Category Archives: A Writing Life

156. A Prince of the Captivity

John Buchan is a late-blooming inheritor of the literature of Kipling and Scott. He is best known for a minor thriller, the Thirty-nine Steps, and for its four sequels featuring Richard Hannay. He also wrote A Prince of the Captivity which, for my money, is the apotheosis of the Hannay books.

Buchan was the son of a Free Church of Scotland minister. He had a traditional education, culminating is studying the Classics at Oxford, where he won the Newdigate Prize for his poem The Pilgrim Fathers. His background suggests a man heavily influenced by conservative Scottish religion – which is about as conservative as religion gets.

His books bear out that suggestion, and none more so than this one.

A Prince of the Captivity

As the story begins, Adam Melfort is on trial for forgery. His friends, and there are many, do not believe his confession, and we quickly learn that they are right. His empty-headed wife has forged the check which he admits to. He goes to prison. She goes free, flittering on through her empty life, divorces Adam, and disappears out of the story.

Prison is barely described. A Prince of the Captivity is not a story about external events, but about what happens in Adam’s mind and soul.

In a typical novel, the previous sentence would be a reviewer’s signal to avoid it at all costs. Not here; the external events that forge Melfort’s soul are drawn from the toolbox of a skillful writer of thrillers. This story moves rapidly, with a few tedious exceptions, but when each part of the story comes to a close, the result, win or lose, means less than the changes it brings to Melfort.

Melfort is on a mission. His time in prison has pulled him out of normal society, and he now feels that whatever remains for him to do must be done from the shadows. He was an officer in the British Army, with a brilliant career before him. That is gone now. He passes World War I posing as a simple-minded peasant on a Dutch farm where the occupying German troops laugh at him, play cruel tricks on him, and otherwise ignore him. They do not know that he is running a ring of spies, made up of others as unprepossessing as he.

After the war, Melfort must find his life’s mission on his own. He leads an expedition to Greenland to find and save a missing explorer, then sets out to find leaders of quality to whom he can lend support. All those he chooses fail him, but he only moves on and continues his quest.

All this sounds vague and tedious, but it isn’t. This is still the Buchan of the Hannay books. The external events that make up the book are sharp, dangerous, decisive, and exciting. You could ignore the sub-text and read it as a thriller. The cover blurb on my copy calls it, “A thunderingly good read,” and it is. But it is also much more than that.

The Hannay books begin with England in danger, move to England at war, and end with England after the war, supposedly at peace, but not at peace with herself. World War I tore English society apart, and shook her certainty. The depression which followed made things worse.

A Prince of the Captivity, published in 1933, moves beyond the Hannay books. It reeks of discontent and hidden in the background is the sound of boots marching and armies mobilizing. Adam Melfort sacrificed his future to save his wife, and now he has to sacrifice anew. England sacrificed to win the Great War, and now it will have to sacrifice again.

Most critics were not kind to A Prince of the Captivity. I’m not surprised. Melding a thriller, an apotheosis of a personal moral code, and a vague prophesy of coming disaster is not easy. Perhaps it is not possible. Buchan didn’t do a perfect job of it, but he did write a fine novel. A Prince of the Captivity is my favorite of the dozen or so Buchan’s I have read.

155. Three Hostages and Island of Sheep

John Buchan is a late-blooming inheritor of the literature of Kipling and Scott. He is best known for a minor thriller, the Thirty-nine Steps (presented Monday), and for its four sequels featuring Richard Hannay. The last two of those sequels are presented here

The Three Hostages

Now the war is over and Hannay and Mary have settled in to a life of peace with their son Peter John. It is not to last. Three hostages have been taken from three of England’s leaders, and the ransom is their support of a program destructive to England. Hannay, against his inclinations, enters the search for the hostages. Much of the story is a series of chases, following various clues, during which Hannay is once again forced to work against the ordinary police to maintain his secrecy. Even when he finds some of the hostages, they cannot be rescued immediately. Unless all three can be retrieved at once, those missed will perish.

Much of the book is a satisfying look at Hannay at work, but there are also long, dull, dreary passages. Hannay first falls under the spell of the mystic hypnotist who is behind the kidnappings, then breaks the spell through deep personal stubbornness. His enemy is not aware that Hannay has recovered, so Hannay plays the role of sycophant, waiting for the chance to rescue the victims. It is a time of misery for Hannay; unfortunately, it is also a time of misery for the reader.

The story largely redeems itself in the last two chapters, which form a kind of long epilog during which Hannay and his nemesis come physically to grips in a Highland deer park.

The Three Hostages is the weakest of the Hannay stories, but still worth reading. Just don’t start with it.

The Island of Sheep

Twelve years after The Three Hostages we once again meet Hannay and his now-teenage son Peter John. Hannay is in a middle-age slump, no longer feeling that he is doing his part to pay rent on his piece of the planet. In that mood, he falls into company with Lombard, a man he recognizes as a old friend from his youth. He remembers an adventure they shared in South Africa, and the vow that came out of it.

Shortly thereafter, he and his son fall in briefly with a Norlander (Norlands is Buchan’s name for the Faroe Islands) who is on the run from some unknown terror. Then Sandy Arbutnot arrives with tablet of jade and a complicated story about the end of an old adventurer known to them both.

All these things come together as if ordained by fate. There is a lot of fate in this book, but don’t worry; fate gets our heroes into trouble, but they have to get out of trouble on their own. It turns out that Haraldsen, the old adventurer who scratched his last testament on the back of the jade tablet, is the same man whom Hannay and Lombard defended against an enemy during their youth, and is also the father of the frightened Norlander. The vow which Haraldsen (senior) extracted from Hannay and Lombard requires them to come to the aid of his son.

The son of the old enemy of Haraldsen (senior) has sworn vengeance on his son, the Norlander, and has claimed the tablet which he thinks is the key to the treasure the old man searched for all his life.

Hannay and Lombard, each for his own reasons, decide to help the son. The bulk of the book sees that carried out through many adventures.

More than any book in the series, this is less about happenings than about the motivations and emotions behind the action. Haraldsen (the younger) is vastly and vacillatingly emotional, shifting from despair, to resignation, to berserk rage. This is his national character. Of course, the Nazis have since made national character a questionable concept, but this was published in 1936. The modern reader can just think of these characteristics as Haraldsen’s personality, and read on without guilt.

The Island of Sheep is not the best of the series, nevertheless, it is one of my favorites. It has that “northern thing” that drove Tolkien’s work. Fate stirs the pot in the beginning and personalities carry the rest of the story relentlessly on.

*****

This is the last Hannay novel, although he also appears as a minor character in The Courts of Morning. Tomorrow, A Prince of the Captivity, which “reads like an apotheosis of the Hannay books . . .”

154. Greenmantle and Mr. Standfast

John Buchan is a late-blooming inheritor of the literature of Kipling and Scott. He is best known for a minor thriller, the Thirty-nine Steps (presented yesterday), and for its four sequels featuring Richard Hannay. The first two sequels are presented here

Greenmantle

Despite Hannay’s efforts, WW I has begun. Now a Major in the British army, he is convalescing after the battle of Loos at the outset of the story.

Buchan spent the war in London, working in intelligence and writing propaganda. His school friends were in the front of battle, and he lost many of them. Late in his career he wrote These for Remembrance as a tribute to those friends lost. It doesn’t take much imagination to see Buchan sending Hannay out to do what he was not allowed to do.

Hannay is called back from his soldier’s life and sent into Germany as a spy, seeking out a prophet of Islam who is believed to be about to raise an army in Turkey which will work against the British. His only clues are three words: Kasredin, cancer and v. I. He recruits Sandy Arbuthnot and John Blenkiron to join him. On his way into Europe he encounters an old friend from South Africa, Peter Pienaar, and adds him to his cadre. All three will figure in future novels as well, particularly Pienaar who is the title character of the second sequel.

The Thirty-nine Steps was a bit of a lark. There is no such lightness in Greenmantle. It is powerful, at times verging on grim, and therefore much deeper and more satisfying. It is probably the most unified of the five novels. The protagonists separate and come together, each playing his own part, but the novel never loses its overall focus. The four Brits enter Germany, then make their way down the Danube to Turkey, seeking out clues to their nemesis and finally ending their quest in climactic battle.

These stories are best read in order, but if you only read one of them, let it be Greenmantle.

Mr. Standfast

Mr. Standfast was originally a character in Pilgrim’s Progress, a book I had studiously avoided until I read this Buchan novel. Peter Pienaar, Hannay’s South African ally, uses Pilgrim’s Progress as the touchstone of his life. One suspects the same might have been true of Buchan. Certainly, self-sacrifice for the cause is a strong theme in most of Buchan’s work.

Once again, Hannay is called back from battle to take on a job of spying. This time he is sent into the heart of . . . England? Among the half baked and disaffected who question Britain’s war effort, Hannay’s old enemy Graf von Schwabing is hiding. He was a spy against Britain during The Thirty-nine Steps, and is a man of almost infinite ability with disguises. Hannay is sent to search him out and discover what new deviltries he is planning.

The first half of the book is more light-hearted than Greenmantle, including a chase across Scotland that is a bit of a reprise of the first novel. Hannay even falls in love with his co-worker Mary Lamington, whom he marries after the end of the novel. Hannay untangles Ivery’s (as von Schwabing is now known) plans, turns a pacifist into a patriot, and sees the man behind the disguises. Nevertheless, Ivery escapes.

His job half done, Hannay returns to the front where he once again encounters Ivery, nearly loses Mary to him, and returns Ivery to England. I’ll leave Ivery’s rather odd fate untold.

In the end, Peter Pienaar, who has been a character in the wings throughout the novel, emerges to fight again at the climax, and justifies use of his namesake as the books title.

Mr. Standfast is a good read, if not quite up to the standards of Greenmantle, but it has its oddities. Ivery’s fate comes in a manner Hannay sees as fitting, even though the logical thing would have been to shoot him and kick his body into a road ditch in France. There is nothing unusual in that, but it is hard not to shake your head in perplexity at Hannay’s choice. Then there is Mary, the woman Hannay will marry and who will give him a son. Hannay falls in love with her – a reasonable start – but he never seems to fall in lust with her. One has to wonder how that son was ever conceived.

A critic of Buchan once said that he wished his characters would stop all those thirty mile walks across the moors and just jump in bed with some woman. That isn’t likely to happen in a book published in 1919.   tomorrow, The Three Hostages and The Island of Sheep

153. The 39 Steps

Shakespeare would not be the world’s greatest playwright if fate had treated him differently. The Bard was born around 1564. If he had been born five hundred years earlier, we would never have heard of him. If he had been born in 1564, but in central Asia or in a Mandan village on the plains of the Americas, we would never have heard of him.

Shakespeare is famous because he was great and because he was born in the right time and place, in a culture that was rising, and which would dominate the globe for the next 400 years.

For roughly a century, counting backward from World War I, there was an efflorescence of English literature celebrating the culture that came from that domination. Much of it is about rich, silly people worrying about their insignificant lives, without knowing or caring about the Caribbean slaves or Indian peasants who were paying the bill. There are masterpieces here, but I find them largely unreadable. I can’t look at Elizabeth Bennet’s little problems without also seeing the colonial system that underpins her world.

There is another literature of that period that understands what it takes to maintain the life of the home country. Kipling, with all his jingoism, comes immediately to mind, as do Stevenson and Scott. The protagonists of this literature know how to get their hands dirty, and are actively creating a nation. Looking backward, we see their failings, but at least they are working to build the world that Darcy and Bennet will unthinkingly inhabit.

I realize that it is illogical to dislike those who reap the rewards of colonialism, yet appreciate those who created the system. Sorry, I can’t help it; I have a prejudice for workers over whiners.

John Buchan is a late-blooming inheritor of the literature of Kipling and Scott, with the addition of an elegiac tone as his world crumbled beneath his feet. He wrote 100 books, but is best known for a minor thriller, the Thirty-nine Steps, and for its four sequels featuring Richard Hannay.

The Thirty-nine Steps
(Sometimes given as The 39 Steps,
just to confuse alphabetized book lists.)

Richard Hannay is just back from South Africa, having “made his bundle” and ready to  reconnect with his native country. Instead, he finds London dreary and dull compared to colonial life. He is about to give up and return to exile, when he becomes entangled in the affairs of Scudder, a sort of free lance spy who has discovered a massive threat to England. Scudder is killed, Hannay is blamed, and he sets off across Scotland and England, dodging the police while trying to keep Scudder’s discovery out of enemy hands.

Buchan wrote this as a light romp while he was recovering from an illness, and it can be read that way. Hannay is a very human superman. He has great endurance and hunter’s skills learned in South Africa, but he also has moods. He talks himself out of worrying about his fate, then falls into a funk, then rises again to a mood of certainty. It is very British – can you imagine a hard boiled American PI with moods – and very charming. More than anything else in the whole series, moods humanize Hannay and make us care about him, as well as about his mission.

The Thirty-nine Steps was written during WW I, but takes place just before hostilities broke out. It joins Childer’s The Riddle of the Sands as a call for England to wake up to the coming danger, although Childer’s book was true prophesy and Buchan’s only pretended to be. The second two novels in the series take place during the war (tomorrow’s post) and the last two take place after the war has ended (Wednesday’s post).

360. Raven and Ian

360. Raven and Ian

this is where i make the final announcement of the publication of Raven’s Run

Most ot the things I have presented in Serial have been moved afterward to Backfile and remain there to be read by anyone who checks in.  Even Jandrax and To Go Not Gently are there, because they were published long ago and are now hard to find.

The exceptions are those presentations which I intend to publish independently. Raven’s Run is one of those, and will be removed, but I will leave it in place in Serial until June first for those who are still catching up.

That doesn’t leave you stranded if you came in late. Raven’s Run will be available in e-book format from Amazon starting . . . . . .

ADD TAGS LATER

152. Montrose and Argyil

Here is a poem based in an era when having the wrong religious belief would get you killed very quickly and very cruelly.

The English Civil War was fought while America was being born, between fierce sects of Protestant Christians, over points of doctrine so small that no one remembers them but historians. It was a time of multiple and conflicting loyalties, when opportunists and men of conscience alike changed sides, then repented and changed back again. Much of the freedom of religion we cherish in America today came as a reaction to the excesses visited on the people when armies decided what God had intended.

It was not unlike Shia and Sunni today. I understand them both, and fear them both when they march, because I remember how recently our Christian ancestors were killing each other for the same kinds of reasons.

To explain the obscure points in this poem, it takes place in Scotland which was under English rule. The tolbooth is Edinburgh city hall and the heads of executed prisoners were hung there. Corbies are crows in the Scots language. Montrose and Argyll were sometime enemies, depending on shifting fortunes. Both fought long and eventually lost – then lost their heads. I have bent history enough to put them on the spikes at the same time, so they could have a final conversation.

Montrose and Argyll

There is a spike by the Tolbooth side
Where famous heads are hung to dry;
There came the Marquise of Argyil,
Bereft of body, to reside.

In sun and rain, by weeks and days,
‘Til bare of flesh, by corbies pared,
Above the commons in the street
Who gibed and jeered, and milled and stared.

Montrose later joined him there,
Come newly from the scaffold head,
With fresh and bloody countenance,
Unwelcome, save that he was dead.

Then Montrose said to Argyil’s skull,
Staring eyeless at his side,
“A martyr’s death ye sought and found;
I see your flesh is mortified.”

The skull spoke back, “My Lord Montrose,
Ascent has brought you to my side;
And yet the rose upon your cheek
Comes newly leaking from your eye.”

They bickered harshly through the day
Of who was right when King Charles fell,
And who the Lord most dearly loved,
And who would spend his days in hell.

Then said the Marquise of Argyil,
“That ye died was no one’s fault but yours.
Ye had the chance to do the right,
But ye woudna’ heed the Lord.”

Replied the Marquise of Montrose,
“Full many died, whose deaths are yours.
Ye had the chance to let them live,
But ye woudna’ heed the Lord.”

They both paused, their voices spent,
Reflecting on the weary years,
The twists, the turns, the changing sides,
Betrayals, deaths, and bitter tears.

To overthrow an upstart King,
Then, repentant, bring him back again.
For Scotland, God, or Covenant
‘Til Cromwell’s axe cut short his reign.

Now all is done; the King is dead,
The Scottish church no stronger stands;
Both Marquises have lost their heads,
And Cromwell strides upon the land.

  * * *

          Myself, I am a sinful man,
          My kindness an indifferent sort.
          Temptation is my truest friend,
          And prayer remains a last resort.

          Yet when I stood beneath those spikes
          To hear the dead and mighty speak
          With undiminished passion still,
          Though hung in shame before the weak.

          I wondered then, as I ask now,
          What further deeds they might begin,
          In Jesus’ name, on Jesus’ flock,
          If they were not such Christian men.

151. Not So New Enemies

Part two of a comparison of Christianity and Islam.

Bush Two called those who strap on bombs to kill their enemies, cowards. That was the most monumentally stupid statement to ever come out of the mouth of a man not noted for his wisdom. People who die for their beliefs are not cowards. If we are to defeat them, we have to understand them. Mislabeling them is not useful. And if we call them fanatics, we had better understand what fanaticism is.

We made a start yesterday by looking at Christian fanatics. Now it’s time to make the comparison to Islam.

*****

Muhammad did not claim to be God or his son. He claimed to be God’s messenger, a prophet, making him closer to Moses or Isaiah than to Jesus. Muslims believe that Jesus was also a prophet, but not the Son of God. Christianity grew out of Judaism, fulfilling it and therefore removing its validity, at least according to Christians. Islam grew out of both and recognizes both as sister religions which have been rendered obsolete by the Koran. Christians and Jews get preferential tax treatment in Islamic law as People of the Book.

That doesn’t keep wars from happening.

Christians claim to be a religion of peace, but history does not bear that out. Actual wars of religion occurred throughout the Reformation period, and wars of politics and commerce often had a strong religious component. Think of the conquest of Mexico, with priests marching beside the conquistadores and building their missions in the shadow of the presidio.

Islam was born in conflict and has never hidden its belief that the Koran should be spread by military conquest.

Before the Reformation, Christianity had about a thousand years of supremacy, full of internal strife, but well able to keep that strife in check. When Jan Hus rebelled against the Church, they burned him at the stake; problem solved.

Islam, on the other hand, split into two parts almost from the beginning. Upon Muhammad’s death, two lines of succession emerged. Those who favored Abu Bakr became Sunni; those who favored Ali ibn Abi Talib became the Shia. Both sects follow the five pillars of Islam and both believe in the absolute authority of the Koran. They differ on their interpretations of the Koran, and those disagreements have been passed on by sectarian schools. Each sect would say that the other might think they follow the Koran, but they are following false doctrine, and have abandoned Allah. All of this sounds a lot like my Baptist father arguing with my Catholic uncle.

Each of the two sects of Islam remained unified. This was very different from the Catholic and Protestant split. The Catholic church remained unified, but Protestants exploded into hundreds of different denominations, mostly at verbal war with one another, and occasionally at real war.

Throughout the history of Islam, church and government have interacted closely. Islam was spread by conquest, which isn’t necessarily as bloody as it seems. Wherever Islam conquered, the old underdogs often rode the elevator of change to high position in the new order. Sometimes they were very helpful in easing the road to conquest.

By a century after Muhammad’s death, much of the Holy Land was in Muslim hands, which did not please the Catholic church. When Tariq ibn Ziyad led his armies across the Straits of Gibraltar and conquered Spain in 711, the Catholic church fought back, but it took seven hundred years to expel the conquerors. In 1492, the Catholic rulers of Spain finally drove out the last Muslims, expelled the Jews, sent Columbus exploring, and began the Spanish Inquisition. Lovely year.

Also during that period, the Catholic church decided to take back the Holy Land, and set the Crusades in motion. Everybody knows that. What is not so well known is that for most of the second millennium, Eastern Europe was a battleground where vast areas were conquered by Muslim leaders, then reconquered by Christian leaders a few decades later, then Muslim, then Christian, for a very long and depressing time.

So we come to today, in a section of the world where two warring sects of Islam are filled with fourteen hundred years of hatred for each other; where religious, ethnic, and dynastic differences abound; and where those who would prefer prosperity at any reasonable cost, clash with those who are entirely dedicated to following the word of Allah, as their particular leaders understand that word. Many would love to kill westerners, but satisfy themselves instead by killing members of the opposite sect who are so near at hand, and such an easy target.

Above all, Islam is a religion which never exploded into a hundred sects. When there are only two sects, victory and the destruction of the other seems possible for both.

In Britain during the War of the Three Kingdoms (see tomorrow’s post) even pious men kept switching sides because they were enmeshed in conflicting loyalties to King or Parliament, to home region, to religion, to friends, and to their own particular bottom line. All of these loyalties were absolute, but as the situations changed, one loyalty would override another and a man would find himself fighting along side the ones he was fighting against only months earlier.

That should sound familiar. Change the names and the dates, and it could be the Middle East today.

150. Old Enemies

There are times when a man has to stand up and defend his country. That is the flip side to yesterday’s post criticizing boot camps.

Today we face Islamic extremists who would destroy us. We can bemoan the our mistakes in Iraq, but we have to move forward from where we are. Wishful thinking is of no value in this issue. We call them fanatics. That’s an accurate description, but it is not useful. It’s just another word like evil, enemy, or barbarian – just another word that means THEM, as opposed to US.

If we are going to understand Islamic terrorists in order to defeat them, we have to find the inner fanatic in our own culture, so we can start to see the world through their eyes. Today we will revisit a time when Christians were killing each other over doctrine. Tomorrow, we’ll compare that to Islam.

*****

Trying to compress two thousand years of Christian history into a few hundred words borders on the burlesque, but let’s try. Christianity began with Jesus, who did not write the Bible. Fundamentalists like my people believe that it was written by his immediate followers under the infallible inspiration of God, but textual evidence suggests that it was actually written hundreds of years later.

In any case, by the third century there were hundreds of “books” to chose from. The Church chose some and discarded many in order to create the Bible. This gives some validity to the Catholic notion that the word of the Church is more important than the Bible, or at least others’ interpretations of the Bible.

Within the Roman empire, Christianity went from persecuted, to allowed, to the official religion of the state. Then along came Martin Luther. He was not the first to question the Church, but he was the first one to live through the encounter, because of changes in world politics which pitted proto-German rulers against Rome and provided him with a sanctuary.

The dam broke and here came a vast flood of new denominations, each anti-Catholic and each disputing with its fellow Protestants. For protection, many of these denominations sought the protection of secular leaders. Protection from outside enemies soon moved toward forced conversions within an area. The Dutch and Swiss became largely Calvinist, many Germanic states became Lutheran, Ireland remained Catholic at the core, although under increasing pressure from their English conquerors, France and Spain remained Catholic, England became the realm of the Church of England, and Scotland fell under a particularly Knox-ious form of Calvinism.

From 1618 through 1648 the Thirty Years War decimated Europe as country after country fought to see which form of Christianity would prevail, cementing the notion of one realm, one ruler, one religion. The notion of individual choice in religion was crushed under the boots of Kings and generals. This era provided every denomination with myths of how THEY were trying to destroy OUR beliefs. That WE were also trying to destroy THEIR beliefs tends to be forgotten.

The English Civil War, also called the War of the Three Kingdoms, came hard on the heels of the Thirty Years War. American notions of religious freedom were born out of the horrors of a conflict where various interpretations of God’s Truth were enforced at sword point, and partisan armies swept the land. The American answer to all this was the separation of church and state, found in the First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof . . .

There is a bit of cynicism in this. Instead of insisting that God’s will be done, Americans have learned that the man in power rarely understands God’s will.

149. Boot Camp

It’s Armed Forces Week again, that time of year when any questioning of the military is taken as a slap at servicemen or veterans. Citizens who have the temerity to say, “Wait a minute, let’s talk this over,” are seen as unpatriotic. When I was in the military, those people were called commie-pinko wimps. I was one of them, but they drafted me anyway. I’ve told that story in 42. The Other Veterans. I also told the flip side of the story in 43. S. L. goes to War and 44. S. L. in Occupation, which detail my father’s WW II experiences. There are times when a man has to stand up and defend his country. There are also times when a man has to stand up and tell his country to back off.

The military has no use for patriots, because patriots think for themselves. In combat, a soldier who shouts, “We must not do this,” is likely to get himself and his teammates killed. He has to go on, following orders.

So how do we turn patriots into yes-men? Boot camp. That’s what it’s there for.

Boot camp is not seen as something important, or morally debilitating. And, I suppose, compared the things that happen later in the field, it isn’t that important. But . . . without boot camp to turn patriots into soldiers, those later events could never happen.

This isn’t about me. I went through boot camp in neutral mode, observing, remembering, and trying not to feel. I wan’t always successful, but I was successful enough to survive intact. I was changed, of course, but by my own experiences, not by pre-programmed manipulations.

This also isn’t about the eighteen year old children who made up most of the recruits, who were eager to follow the path their elders had set, and ready to go over and kick some commie ass. This is about one young man, and those he represents. He came into boot camp a patriot, ready to serve his country, full of love and compassion, but ready to do his duty. They broke him. I can still see him standing in the barracks before lights out, talking to his friends, saying, “This isn’t right. I joined up to fight for my country. Why are they treating us like this?” His friends laughed at him and told him that this was nothing, it was just getting him ready for what was to come.

It wasn’t nothing, but it was getting ready for his life to come. That was the point.

I never talked to him. There was nothing I could say. He was learning in front of my eyes what I had learned years before, at other hands, under other circumstances. But I never forgot him.

Boot camp is what in Anthropology we call a liminal experience, one that tears down an old identity in order to build a new one. The folks at boot camp are really good at this, even in mild boot camps like the one I experienced at the San Diego Naval Training Center. We could see the real thing across the fence at the Marine boot camp, and we thanked God every day that we weren’t Marines. While I was there, a Marine recruit who could no longer take the daily abuse ran off and stowed away on a jet liner at the civilian airport just over the fence. Hours later the jet landed at his home town on the east coast and he fell out of the wheel well, frozen, asphyxiated and dead. The Marines said good riddance. We worms (as Navy recruits are called) laughed. Learning to laugh at the death of others is part of the boot camp experience.

It was all choreographed indignation, play-acting inflicted onto a captive audience. They said that if we didn’t keep our barracks clean enough or our socks rolled tightly enough, the Trouble Shooters would come.

“You worms have been given socks to roll! That’s all we trust you with now! How can we trust you with nuclear bombs once you’re on an aircraft carrier if you can’t roll socks now!”  Every word was delivered at a shout.

Of course, the Trouble Shooters came. They always do. They came in the night, screaming in manufactured rage and tearing the barracks apart while we stood at attention in our shorts at the foot of each bed.

Near-naked, helpless, frightened into immobility, knowing that the only way to survive was to  let the insanity happen. Civilian identities dying; new, military identities growing.

The making of a Navyman. You could put it on a poster.

148. Novella 3, Lost Legacy

Heinlein was not a hero to me when I read him as a youth, just one of many science fiction writers that filled up my head with stories. We are talking about the sixties, but I was reading old library books that went back to the thirties and forties, so there was a lot to choose from. For ideas, I went to Clarke – who else? For adventure, Andre Norton every time. Reading Heinlein was like listening to stories told by one of my uncles.

Clarke’s people lived in cities and on spaceships. Norton’s lived in the wilderness – alien, but still wilderness. Heinlein’s people all carried Missouri in their blood, and Missouri was only forty miles away from where I lived. Heinlein’s characters were like goofy, distant members of the family.

I see Heinlein’s star fading, and I think his down-home characters won’t stand him in good stead in the future. He’s going out of style in the squeaky clean, politically correct present. It’s too bad; I liked his people, warts and all.

Of all Heinlein’s work I read when I was young, the story that took my breath away was his novella Lost Legacy. I see that Heinlein had three novellas in the running for this year’s retro Hugo for 1941. Lost Legacy should have been one of them.

If you are a writer, or want to be, seek out Lost Legacy, because Heinlein puts on a clinic in how things ought to be done. It begins with badinage between a surgeon (Coburn) and a psychologist (Huxley) is the local club. Using his favorite schtick, joking conversation between competent professionals, Heinlein gives a a thumbnail introduction to para-psychology. Then comes a phone call, and Coburn has to rush off to tend to an accident victim. He invites Huxley to watch. The description of the prep and surgery is spot on for the era, and rises to poetry near the end.

The accident victim was one of the psychologist’s subjects, a man who could “see around corners”. After Coburn has to excise part of his brain, his clairvoyance is gone. Huxley feels that esp must reside in that part of the brain and sets out, with his girlfriend, to prove his hypothesis.

Incidentally, to enjoy Lost Legacy, you have to keep reminding yourself that in 1941 the functions of various parts of the brain were unknown and that our relatively full complement of pre-human ancestors had not yet been dug up. You also have to resist a too-easy accusation of sexism. The teasing is sexist – or, by 1941 standards, normal – but Joan Freeman is fully a part of the team.

Once they have mastered clairvoyance, their difficulties really start. No one believes them, they are fired from their respective jobs, they set off to think things over, and they fall into the company of a group of adepts. They discover that they are part of a multi-millennial war for the soul of man, and fight in its last battle.

That’s seventy five pages squeezed into three sentences, and it’s all I’m going to give you. Read the original. Copies of Assignment in Eternity, which contains it, are not hard to find in used bookstores.

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Okay, fair warning! If you aren’t a word nerd, or a fan of both Heinlein and E. E. Smith, you may want to stop reading right now. From here on, it gets pretty obscure, pretty fast.

Near the end of Lost Legacy, Moulton says, “We come.” This is present tense, actually used to mean the present moment, something it almost never means in ordinary speech. “Present tense” means usually, or habitually, or from time to time. It never really means now. “I go to the market” doesn’t mean right now, this moment, as we speak. It would be used something like, “I go to the market every Tuesday.” If we meant right now, this moment, we would say, “I’m going to the market right now.” Note the addition of am.

When I read Lost Legacy, in high school, during the sixties, I had never seen present tense used to actually mean present tense. It jumped off the page at me, a little, polished gem of wordcraft that I never forgot. I didn’t see anything like it again for a decade, until I read Children of the Lens, where E. E. Smith put the words, “I come, at speed,” into the mouth of one of his characters.

Pardon a digression. Past tense isn’t about the past. We don’t write historical novels in past tense, contemporary romances in present tense, and science fiction in future tense. Past tense is story tense. It says to the reader, “The events in this story, the sequencing, the cause and effect, are of this story only. They do not relate to your world. When you enter here, you become a part of the story’s space-time. If it is four o’clock on page nine when you read this as a child, it will still be four o’clock on page nine when you read it again as an old man.”

The ubiquitous use of present tense as story tense in modern writing offends me. It is clumsy, ugly, and there is no longer any novelty in it.

More decades passed before I discovered that Heinlein and E. E. Smith were close friends. I would love to know more about how much they bounced ideas back and forth.

The original magazine version of Smith’s Lensman series was published between 1937 and 1948. Lost Legacy was published in 1941. It seems like half the characters in Heinlein’s universe were named Smith, although that could as well be an “everyman” reference. There is no question that Lensman Ted Smith who has a cameo in The Number of the Beast is a shout-out to Heinlein’s old friend.

I would love to have been a fly on the wall of Doc Smith’s kitchen when the Heinlein’s came to visit.

Now, reading Lost Legacy again after many years, I am struck by its similarity to Smith’s work. It seems to capture the whole mojo of the Lensman series in seventy-five pages.