, bribed to copy his letters? In the cause of the International
Workingman’s Association, or some such nonsense? Bolshevism, or that other
specter of the land-holding elite, International Jewry?
It really
doesn’t matter, I take it all with a grain of salt.
It’s just my
way.
“Very
interesting…but stupid.” That was my first impression.
Most of the
information turned out to be useless. Young Manfred started off as a bold and
impetuous cavalry officer. He became a canny, scientific fighter pilot, an
adult.
One aged
well beyond his twenty-something years. Food for thought, but otherwiseinconclusive. In the early days, in the
cavalry, a taste for glory almost got him killed more than once, but he learned
the lesson. When he took to the air, it was like a game again. He had to learn
the lesson again.
And, ‘with
all due respect,’ to the Kaiser and the German officer class…
They gave
out Iron Crosses like so many hot rolls. To be a member of the Junkers and not
have one would have been the exception.
Courage was
the rule, not the exception.
Brains would
have been the exception.
A little
imagination would have been unique.
One more
thing. In his memoirs, (posthumously compiled after the war. –ed.) he mentioned
some English two-seaters visiting the Jasta one night. Didn’t hit anything of
importance, but they knew the English would be back. They set up machine guns
and waited. The English didn’t come the next night. But they came the next.
Three of our machines were shot down, and all the crews captured.
The score
was evened up a little. Those men were friends of mine. I thought they were
dead. But I didn’t owe the Rittmeister any favours.
Not to
mention the three balloons shot down today, all nice and confirmed by ground
observers and others.
Our own
balloons were shot down too, of course.
It was all
just part of the game. But how in the hell did our spies come up with some of
this stuff? It was real cloak-and-dagger work, that’s for sure.
***
There are
four major forces acting of an aircraft in flight: lift, thrust, mass and drag.
Old Biggsy
was a massive fellow.
“This is a
drag.” He said.
“Relax
Biggsy, don’t sweat the small stuff,” I advised, watching Doc and Dr. Scolz
assisting him.
Howard-Smythe looks askance.
Next it was
Brubaker. When a guy fucked up he took his wingman with him. That was the rule.
Seeing as they flew Biffs, i.e. two-seaters, this also dragged their gunners
into it. Saul looked pretty unhappy, but it was just him as Dawley had
volunteered to ride along on the mission.
“It’ll look
good on my resume.” He joked.
“Wrap
yourself in the flag, and do it for your country,” I acknowledged.
I owed him a
favor. Having a high-ranking officer along gave it the sanction of a Higher
Authority. Normally Biggsy flew with Dempsey, but Dempsey was employed
elsewhere that day. To say Brubaker was pissed with Biggsy was a slight
understatement. As a commander, let me tell you, peer pressure has its uses.
Poor guys,
their naked hairy asses exposed, as they pulled on the two sets of very tight
elastic women’s, like leotards. They had to pull real hard to get them over
their shoulders. Poor old Biggsy made a bizarre, scary sight, all
red-hairy-beard and big white belly as he was. Sheepish-looking, too. I’ll bet
that’s the last time he breaks the most basic rule.
Don’t fly
with a broken airplane.
It’s just
fucking stupid.
“Lift up
your, ahem, ‘mass’ for a moment.” Joked Doctor Scolz.
No laughs
from the guinea pigs.
“Didn’t like
the thrust of that remark.” Said the real doctor.
We laughed
but the guinea pigs didn’t, much.
We put bands
of hockey tape around each ankle, just below the knee, above the knee, the
upper part of the legs, as high as we could ‘comfortably get,’ and then one
around the pelvis, and one a little higher just below the navel. We put strips
of tape up and over the shoulders to help hold them up. They struggled into a
maximum-size girdle, and those had no stretch at all. We had a bugger of a time
to get the little hooks fastened on Biggsy. Remarkably quickly, he donned his
flight suit, as we worked on Brukaber and then Dawley and the gunner, Saul. He
normally flew with Brubaker.
What an
unhappy bunch of lads. Biggsy disobeyed orders. Having detected a fuel leak,
while still on our own side of the lines, and actually quite near home, the
idiot had proceeded with the mission.
This was,
‘contrary to instructions,’ as I flatly told him. The fact that he got damaged
in combat, with his wings shot up, tail shot up, landing gear shot up, and
flipped over on landing, hadn’t helped his case. In my view, it put the final
polish on what he did. He and Saul, his gunner, were fuckin’ lucky there was no
fire.
“I didn’t
waste all that time in training to have you go fucking everything up.” I told
them. “I expect you to know your ass from a hole in the ground.”
I swear he's writing his memoirs, and on my time, too...
They were
trained to switch off the ignition in the event of a forced landing, but that’s
not important. A hard impact can strike sparks kinetically, like banging rocks
together. All you need is a leak from a ruptured tank, a torn-off fuel line, or
exactly the kind of damage that happens in a crash.
This was
their punishment.
“My toes
will be much warmer.” Said Dawley.
Why was he
volunteering for stuff? Maybe he wants to fly. It gets in your blood.
He made
funny little side-to-side curtsying motions, like he was breaking in a set of
leather underwear. He waddled over to the side of the tent and let himself down
on a bench.
“I can sit.
I can sit.” He cried.
He seemed
awfully cheerful. Playing it up for all it’s worth. Perhaps he’s planning to
write his memoirs after the war, and needs something to put in it.
“Pray you
don’t have to shit.” Said Howard-Smythe.
He winked at
me.
“Tell me
about it.” Winced ‘the happy gunner,’
Saul, who was the last to get suited-up.
“The whole
thing shouldn’t take twenty minutes.” I advised. “Can you hold it?”
Saul nodded
glumly.
“We have
half a dozen sets of scissors. We can cut that stuff off you guys pretty quick,
when you get back.” I reassured him.
Preparations
complete, the doctors went back to more normal duties.
“Now this
little gadget here.” I noted, pulling a spare one out of a box. “Is mounted in
your two aircraft.”
I put it on
the table and they gazed at it.
“What you do
is to take off, move south of the aerodrome, where our Camels can protect you,
and then simply fly in circles.”
I had their
attention.
“You start
off by flying a head-on pass, then you each roll left, and then start turning
left. Try to keep the wings at plumb ninety degrees, although you won’t be able
to do it.”
That was for
safety, put them on opposing sides of a circle.
“At two
thousand feet, you take a reading off the gauge, at three thousand feet, you
take a reading off the gauge. You have to write down your speed at that time.
That’s why the observer is looking over your shoulder and not manning the gun
today.” I explained further.
“Every
thousand feet, take a reading, both the gauge and the speed.” And write it all
down. “Try to max out the gauge, okay?”
The mission
profile had them going up to 15,000 feet, which would be enough of a
punishment, especially in a full turning climb like that.
“Pull as
hard as you can and still maintain climb and flight control. Any questions?”
Not so far.
“We’ll
monitor you, and make our own comments and observations. I’m very proud of this
little device, because I invented it.” I explained.
It was built
from two thin plates of aluminum, about a sixteenth of an inch thick, and held
an inch apart by spacers. There was a slot in the front plate. A thin,
red-painted needle was attached to the back plate, and stuck out of the slot in
the front plate. It was a narrow strip of spring steel with a weight on one
end.
I held it up
in front of them.
“See, one
gravity.”
Two gees
were determined by doubling the weight, three gees by tripling the weight.
How accurate
they might be, I wouldn’t care to speculate. Probably not very, to be honest.
I gave it a
little shake.
“See, the
increase in g-factor moves the weight up and down the scale.”
The
base-plate was screwed to the dash of the plane, where it could be easily seen
and read, even over the pilot’s shoulder by the gunner or observer. The needle
moved up and down the gauge as the plane maneuvered. Dead simple.
The boys at
Farnborough very kindly made them up for us, and they were properly calibrated
with numbers and little marks on the plate.
“Your planes
won’t take a lot of negative gravity without the engine stalling.” I told the
men. “An outside loop is verboten.”
The men
sagely nodded, even Dawley. We could rotate the gadget, mounting it in another
way, for example in the ‘fore and aft plane of rotation,’ as the explanation
went.
"A little more room in the crotch might be nice." - Saul.
Then it
would be on the side of the cockpit. We could measure pull-ups, and dives, even
mount it in the rear cockpit. (Which would have made more sense for this test.
But I did want the pilots to have some feedback as well. Otherwise g’s are
purely subjective, and observations vary from pilot to pilot. )
“How’s that
tape holding?” The corporal asked Saul.
Whittington
was assisting us.
“Tight as a
duck’s ass.” Came the reply.
“You ruddy
Canadians always say that.” Complained Brubaker. “I could never figure out some
of your quaint colloquial expressions.”
Brubaker was
the prim and proper type, always well-spoken.
“A duck’s
ass has to be tight.” I patiently explained. “Otherwise it would sink.”
Perhaps it
was the alien scene, or the personal discomfort, which unleashed the gales of
laughter. The look on Brubaker’s face was simply priceless.
“While we’re
into explanations, what’s all this stuff about brick shit houses?” Dawley
asked.
“Because
every once in a while you have to dig a new hole, which means that you also
have to pick it up and move it.” I explained patiently. “It’s just a joke,
basically.”
Absolutely
deadpan, Dawley looked over, catching my eye.
“Don’t
forget the special cream.” He reminded.
“The special
cream.”
I almost did
forget.
Corporal
Whittington went over to the command tent.
Ah, yes, the Special Cream.
“We keep it
in the safe,” I explained.
When they
were all ready, except for the cream, I would give them the rest of the mission
profile. There were one or two other tests, sharp pull-ups and the like. I
asked them to make observations of ‘P-effect,’ if possible. Otherwise, ‘put
something in the report about it,’ and that way if the Ministry queried it, we
could explain further. The blast from the propeller hits the aircraft in a
helical motion, and most of our aircraft still didn’t have trim tabs or any
such consideration. Also, when a plane is climbing, it’s a strong headwind, and
the propeller is ‘chopping’ the air into little bits at an extreme angle. This
creates high pressure beneath, and low pressure above, in an asymmetrical
fashion. This is different from simple engine torque.
To be
honest, I loaded their heads up with all kinds of nonsense. Trim tabs would
have made it easier to fly the machine. It would reduce the work-load and thus
pilot stress. We had to go through the motions of running tests, ‘scientific
tests.’
It gave us a
chance to tell the Ministry what we wanted.
I knew they
would work.
While
waiting for the corporal, I asked Biggsy, “How does it feel?”
He just
grunted.
“The general
idea is that we keep the blood from pooling down in your legs. We want to keep
it up in your head, where you need it.”
If you’ve
ever seen those spinning black and white shiny things swirling around in the
corners of your vision, then you know the early stages of a ‘head spin.’ Lay
around for half a day, smoking and reading on the couch. Then suddenly stand
up. If you return to consciousness lying on the floor, you’ll know how
dangerous it can be, and how it would be all too easy to get shot down in
combat.
“I can see
how it might help.” He ventured, uncertainly. “Maybe something properly
designed would work.”
Whittington
came in with a screw-cap jar. It had a bogus Air Ministry label on it, ‘Sample
# 114-A,’ or some such nonsense.
“Okay boys,
the cream goes on your faces and hands. Just before you put the gloves on, and
your masks.” I instructed but there was more chit-chat.
The cream
was just bullshit, part of the punishment. It’s to make sure they don’t talk
about it.
Hell, let
them take their time. More talk. The Camel can climb ten thousand feet in nine
minutes, and the SE in about eleven minutes. How fast they can do it in a Biff
eluded me for the time being, but this test shouldn’t take too long. We can
always find out.
Sooner or
later someone else will screw up.
“It’s not at
all ideal.” Saul said.
“That’s my
fault, I’m afraid.” Admitted Dawley. “It turns out I’m colour blind.”
“No one
cares whether it matches.” Brooded Saul darkly, and we broke up in laughs
again. “Just get this shit over with.”
“I’ll be
honest, it was kind of weird to go in the store and buy them.” Allowed Dawley
with a glint of humor in his eyes.
I giggled
along with him.
Soon the men
mounted up in our special Biffs, ‘The
Tadpole,’ and ‘Shovelhead,’ which
while named, had no assigned drivers.
“You
gentlemen are privileged to try out the only three-hundred-twenty horsepower
Rolls-Royce Falcon engines in existence.” I informed them.
Other pilots
and staff watched from one side. The boys were distinctly uncomfortable.
Those of us
in the know were just dying not to laugh.
Saul’s
handlebar mustache looked droopy. He seemed a little subdued. He was normally
one of these contrarians, who contradict every damned thing you say.
You know the
kind.
Mustache a bit droopy there, Saul...
If you say,
‘good morning,’ they say, ‘Fuck you, somewhere in the world someone is
suffering.’
‘Tell me
about it,’ was my usual response.
Saul was as
slick as a red-ass fox. He was always taking the opposite tack. The opposing
point of view, no matter what you said. You could say one thing one day, and he
would argue against it. You could contradict yourself the next day, and he
would suddenly contradict you, and whatever he’d said the day before, as well.
You could
manipulate Saul.
You could
get him to say anything you wanted, if you were willing to work at it.
“This all
seems a little silly to you men, I’m sure.” I informed Saul, as I stood by the
fuselage.
Biggsy,
intent, was going through his checklist thoroughly.
“No, I don’t
think so.”
He was,
‘firmly convinced,’ that we needed, ‘more funding committed to research and
development.’
I reached in
and gave a tug on his strap for him.
“It’s
obvious we’re operating on a shoe-string.” I ruefully acknowledged.
He had to
disagree.
“I think
everyone’s all doing pretty well.” He said witheringly.
“Any
suggestions?”
“More room
in the crotch.” According to Saul.
No one had
any other ideas.
“All right
men, off you go then.” And then they fired up, and taxied off to launch the
mission.
I looked
around from in front of the briefing tent door and beckoned at a couple of
pilots out there. The tag was now removed from the post, to be hung up on the
board.
“All clear.”
I told them.
They could
use the room to study their maps or plan their vacations or whatever, and I
went back to the command tent and more little chores.
Note: the above video is WW II aircraft, due to the difficulty of finding the proper footage. The viewer does get some flavor of what an early rocket attack looked like. #Louis
