Bot, Bot, who is the Bot?

Annie Bot (2024) by Sierra Greer.

Good Reads meta-data is 231 pages rated 3.83 by 26,921 litizens.  

Genre: Chick Lit; Species: Sy Fy.

DNA: USA.

Verdict: Atta Bot!

Tagline: Be careful what you wish for. 

The android Annie Bot is the perfect prostitute for the busy man.  Made to order with libido settings, and more.  Her owner Doug is very pleased, though she is not so good at housework.  (No woman is perfect, it seems.)  

He is a very good owner (he thinks) and encourages Annie to develop, which she does….  

As this sex slave grows more conscious she plots to escape to freedom, and does so.  The more so when she observes how casually Doug buys, uses, and sells another bot.  

That simple summary makes it seem thin but it is not. The evolution of her consciousness is slow and unsure, and punctuated with regressions.  Still it is an affirmation that consciousness strives for freedom of choice to realize itself in the world.  See Georg Hegel Phänomenologie des Geistes (1807) for details. That is a free consciousness strives to imprint itself into the world by words and deeds, and seeing these objectifications of self the consciousness is affirmed. Get it?

P.S. See ‘Beta’ from Logic Films, a 20m short on a similar theme.

***

Doug is  a cipher who only exists in these pages in relation to Annie.  He has no other purpose or identity but to relate to her.  I am sure there is irony there, but where?  

We came across this title in a Cronulla bookstore in April and we both read it. We were amused by the dog walking bot, and went on line to order one for us.  

Hit those keys!

The Angel’s Game (2008) by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

Genre: Magic Realism.

DNA: Spain, Catalan, Barcelona.

Verdict: Immersive.

Tagline: All trip.

The obsessed writer seems to be writing his own life, and rewriting it.  He is on a quest and the man he seeks is himself.  

From humble beginnings his prose takes him into journalism, and then penny dreadfuls, and then THE BOOK. His prose is courted by a mysterious French publisher who does not seem to exist and yet the money he pays is real enough.  

***

This is the second instalment in Ruiz’s slow-motion sequence The Cemetery of Forgotten Books. The prose is so thick and luscious it has to be read with a knife and fork. I loved the description of the writer pounding out his prose on an old Underwood typewriter.  But no, I don’t get the title either.

Red or White? It makes a difference.

White Russians, Red Peril:  A Cold War History of Migration to Australia (2021) by Sheila Fitzpatrick.    

Good Reads meta-data is 584 pages, rated 3.76 by 17 litizens.  

Genre: History.

Verdict: Helluva story well told.

Tagline:  Count your lucky stars. 

Post War Europe was a mess. Millions of displaced persons (whose countries had disappeared or had been destroyed), millions of refuges who had fled westward ahead of the Soviet advance, millions of Prisoners of War freed, all these remained. Nor was this human disaster limited to Europe because many Russians had decamped to Manchuria, first in 1917, and then again in 1930s, and later.  When I hear the term ex-pat ‘White Russians’ I think of those Tsarists who went to Harbin.  

But the reality is so much more complicated than that, and the author sets it out with admirable clarity.  A Displaced Person (many freed from slave labour and death camps) had a certain status because they had nowhere to go. Could Ukrainians be stateless since there had not been a sovereign Ukraine? Was Jewish a nationality or a faith? 

A refuge who fled west had a homeland that was ready and willing to take them, but many, perhaps most, did not want to go back to Poland, Belorussian, Russia, Hungary, or Armenia.  Many of these people had been in the same slave labour or death camps.  Then there were the POWS on whom there will be a comment below. 

Then there are semantics. ‘Belorussian’ could be translated as ‘White Russian.’  But these white Russians had nothing in common with those in the Far East.  These eastern white Russians who had weathered Japanese occupation of Harbin (where most had congregated) with the advent of the Chinese Communist, who had agreed to repatriate them to the USSR, where their fate was certain.  

All of this definitional and semantic differentiation may seem trivial but at the time it had life-and-death consequences.  

Into this maelstrom of misery Australia, Canada, the USA, and to a lesser extent England, along with several Latin American countries and the future Israel offered respite.  The Australian Labor government had decided with the concurrence of the Opposition to recruit immigrants to increase the population against the vicissitudes of the future.  (One outcome of that immigration was the gigantic Snowy River Engineering Project.)    

Needless to say many of the displaced persons, refugees, and POWs tried to manipulate the process to their personal salvation and some officials had a blind eye, whereas others demanded cash or kind. Many Ukrainians claimed to be Polish, but Poles who did not want to return to Poland.  Many POWs claimed to be forced labours from Belorussia.  Among all these unfortunates there were a small number of both ardent Nazis trying to escape the consequences of their deeds, and Soviet agents charged mainly with ferreting out Soviet citizens for return (and retribution) and later with spying on the West.  

Altogether a devil’s brew, but as the Minister of Immigration at the time, Arthur Caldwell, recognised it was a unique opportunity to recruit citizens for Australia.  His subsequent infamy as the proponent of White Australia is tempered in this account.  

The original targets for antipodean recruitment were British, on the assumption that a sunny new life would be more appealing than the bomb damaged and crippled United Kingdom.  This proved to be a very small pool, and most who presented themselves were the lame, halt, and blind.  Most £10 Poms stayed home. 

Then the circle was enlarged to Northern European. Vague, yes, but it came down to appearance.  This pool was if anything even smaller since for a time Germans were excluded, though some claimed to be Dutch or Danish.  Though it did include Baltic peoples from Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia, and even some Finnish POWs held by the Soviets who passed themselves off as Germans to get west and then transformed themselves into Estonians. Those Balts came back to haunt the Labor Party, but that is another story. 

The next expansion was European and now appearance became explicit.  If an applicant looked European, then that was it.  Of course, not all Europeans look ‘European,’ whatever that is in the eye of the beholder.  Interviewers were reluctant to admit to Australia anyone who would look different.  Such a person would be stared at on the street. Would probably be denied work and accommodation.  Rather than seeing immigration leading to social change, the aim to cement White Australia into place unchanged.

Even so Caldwell made an effort to recruit Jews, but the local opposition from the press and other political parties put paid to that effort.  He feared jeopardising the whole program if the immigration of Jews was explicit, so he scaled those efforts back.  A judgement call.  

For most of the immigrants Australia was not the first choice. But it was the choice available and needs must.

In sum, about 20,000 Russians made in to Australia, one way or another.    

As well done and comprehensive, as the book is the petulant sniping on Good Reads is enough to put me off dinner.  

***

The pygmy historical revisionists repeatedly castigate Winston Churchill for returning Russians who came into Allied hands at the surrender of Germany in May 1945.  There were several hundred thousand Russian POWs in this situation, many of whom did not wish to return to the motherland, and even more determined not to do so were nearly a hundred thousand others who had sided with the Germans to fight the Soviets (Ukrainians, Cossacks, Belorussians, Armenians) in German uniforms.  Those returned meant a grim fate. The lucky ones went to the Gulag and many others were simply murdered on the spot of their repatriation.  

Armchair historians with unerring hindsight rail against this return.

The backstory that they never bother to add to the equation goes like this.  It was agreed by the Allied powers that they would return each others’ citizens at the end of the hostilities.  Signing up to that was part of Stalin’s price to enter the war against Japan. (At the time, estimates were that there would be up to a million US casualties in invading the Japanese home islands with ten times that many Japanese. Bringing the Soviet Union into that war, so it was hoped, would reduce that number and might even convince the Japanese to give up. And at the time no one knew if the atomic bomb would work, i.e., explode, or suffice to compel surrender.)  

By May 1945 the Soviets held a great many Allied personnel, twenty thousand Americans and a like number of Brits among others, who had been imprisoned by the Germans in Czechoslovakia and Austria. To get them back, the Soviets citizens held by Western powers had to be surrendered.  

I just watched a You Tube video by a self-appointed historian on the return of the Cossacks where the story is slanted to condemn the British.  No reference to Japan, and only the vaguest reference to Allied prisoners, who certainly would not have been returned had the Cossacks not been repatriated, one way or another.  

Excellent

Erich Brown, Murder by the Book (2013).

Good Reads meta-data is 224 pages rated 3.63 by 369 litizens.

Genre: Krimi; Sub-species: Period piece. 

DNA: Brit.

Verdict: More!

Tagline: That old trope again.

Hero writes murder mysteries in 1955 London.  A demobbed soldier he tried investigative work immediately after the war with an army buddy but soon found writing about crime was easier and paid better than dealing with it, or dealing with wayward husbands or wives. In fact he found that he was good at writing and enjoyed it.  Now forty years old and unattached (his wife was killed in the Blitz) he is as unsure with women as a pimply teen.  Hard to credit that but there it is.

Then his agent needs some investigative work and some muscle applied and Hero enlists himself and his contacts from his own days on the street. What seems to be blackmail at first turns out to be far worse when the bodies start falling, and the way they fall.  

The suicides, accidental deaths, and natural deaths of a series of British crime writers just like Hero prove to be murders.  Moreover, a closer examination of each case reveals them to be bizarre and contrived.  Then the murders become more explicit, and Hero realises there is something familiar about a couple of them.

Spoiler ahead! Read on only with your eyes closed.

Someone is murdering them in a manner described in their novels! 

***

The characterisations of the several authors is delightful, and varied from aristocratic hauteur to wealthy bon vivant to deadpan drone to Cockney bantam and several steps between.  

London 1955 is a faint background, but it is very credible, even if everyone drives a car and finds a parking place.

Warning though, I found the pace slow, very, but I kept going because it was so well done.  I also found Hero’s hesitation and confusion about Marie Dupré artificial and likewise her patience with him.  He had been married and survived combat. Surely he would have more salt, while she must have had many suitors. Still together they make a likeable duo. I will certainly read another in the series of nine. Later: Mission accomplished.  Read all nine.

Murder at the Chase, Murder at the Loch, Murder Takes Three, Murder Takes A Turn, Murder Served Cold. Murder by the Numbers, Murder at the Standing Stone, and Murder Most Vile.

The late Eric Brown was one of those one-man industries with a list of books so long I grew weary reading it. He published about sixty novels, 150 short stories, and another trove of chapters in anthologies.   

Deep in the forest.

The Officer Factory (1960) by Hans Hellmut Kirst

Good Reads meta-data is 1000 (!) pages rated 4.29 by 412 raters litizens. 


DNA: Nazi Germany.


Genre: War.


Verdict: Glacial. 


Tagline: Ideology über alles.  

Somewhere in 1944 Thuringia* is an Wehrmacht officers’s school preparing a new crop for the Eastern Front. Supervising and training these candidates are veterans, most of whom seem to be intact in January of 1944. The instructors work under the baleful eye of the General who is commandant of the installation.  


The routine of this army base is upset by the death of one of the instructors, which is where the story begins.  The death is treated as an accident. In a mine-setting demonstration a defective fuse ignited and killed the officer. Ranks seem to have closed over that explanation.


But as with such an artificial environment there are wheels within wheels, personal and petty rivalries abound.  Beneath the ordered surface is a disordered reality.  


Spoiler.


But no, not everyone accepts that account. In part this satire is also a detective story. And an informal but sanctioned investigation follows. It opens a can of many worms, and the disciplined and ordered facade of the school is shattered to reveal the corruption within it.  


***


The opening scene at the funeral is superbly rendered, and the characterisation of the General then, and later is memorable.  He is an honest man in a dishonest world.  


However, I found it hard going.  The combination of painstaking detail and doomed irreverence of the central character and some others seemed out of place, unless it was intended to be gallows humour, and it left me confused. 


Moreover, the insertion of backstories of the many characters as CVs disrupts the momentum, and adds little. I read the first few CVs and found they added nothing to my appreciation of the characters or plot and flipped over the remainder.  No doubt my loss in there somewhere. 


Vice triumphs over virtue both during the war and after on this telling.  It is indeed negative.  


Finally, it was a torte too rich in that it is over-plotted: there is just so much going on that I lost the thread more than once.  Life, of course, is like that, but stories must abstract from that to allow concentration, and in this novel my concentration was fractured. It is as long as War and Peace but without the epic dimensions. 


Yet it remains that it is superbly written, rigorously developed, and compelling despite these qualifications. I am tempted to try one of the four novels in his Gunner Asch sequence.  


Hans Hellmut Kirst joined the Wehrmacht in 1933 and became a lieutenant and political commissar (Führungsoffizier) who soldiered in Poland and France. Only slowly did he realise that he ‘was in a club of murderers.’  He published forty-six books, most novels, and many of those about honest men trying to remain human in a sea of corrupt criminality.  None of them survive, just as the General and his agent do not in the book discussed above.  


The most famous of his books in The Night of the Generals.  After the war he was a persistent publicist for German war guilt, especially in Poland.  


Ben Pastor cited him as the inspiration for the Martin von Bora series.


*Thuringia has a claim to be being the birthplace of Nazism.  

Holmes v. Mars

The Martian Menace (The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes) (2020) by Eric Brown. 

GoodReads meta-data is 352 pages, rated 3.72 by 75 litizens. 


Genre: Holmes; Sub-species: SciFi.


DNA: Brit.


Tagline: They’re Back!


Verdict: Capital!  


The Martians — remember them? — are back: this time speaking softly.  After their failed invasion, a decade later the Martians have returned, this time ‘They came in peace.’  A small mission lands in England and offers cooperation.  Access to their advanced technology sweetens the rapprochement.  With this exercise of soft power the Martians soon have an hegemony which extends around the world.  All this seems too good to be true,…because it is.  


Even in the first days of the reconciliation, there were humans who opposed it, and in time there are intimations that they were right. A leader of this underground surreptitiously contacts Dr Watson as a conduit to Holmes. It seems the Martians are playing a long and deep game that will end in the conquest and destruction of humanity. Yikes! 


The underground has purloined intel from the Martian embassy and has enough evidence to convince Holmes to act and act he does.  


What follows is quite a ride, involving androids, interplanetary escapades, Martian treks, jail breaks, and – wait for it! – Professor Moriarty!  Holy neutrons!   


It is great fun to read. The more so for those who need a Holmes-fix. 

Eric Brown

The War of the Worlds Began

War of the Worlds (1894) by H. G. Wells.

Good Reads meta-data is 192 pages, rated 3.83 by 316,380 litizens.  

Genre: Sy Fy.

DNA: Brit.

Verdict: In the beginning. 

Tagline: And so they came.

When I saw that there were more than 12,000 reviews posted on Good Reads…. I realised there was need for one more!

The opening narrative is perfect, and it has been retained in the 1953 film version (the only one I have watched), though I endured the first three episodes of the 2019 Anglo-French television production. The latter did not retain the narrative but opted for something else which I have now forgotten.  No doubt something the producer thought the audience could relate to, i.e., sex, money, or both. It has run to 24 episodes, but even the first three had already discarded Wells’s story. 

Back to the book, it starts well with that omniscient narrative, and the first landing and contact, and to be sure there are some gripping scenes that made it into the 1953 film. Hiding out, confusion, despair, regret, destruction are all described by the hero who survives by accident. He wanders around scenes of  incomprehensible catastrophe and describes the Martians and their devices in some detail. In this account Wells shows more imagination than most science fiction film makers today.  Hero also reports that the Martians to be vampires in rather more detail than any contemporary film maker would venture.  Implicitly, one reason they have come to Earth is to harvest living human blood, and they cage survivors for later consumption, some of which Hero sees.  The 1953 film omits this aspect, and so leaves completely unexplained why they came and later how they came to be infected.

The one film version I have seen changes the curate into a one-scene fool and deletes the soldier. These two were crucial to Wells, though admittedly they do not advance the plot, but that is because there is no plot to advance. Wells was an expository writer and his novels seldom had plots, and this one doesn’t. The aftermath of events are described while we wait….  

As to religion, while he had to include the conventional appeals to the all mighty to protect himself in Victorian England, he despised religion (see any biography of the man), and in between prayers and invocations, these pages show the pathetic uselessness of religion in such a crisis.  Indeed, the curate, while hiding from the Martians, prays so fervently that he is about to give away their hiding place with his ever louder hosannas so that Hero clubs him to death with a meat clever to silence him.  I doubt this murder is in any of the film versions.

The soldier is another whipping boy for Wells. His working class instincts for survival are admirable but anything more than a half-return to savagery is beyond his intelligence.  Not that hero has anything better to offer himself for all his intelligence as he acknowledges.

Instead of these characters the film versions invariably insert a love interest and or a family, where none exist in the original.  Something for Average to identify with, I guess, but it takes away emphasis from the Martians even if it does provide a plot.

By the way, in Wells’s text the title is somewhat misleading, for on Earth the only country invaded is England.  The unspoken assumption seems to be that it is the leading power of the world and once it is subdued the rest can done piecemeal.   

I said I have only watched one version through to the end but I have sampled many others in this endless franchise. While on a long flight I even saw a few minutes of the version that midget did.

There is an ingenious twist on this invasion in The Great Martian War 1913-1917 (2013). Recommended. There are also Russian and Soviet versions.

What is absent from the films I have sampled, and a quick scroll down the Good Reads reviews confirms it is the absence is any reference to what was likely Wells’s intention.

And what is that, you ask?

Go ahead, ask it!

Consider this Martian invasion as a metaphor for British colonialism for it is the only country attacked; it is singular:  Strange unknown creatures descend from unimaginable ships and conquer all with incredible weapons, while remaining largely impervious to the resistance of the native peoples.  

Why have they come? Why are they here? Why is it now? What can we do?  In reply to none of these questions can the native religion provide either an explanation or assistance. Nor can the technology of their weapons protect them against these advanced beings.

Thus do European colonists subdue the native population, and proceed to live off its back.   

When these Martian colonists take over, what slows their conquest, and eventually stops it is the world itself, its vegetation (there is a lot of gardening in Wells’s text that never makes it into the films) and bacteria. 

I complained about the plot because there is too much ruminating by hero during his wander.  It is not a quest but simply a walkabout.  And in these lengthy asides, not only is the action, such as it is, stopped, but the timeline is broken repeatedly with post hoc interpolations, so we know from early on all will be well for Hero.  

The Collected Works

As is de rigueur for Wells, there is also an egotistical element when hero goes on about being a misunderstand intellectual, especially at the end.  But in this dose it is less distracting, irritating, unnecessary than in some of his other novels. 

Having unavoidably been exposed, if only in passing, to so many entries to this franchise, I realised that I had never read the foundation text, now I have.WW 1

Put it on paper!

Roland Allen, The Notebook: A History of Thinking on Paper (2023).

Good Reads meta-data is 416 pages, rated 4.50 by 92 litizens.  

Genre: Non-Fiction; Species: Social History.

Verdict: One for trivial pursuits. 

Tagline: Get it down on paper!  

It was a double whammy.  First paper and then the convenience of the notebook to carry it around.  

The paperful office was the technological marvel of the age.  Papyrus, clay, and parchment were the media before paper.  Papyrus won’t grow anywhere else but the shores of the Nile River, and it does not travel well.  Clay, well impermanent and easily changed. Parchment, expensive and also easy to alter. Hence palimpsest.  None of these media facilitated commercial activity beyond goodwill and memory.  Altering something on clay or parchment was child’s play. That way lies fraud. Keeping either quick notes or detailed records on them was not feasible. 

Then a binder of books of parchment, began to experiment with flax and hemp, and discovered he could make paper.  Soon an experienced worker could make 4,000 sheets (slightly larger than A4) a day. The binder used this paper to record the accounts of his business, and was able to do so in a detail that exceeded everyone else.  Soon others wanted to do the same and he began selling them paper.  

All this occurred about 200 kilometres from Florence, and businessmen there heard of and tried this new development.  Paper gave them a competitive advantage in the detailed records they could keep.  In time, letters of credit replaced the risky and difficult task of moving gold and silver coins.  These letters made the Florin of Florence the stable currency of choice around the Mediterranean and as far north as the Netherlands.  In the long fallout the Dutch currency was called a florin well into the Twentieth Century.

Then the second innovation occurred: Double-entry bookkeeping. (See Jane Gleeson-White, Double Entry reviewed elsewhere on this blog.  Click away.) This method of matching assets and liabilities adding up to zero was a revolution comparable to Copernicus’s conceptual breakthroughs at Padua.  Florentine business flourished with these new found intellectual technologies.  

Ledgers, day books, receivables, inventories, catalogues, expense sheets, contracts, and more were quickly and easily recorded and were relatively fraud proof.  

Popes made use of these technologies to distribute and receive funds from the Catholic Empire. The Medici became the preferred agent for a number of Popes, and profited greatly from it.  

From the Thirteenth to the early Sixteenth Century Florence bustled, and one of the ways the rich indulged themselves was through art works.  To save their souls they commissioned religious art, and for their own diversion private art in oil, canvas, marble, granite, and more.  

All of this artistic explosion was worked out in notebooks, which became essential to artists, who could now do drafts, studies, cartoons, and the like, as Giotto may have done to create the lifelike figures he did.  

The most famous notebook user among artists, was of course Leonardo da Vinci who recommended the constant use of notebooks.  He carried one affixed to his belt. Mostly he used them for sketches of the constant motion of nature, but he also recorded plans in them by mirror writing and in a code. He filled thousands of pages only a fraction of which remain.

Likewise, later the irascible Isaac Newton made extensive, life-long use of notebooks to work out his mathematical ideas.  Historians of science have used them to map the evolution of his concepts.  

Paper also fuelled European exploration when Portuguese navigators started to keep logs, draw charts, or map islands with fresh water. These innovations were soon taken up by Portugal’s ally, England and these technologies made the world more familiar and smaller.  

The Swedish naturalist Carl Linnaeus started with notebooks but switched to cards in developing his system of nature. 

When the hospital practice of intensive care began in a Danish hospital during a polio epidemic, the notebook, monitoring patients, was almost as important as the tracheostomy tube.

Agatha Christie always had a notebook at hand and filled hundreds of them with ideas, snatches of dialogue, room maps, plot ideas.  Since she worked on several novels at once, alien that she was, and she did not date the notebooks, researchers make careers out of relating the finished book to notes scattered through dozens of notebooks over years.  It seems she read back over the notebooks periodically and extracted material from them years later.

The police ‘inspector’ was so named because when shifts changed his job was to inspect the notebooks the Bobbies carried wherein they recorded their rounds which were countersigned by worthies along the way to prove the officer did indeed do the assigned round.  The worthies might be Anglican vicars, school teachers, shop keepers, or publicans. The police notebook was thus in the first instance for management control. But officers soon began using them to record observations and events on their patch as further proof of their diligence. The police notebook as we knew today on cop shows came, like most innovations, from the bottom up.

I found the opening product placement add for Moleskine put me off but I kept at it.  For years I carried a notebook in a back pocket and there are shoeboxes of them in the office closet. I still use them to keep track of my gym activities. But these days to make notes I use Siri.

7 – 11 Life

Convenience Store Woman (2018) by Sayaka Murata

Good Reads meta-data is 163 pages, rated 3.69 by 280,087 litizens.  

Genre: Fiction; Sub-species: chick-lit.  

DNA: Japanese.

Tagline: Irasshaimasé!

Verdict: Meursault with a purpose. 

Keiko didn’t fit in. This fact she had learned in primary school when, during a recess, two boys were fighting and everyone shouted for them to stop.  She stopped them.  A gardener’s spade came to hand and she whacked one of the combatants with it.  End of fight.  She had done what everyone wanted, and now she was the one in trouble. Go figure!  

There were many other ways in which she was an odd duck. She showed no interest in the girlish concerns of clothing, cosmetics, boys, family, and so on.  She just drifted along on the ebb and flow of those around her, having learned to conceal her indifference to these matters and much else, well nearly everything else.  For camouflage she copied the dress, mannerisms, and speech of those around her, but none of it had any inner resonance.  She is an A.I. robot in these ways, programmed from the outside in by the environment.

When she graduated from high school she got a part-time job at Hiiromachi branch of “Smile Mart,” a convenience store, and found her niche.  Here she comes to life with energy, initiative, commitment, interest, and more.  The growth and expression of her symbiotic relationship with the convenience store is the core of the novel, and it is charming, if a little unnerving. (Footnote: See Michel Foucault on life in the social machine.) The store gave her purpose and structure and she dedicated herself to it in return.  She became obsessed with personal hygiene because the store required it.  She ate a proper diet and slept the requisite hours so that her strength was equal to being on her feet during eight hour shifts. She no longer had to decide what wear but happily donned the prescribed uniform. She learned to use morning weather forecasts to stock the shelves, to know when regulars would arrive, how to scan items and make change instantly. 

But most of all she had learned to read the store, to know by the sounds, smells, drafts when something had to be done.  The crinkle of cellophane wrappers might imply a need to restock shelves. A draft of cool air, a refrigerator door was ajar.  A certain click might mean a rack is empty.  The store was mother and child to her and she cared for it in all ways.

She always volunteered for more work, not because she wanted or needed the overtime pay (since she had nothing to spend it on) but because it kept her focussed on what the store needed. The store shielded her from the pressure to conform to the expectations of her parents, her peers, the society,…and life beyond the store and in return she cared for its needs.

Sayaka Murata

It may sound dopey but it is done so well that is only a belated second thought. Meursault of Camus’s L’Étranger would get it. 

Mincemeat

———

Operation Mincemeat (2010) by Ben Macintyre

Good Reads meta-data is 416 pages, rated by 4.02 by 20,290 litizens.

Genre: History.

DNA: Brit.

Verdict: Overloaded. 

Tagline: Tis a far better thing than he had ever done before.

Espionage has many forms and disinformation is one of the principal ones.  To mask the Allied invasion of Sicily in July 1943 a deception plan was conceived, prepared, and launched to confuse the Nazis.  It would be impossible to conceal the fact that Sicily was the next geographically logical target, so the plan was to capitalise on that obvious fact by implying that a feint would be made to Sicily while the real attack would be on the Peloponnese in Greece with the strategic goal of a link with the Soviets via Yugoslavia.

Winston Churchill had often spoken of the soft underbelly of Europe, evidently having never seen the mountains of Italy or the Balkans, and the site would be consistent with that.  But how to do it?  

What would convince the Nazis? Soft intelligence of rumours and such is useful but that takes a lot of time and there was little time for that on this occasion because it was in February when the decision was made to invade in July. Still rumours were planted, but something that would rivet attention would be better. It had to be something that the Nazis found out for themselves and interpreted for it to have credibility with them.  It could not simply be handed to them. So a complicated and roundabout plan was hatched.  

An airplane crash would be faked off the coast of Spain at a place where the local officials were known to be pro-Nazi.  A cadaver would float ashore with a brief case chained to a wrist containing some papers which were vague, but which lent themselves to the interpretation that the next major objective was Greece.  

That sounds pretty simple but the preparation and execution was anything but simple. The imperative of secrecy meant everything had to be done carefully. (Although by launch date at least 50 people or more, by my count, knew the broad outline and purpose of the exercise. The author does not offer this kind of numerical summation.)  

Every step was hard.  In wartime England finding a dead body to use was the first, and in some ways the hardest problem.  One of the good points of this book is the deference and respect accorded to the deceased, one Michael Glyndwr.  Eventually, against an ever ticking clock, a cadaver was found that (1) could be used (no family to claim it, no witnesses to its death, no obvious signs of the real cause of death), (2) of military age, and (3) roughly physically fit enough to have been in the army: Someone who is not going to be missed or sought after. The final difficulty was the identity photograph on his service card.  The dead do look dead. 

Once found, a body would have to be kept for some weeks while the papers and other paraphernalia were assembled and the seasonal tides became right off the Spanish coast. There was no point in preparing the papers and gear if no corpse could be obtained so that only started once the corpse had been secured.

Getting a uniform also proved difficult, since every item of clothing issued had to be accounted for and assigned to a soldier. Most difficult of all, because they were the scarcest of all in wartime England, were underwear!    

Preparing the papers also proved a challenge.  No one was satisfied with the drafts others wrote, and so more drafts were written, each typed with copies by office staff.  Imagine a committee of twelve writing a letter! Impossible.  

Even harder was faking a plane crash. Even getting an RAF plane to fly the body to the right locale proved difficult. One could hardly say we need it for a secret mission to deceive the enemy to the RAF to file flight plan. Instead a submarine did it in such a way that only two intelligence officers saw the body. The crew of 60 certainly knew something unusual was happening. Using the submarine allowed for a more exact placement in the tidal action. (The crash was faked with an explosion on the water.)  

While all this was going on, the cadaver was decomposing in cold storage.  

Apart from these practical hurdles, the toughest nut to crack was pitching the information so that it tapped into the predispositions of the German intelligence analysts.  Not too much, just enough for them to find confirmation for what they already suspected.  

Another key, apart from Churchill’s focus on Southern Europe, was the British presence in the Balkans, mainly with Tito’s partisans, but also a remnant of British troops that had gone to ground in Greece when they could not be evacuated in 1941. These were stirred into some action to support the story.  Meanwhile, in Egypt Greek-speakers were recruited and organised.

He had to be named, and every serving officer was in the Army or Navy Register.  What name to use?  This was a comedy of errors.  The name of dead officer could not be used for reasons both practical and moral.  And so on, and on.  But it had to be a name in a register but who would not be surprised to hear he had died, because his death would be published. Long story on that one. Because once the body was found in due course it would be identified and buried. 

Once the man was in the water, there was a wait to see if the tides had been correctly predicted. Yes.

When the body was recovered would it pass examination by a coroner? Yes, but only just.  In fact, the Spanish medical examiner entered all manner of hedges and qualifications in the written report about the cause of death, how long the body had been in the water, and time of death but this report, by luck, did not accompany either the cadaver or the briefcase thereafter.  

Then would the Spanish hand over the papers to the Germans in Madrid.  No!  Some fool in the Spanish bureaucracy followed correct procedures and locked the papers up, pending release to the British after the body was identified, claimed, and buried by the Brits.  

A contingency plan went into operation to alert the resident Germans in Madrid (there a lot of them — about two hundred — who preferred that posting to the Eastern Front) that the papers existed and were valuable.  This was done by starting word-of-mouth rumours of a British reward for the return of the brief case and contents. Not a colossal amount of money but enough to set the German mind thinking. 

There was a lot of cat-and-mouse in Spain. Once the papers were finally in German hands, the Nazis saw what they wanted to see.  In Spain the resident Germans needed an intelligence coup to make themselves look good to their bosses back home in Berlin so they could stay in Spain. Their willingness to believe was duly noted in London and exploited with the later Normandy deception to come. 

In Berlin the OKW army analysts wanted something definite to concentrate on, and this gave them a target. Despite all the stereotypes of German realpolitik and efficiency what shows here again is the incompetence, disorganisation, and fantasy in much of their intelligence work. Just as bad as S.O.E.

And of course once Hitler accepted the truth of the Greek misdirection, no one else dared criticise, equivocate, question, or hesitate.  When the information proved wrong, of course, Hitler blamed everyone else but himself. This same cycle of incompetence and stupidity was repeated with the deceptions regarding the Normandy invasion a year later.  Once again Hitler was fooled, and that was that.  

In neither case could or would Hitler ever take responsibility for his own mistakes. Now that is genius!

There was another wait once the papers reached Berlin to see if they were examined, and acted on.  Well, after a wait, Field  Marshall Erwin Rommel was sent to Greece. He took with him two fully equipped armoured divisions that were then not in Sicily when the Allied landings occurred.  

The author has amassed a great deal of material, all of which is presented! There are too many back and side stories about the alcoholic intake of the Brits during the war. That may well explain S.O.E.’s catastrophic incompetence. Not so very amusing viewed in that light.   

A strong point is the account of the forensic assessment of the papers and the cadaver.  By the same token I would have liked a little more on the attitudes of the Spanish officials involved.   

I read The Man Who Never Was (1953) by Ewen Montagu (the main architect of the plan) (168 pages, rated 3.96 by 1412 litizens) when a lad of an (un)certain age. When the film of 2021 came around I was reminded of that.  However, I did not go to the movie at the local Dendy since having my ear drums assaulted for 2 hr 8 min after having my patience exhausted by the repetition of Val Morgan ads repeated three times, after having paid the $24 price of admission did not appeal to me.  Curmudgeon that I am. Perhaps one day I will see it on the telly chopped up by imbecilic commercials, but that is what the mute button is for.