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.
After
a solid eight hours in the sack, I moseyed around, lazed in the shower, shaved
up as best I could, and futzed around in general. Being away from our normal
base, there were few routine chores. Basically we were just killing time.
Reluctantly,
I toyed with some food, but sooner or later I had to get back to work. I have
to admit to a kind of bone-weary fatigue, though.
About
six o’clock, the bunch of us rendezvoused in the empty hangar reserved for our
briefings. It was our office and command facility here at St. Omer aerodrome.
Minimalist,
to say the least.
“Have
a coffee, sir?” Jaeckl offered, reaching for the cups lined up by the urn.
I
nodded.
“Major
Dawley, bring us up to speed, please?” I asked.
The
assembly quieted down a little, although they were pretty subdued to begin
with.
Everyone
was dead tired by this time, after working on the AEG’s all night long.
Poor
guys could barely think straight.
“All
righty, then. Gentlemen, listen up please.” He began, standing by the
blackboard.
“So
far, the two Handley-Pages are in running condition, and Pete is working on the
AEG’s.”
“So.
Last night was a bit of a non-starter, but Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker decided to
drop his bomb over the North Sea, rather than try to land with it. But that’s
good, actually, as we have now confirmed that the dropping mechanism works just
fine, if nothing else.”
“We
enjoyed the flight, burned off fuel, and just cruised around in general.” I
reported, and the boys all nodded and smiled.
“We
had a blast.” Bernie, eyes all bloodshot.
He
looked kind of hung-over.
“Pete
thinks he has the problem cured, and assures us the Handley-Page airplanes are
top-notch.” The Major continued. “Referring to the AEG’s, we just don’t know
yet. But it is still early. The basic plan is to try again. We take off at the
same time, and proceed to the target with as many planes as we have. The
weather is good for tonight, as far as we can safely predict.”
Down
south, there was a chance of thundershowers.
‘If
possible these should be avoided.’
Agents
were again waiting at our jump point in Switzerland. The men checked their
notes from the previous day and made new ones. I prayed that something would go
wrong. I was hoping to get caught, but so far no one had even inquired as to
our business here at St. Omer.
“When
you take off, circle for height, but no more than half an hour. Then steer an
initial course of one-hundred-eighty degrees for one hour, then turn to
one-hundred-twenty degrees and look for the markers. Keep your route
description handy. Land at field ‘B’ and refuel. This is a long trip. At Nancy,
turn to approximately eighty-seven degrees, fly to the town of Strasbourg. From
there, a course of approximately forty-three degrees takes you more or less to
Baden-Baden.”
“The
sketches you have are fairly good. In the final analysis, use your own
judgment. If necessary, jettison the bomb over enemy territory, and return to
field, ‘B.’”
Details,
details, so many details, but it allowed time to think and study the map.
The
beauty lies in the details.
We
heard engines fire up outside, and a ragged cheer.
Rumble,
rumble, rumble…they kept going. One of the AEG’s. Two foreign engines were
running.
We
looked at each other, many with eyebrows raised.
Someone
knocked eagerly at the door. It opened with a thud as Taffy lurched in, wearing
an expectant and happy grin.
He
was just about to speak, when the engine notes went flat, first one, then the
other.
He
stood there shaking his head.
Finally,
he came out with it.
“Whale…oil…beef…hooked.”
He said, or something like that, then turned and in a dejected fashion began to
shuffle off to the door.
“Aw,
Pete.” He muttered as the door slammed behind him.
A
few grimaces, a few grins.
“Sounds
like he’s getting closer.” Said Major Dawley, a little tongue in cheek jab at
yours truly.
Jaeckl
wouldn’t let it get out of hand. He was just screwing with us.
The
teletype machine clattered. Dawley and Hastings, who was also there to help
out, consulted. They muttered between themselves while we waited.
“Doesn’t
look good.” Hastings said, beckoning me over.
And
there you have it. We had to stand them down again. The effing weather had
socked in the southern end of our course for a day at least. More like three or
four, judging by the maps and the data provided. Privately, I was relieved.
Those AEG’s flew in here. Those motors just had to run, sooner or later. Good
old Howard-Smythe had sent my coded telegram right on schedule. And he had been
bribed to forget well.
“Why
not do a big beer run?” I suggested. “It might be good navigation practice.”
“The
weather down south looks bad for three for four days.” Put in Dawley.
The
boys sat around scratching their heads.
“All
right, take the damned bombs off the Handley-Pages.” I ordered to a few muffled
groans and gripes.
It
would be a dry run to Farnborough, perhaps even with two AEG’s…as we heard them
up and roar again…maybe Pete was learning his trade, finally, and the two
bombers of Trenchard’s.
“Why
don’t we just lock up here and take the whole damned crew?” Queried Hastings.
“You
could send half of them on a pass, for a day or two.”
I
told you Hastings was smart. We made our way across the pavement to the line-up
of aircraft, all four with little clumps of men working on them.
“Good
idea. But first we have to get there.” I acknowledged. “Let’s have a look at
these ruddy Hun bombers.”
Tipping
the wink to Jaeckl, he went to the rear of the cockpit and sat there looking
innocent.
“Try
her out.” I suggested to poor old Pete, and gave it a big whack on the cowling
beside the firewall with the flat of my hand.
Pete
stood there, looking apprehensive, but the plane’s twin engines fired right up
this time. Pete looked fit to be tied. He was one stressed-out individual.
He
just about died when I made the other plane start up, too. Poor Pete. I’ll
never forget it. He was groaning, and cursing, and pulling clumps of his
thinning blonde hair right out of his head.
“Well,
that makes two AEGS and two H-P’s.” Jaeckl joked. “For now, anyways.”
“Put
a bomb on mine.” I noted for Jaeckl’s benefit, as he moved away. “I want to try
something.”
His
eyebrows rose, but he just saluted.
“I
want to find out if we can land safely with a bomb on, at night. Those things
are expensive, and the Ministry wants to know.”
It was
our excuse for being experimental, after all.
This AEG bomber is now in a museum in Canada.
“Who
will I be riding with?” He asked over his shoulder. “Someone else, hopefully?”
So
Bert Hall flew one AEG, Owens flew another. Dexter flew the other Handley-Page,
and mine was the second, number, ‘oh-twenty-one.’ Soon we were over the
channel.
Because
of the relative lack of experience we all had, except Bert, the officers were
scattered amongst four planes, and the ground crew was divided into two groups.
Some were going on leave in Paris, no hardship for them, and the rest were
flying with us.
My
plane had a somewhat smaller crew because of the big bomb in the belly. I must
say, it was an impressive sight, with the two Fritzie planes up front and down
below, with Dexter in, ‘oh-nineteen,’ and myself in, ‘oh-twenty-one,’ up top.
At
this time of night, it was safer to fly southwest down the Channel, then
approach from the south. Bert’s navigation was impeccable. He might have done
this sort of thing before. A smuggler’s route.
We
landed at Farnborough in the middle of the night, but a quick radio call ahead
by Dawley made certain of our welcome. They even used the beer trucks to help
light up the fricking runway. That Dawley, he was always coming up with a new
twist.
I
guess it goes without saying that I didn’t pooch the landing.
And
then, a batch of mechanics were sent on leave, to take effect the minute our
wheels cleared ground. We left the AEG’s in England, so I sent Owens and Dexter
on leave as well.
We
kept exactly two mechanics, (not Pete,) and landed back at St. Omer about nine
o’clock in the morning. All we had to do was unload, and have a nap, and think
up our next stunt.
It’s
too bad, really. I wouldn’t have minded a crack at old Kaiser Willy, and no
doubt Bert would have bombed the War Office, Winnie’s place, or even Windsor
Castle.
‘If
the price was right.’
We
had the motive, we had the intent, we had the means. We simply didn’t get the
opportunity. Timing is everything, eh?
It
might have done some good, to let the gentry know they can be held accountable.
***
She said yes.
While
home in London, Jennifer had agreed to marry me. But I don’t want to get into
the mushy stuff too deeply, for this is my future wife after all. For that
reason, I have deliberately not fantasized, nor mentally soliloquized about
her.
Sitting
there, back inside our old command tent, flushed with the vacation, I spent
some time reading all the reports of the last week’s activities. The boys were
doing very well, with only two minor casualties.
The
Rittmeester Gunter von Fluebl, and Oberstleutnant Heinz Smiltz, ‘bit the dust.’
Thirteen
enemy planes shot down. And two minor aces. Simply awesome.
About
then the witch doctor, the head-shrinker, Doctor Scolz came in. It was his last
day with us. He appeared to be very drunk. Not a happy drunk, either. The surly
kind.
“So,
I’ll say goodbye then.” I murmured, still reading.
He
stood in front of the desk. He saluted, and clicked his heels. Very formal. He
rocked back and forth ever so slightly. A veritable stew of breath came out of
him, and wafted its way across. The doctor had been drinking heavily for some
days now.
Over
the last two or three weeks, the poor fellow had taken to talking to himself.
Beginning to lose the personal grooming. Perhaps we’d been a too little hard on
him.
“Incidentally,
I have just turned in all your psychological assessments.” He said with a
certain relish.
He
seemed to expect some kind of response.
“That’s
okay Doc. We all have our little role to play. By any chance do I fit the
profile of an asshole?” And I just kept on reading.
Poor
guy didn’t laugh. He just turned and headed for the door. Don’t go away mad,
Doc…just go away. I didn’t laugh either. But that was about as close to an
apology as he was ever going to get.
As
the flap of the tent swished closed behind his sorry ass, Howard-Smythe turned
aside from the tele-printer machine.
“You
would have to be some kind of anal retentive to want his job.” He allowed.
In
some way this put the final polish on what had been, from the onset, a pretty
bad scene.
***
One
fine day it was all over. We stood there, unable to comprehend, or to believe.
We muttered, and loitered. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day. An armistice.
It
was unbelievable.
Why?
I
mean, why stop now?
Yet
it is in writing. We have it in writing. It’s an order. Hard to believe.
Accepting it is difficult. The sense of relief…overwhelming…a curiously subdued
bunch of guys.
It
was surreal.
The
land is oddly silent. The air is strangely clear. The sound of the guns peter
away, down to nothing.
“Well,
I’ll be damned.” Said Andrew, who only yesterday was totally flushed with the
pride of a double victory.
“I
honestly didn’t think I would live to see it.” I admonished the boys nearest.
“I just stopped thinking about it.”
Now
my knees, my whole body went slack. All I wanted to do was to sit down. Those
guys broke out a bottle, and music began to play.
My
thoughts were haunted with a vision of Jennifer, pale and ghostly, hanging in
the sky. All I had to do was to go home…it was over. It was all over with—and I
lived.
I
lived. I lived.
Holy,
Jesus Fucking Christ…I lived.
***
He let him live...
For
some reason, I wanted one last flight. Just one. It didn’t seem fair, to have
such a beautiful plane. I had spent weeks tuning it. Many hours of hard work
went into all the little tweaks, and for what? It was all so useless.
I
experienced a moment of real anger, a kind of narcissistic rage, thinking about
that.
Our
orders were to stand down and preserve our machines for later analysis.
It
was time to get ready for the next war.
So I
took off alone, and headed for the Western Front. It was about ten-thirty or
twenty to eleven or so. I took it up sunwards, climbing through 10,500 feet,
and then opened up the throttle. Just to see what she could do. My SE was
holding at about a hundred and sixty-five at 10,500 feet…beautiful. Just
beautiful. Just think of what we could have done, given a little more time.
That’s
when I saw him, off to the south and about 2,000 feet higher.
The
black nose, the familiar wings. A Fokker D-VII. They don’t give those out to
just anybody. He saw me. I could tell because he re-aligned the plane.
My
guns were already cocked.
The
clock said, ‘five to eleven,’ and I grinned in ferocious, blood-thirsty mirth.
“I’ll
be fucking damned.” I oathed in fury. “I know thee, sir…”
For
the rest of the quote the reader will have to consult Shakespeare’s, ‘King
Lear.’
It’s
pretty offensive.
I
must say I was impressed.
Something
about a, ‘son of a mongrel bitch,’ as I recall, but he was diving onto me and
all there was to do was line up the sights, a little in front of old Herman,
and let him have a burst right in the kisser.
Hah.
Gotcha, you motherfucker.
He
flew right into that one.
“Who
the hell do you fucking think you’re dealing with here?” I bellowed as he went
by.
He
pulled right, and I pulled right, and we entered the good old, ‘kurvenkampf,’ as taught by von
Richtofen, and Boelcke, and a hundred dead men before and since.
Herman
Goering shot down Duzek, Elmer Duzek, only three weeks before. Did Elmer want
to be the last man to die? One of the last? Only another three weeks, and he
would have made it. He had a mother and a sister.
The
red and black D-VII suddenly reversed his turn, but of course I anticipated
this move, having seen it before. Pulled the throttle back to about half.
Patience is a virtue, and I knew he would dive below me…sure enough, and I
flipped over, following him down to the clouds…the clouds were about 8,000 feet
and I figured he’d go east. No, he’ll go south, sunwards, and sure enough there
he was.
Pulling
out now, he pulls up and over, and now I turned and fishtailed to keep him in
front of my guns…and still he was out of range. His loop did him no good. But
he’s out of range.
He
must recognize me as well. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the
eleventh month.
Eleven
o’clock, and yet neither one of us can break off safely. Who knows what his
intentions are now? I wasn’t too sure what mine were. But I was open to
suggestion.
We
made a head-on pass. A little burst of smoke from his guns was enough to
confirm his intentions, as my own finger gently squeezed the trigger. Through
the smoke and vibration, I’m sure I got hits…and got hit…something thwacked
through some part of my airframe.
He
made a couple of strange moves, and I just watched him.
I
had all day.
The
sun behind me, lots of fuel.
We’re
all alone up here, buddy…and it suddenly clicked in.
He
was no longer trying to shoot me down, but only trying to avoid my guns.
Now
I get it. This calls for…a snap roll.
Fuck.
Sure enough, he does a snap roll too.
And
then he looks over, as if to say, ‘Big deal.’
Suddenly
he was edging up beside my plane. Waving, both hands in the air, he points and
shrugs.
Face
impassive, it is the bland-looking, fat-faced man. Not wearing a face mask, he
gave me a big, happy smile. All I could do was to show him the big thumbs-up.
He
saluted, and bowed his head.
His
guns were jammed. I fired a short burst, because mine weren’t.
And
again, he shrugged. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he began to turn off to the
east.
I
watched the tail end of that plane, for a long, long time, let me tell you.
I
don’t know why. There is no rhyme or reason for it.
Decided
to let the cocksucker live.
It
was eleven minutes and eleven seconds past eleven, and I don’t get paid for
this.
So I
turned it for home.
I
let him live.
My
thought was, “Enough, already, Herman.”
What
do I care if the man’s a transvestite? Lord knows, we shot down enough of his
goofy little buddies.
Epilogue
A Splendid Wedding
Standing
there blinking in the sun, on the steps of the church. People took pictures and
threw rice. A gaggle of Jennifer’s girlfriends waved and cried, and carried on
something awful.
Her
mom cried.
Her
dad beamed and called me, ‘son.’
He
slipped me an envelope absolutely jammed with cash, when no one was looking.
Jolly
nice of him.
We
got in the back of a big car and someone drove us away, a young male relative
of my wife’s.
Jennifer’s
folks, Mr. and Mrs. Bolteman, threw us an absolutely splendid wedding.
After
demobilization things flashed by in a blur.
I
was in a profound state of shock for a long time, but I remember little
snatches of it.
We
found ourselves on the fantail of a ship.
Standing
there, with my wife, my love and my life, we watched the green hills of England
receding over the horizon.
I
was afraid my legs would begin shaking.
Entwined
with each other, we kissed long and deep. I squeezed her. I didn’t want to let
go.
“Well,
old girl.” I murmured, face buried in her hair. “What do you think?”
“It
will be fine.” She told me dreamily. “As long as we have each other.”
I
just kept my face in her hair and bawled my eyes out.
