Book Spotlight: Moral Fibre by Helena P. Schrader

 

The inspiring story of a bomber pilot, his crew and the woman he loved based on historical accounts…

Riding the icy, moonlit sky—

They took the war to Hitler.

Their chances of survival were less than fifty percent.

Their average age was 21.

This is the story of just one Lancaster skipper, his crew,

and the woman he loved.

It is intended as a tribute to them all.

Flying Officer Kit Moran has earned his pilot’s wings, but the greatest challenges still lie ahead: crewing up and returning to operations. Things aren’t made easier by the fact that while still a flight engineer, he was posted LMF (Lacking in Moral Fibre) for refusing to fly after a raid on Berlin that killed his best friend and skipper. Nor does it help that he is in love with his dead friend’s fiancé, who is not yet ready to become romantically involved again.

“[The hero’s] struggles, his life, and the romance he is continuously hoping and striving to have with the woman he loves hits you directly in the soul, but the addition of adventure and excitement makes you want to read cover-to-cover without ever having to put the book down…. The intriguing dialogue, the settings, the clear descriptions of such harsh situations – this author has hit on all cylinders once again, and even provides the most exhilarating history lesson I, personally, have ever had the pleasure of reading." 5-Stars!” Feathered Quill

“[Moral Fibre] takes the reader into the English psyche of [WWII], tapping the depths of human emotions, holding them up to the light, and revealing their concomitant beauty and ugliness in times of fear and crises. … Meticulously researched and skillfully written, Schrader’s Moral Fibre steps off the pages and comes to life. Her nuanced characters and authentic dialogue also provide a glimpse of Britain’s stratified class-conscious culture during the WWII era.
…. A riveting read and highly recommended!” – Chanticleer Reviews 5-Stars

“Helena P. Schrader … is a true master at delving into complex psychological dilemmas and emerging with a tantalizing, completely comprehensible tale of human frailty and strengths that blend into a unique experience for her readers. Moral Fibre is brilliantly crafted in its delicate treatment of an evolving relationship … and the clashes with staid tradition and prejudices. How they each evolve is the meat of Schrader’s magic. The relationship and romance scenarios are poignant and human, contrasted with the battle scenes and flying sequences which are accurate and detailed.” – Tom Gauthier for Readers Favorites

Book Information

Release Date: May 16, 2022

Publisher: Cross Seas Press

Soft Cover: ISBN: 978-1735313924; 436 pages; $19.95; E-Book, $9.49

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3otTh3c

Distributor: https://itascabooks.com/products/moral-fibre-a-bomber-pilots-story

Wing Commander Dr Grace opened the therapy session pleasantly as he usually did. “Pilot Officer Moran, you’ve been with us almost three weeks now, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Grace nodded, drew a deep breath and then parted his elegant hands in a gesture of vague helplessness. “We have a bit of a problem. You see, I can’t find the slightest evidence of mental illness. In fact, I would venture to say that you are one of the sanest young men I’ve talked to in a long time.”

“Well, sir, you are working at a mental institution, so you may not be seeing a representative sample of the population,” Moran pointed out.

Dr Grace laughed shortly but sobered rapidly. “The point, I’m afraid, is that in the absence of a clear mental disorder, you cannot be admitted to a psychiatric hospital.”

“That’s just as well,” Moran nodding his understanding. “I’d probably go mad there.”

Dr Grace leaned back in his chair with an amused smile playing tentatively upon his features. “I have to admit I’m somewhat surprised — but glad — to see you can face the future with this degree of levity.”

“I think it’s called ‘gallows humour’, sir.”

“Hm.” Dr Grace thought a moment and then admitted, “Moran, I can’t make a recommendation about your case unless you are more candid with me about why you refused to fly on November 23. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but unfortunately I must insist on you telling me what happened.”

Moran drew a deep breath and sat up straighter. He’d come to respect and trust Dr Grace and decided that, despite his earlier reticence, it wasn’t that hard to explain after all. “There’s not that much to it.” He ignored Dr Grace’s suddenly raised eyebrows. “On an operational sortie to Berlin on November 22, the bomb aimer was injured by flak and three other crew members, including the pilot, were severely wounded in a night fighter attack. We made an emergency landing at Hawkinge, pancaking at roughly 2:30 am on the morning of November 23. While still on the tarmac, I was informed that the skipper — my best friend — Flight Lieutenant Selkirk was dead. Apparently, he had died immediately after landing. By flying the Lancaster back to England and making a perfect landing he had saved the lives of the rest of us on board.

“The three of us who were not injured were told to take trains back to our operational station at RAF Elsham Wolds in Lincolnshire. We spent the rest of the night and most of the next morning in railway stations, sleeping as best we could on platform benches in our flying gear, or standing up in overcrowded trains. Apparently, no one in this country thinks bombing Berlin is important enough to give up their seats to tired aircrew returning from an op there!”

Dr Grace grimaced and shook his head in sympathy.

Moran continued bleakly, “We reached Elsham Wolds roughly twelve hours after we’d landed. I had only been in bed about two hours, when I was told I was slated to fly as engineer with a sprog crew that same evening. I was not amused, but I didn’t balk until they opened the curtains at the briefing and it was yet another run to Berlin.”

Dr Grace did not have to urge him to explain himself. Moran suddenly wanted someone to understand. “It was as if bloody Butcher Harris was punishing us for not hitting the target in a tight pattern the night before — as if we were to blame for the 100 mph winds, for Met getting the forecast wrong, for being scattered and ravaged by the Luftwaffe’s wild boars! We’re not people to Harris — just tools to prove that bombing alone can force Germany into surrender.

“He could have given us a night off to recover. Or he could have sent us against a different target — something closer and less hotly defended like Bielefeld or Muenster or Brest. Sending us back to Berlin the very next night was too bloody much to ask!”

Dr Grace didn’t answer for several minutes, during which time Kit started to become uncomfortable. All the rumours about what happened to men like him who “lacked moral fibre” crowded his brain — court martial, demotion to aircraftman, assignment to humiliating duties such as cleaning latrines or working in the morgue, or a dishonorable discharge and industrial conscription to the coal mines or a munitions factory. Whatever they did to him, the blot on his record would be forever.

Finally, Dr Grace drew a deep breath. “It is probably immaterial that I agree with you. I make no pretence of understanding the strategy behind our bombing campaign. As for asking you to fly the very next night, my understanding is that many squadron and station commanders feel that airmen who have undergone a traumatic experience need to be sent out again as soon as possible in order to prevent the trauma from taking root. It’s the same principle by which a rider who is thrown from a horse is told to get back on immediately. It’s well known that if they don’t, the fear of riding can become overpowering. Likewise, many pilots who have crashed need to overcome a fear of flying again. That fear increases the longer a man stays on the ground. In short, there would appear to be some justification for the actions of your CO. Would you agree with that?”

Moran nodded reluctantly. He wasn’t entirely sure this made sense. If you went out again immediately and had another terrible sortie, didn’t that just reinforce the trauma? Increase the fear?

Dr Grace was speaking again. “Now, let me ask you this — a purely hypothetical question, you understand. Could you imagine any circumstances under which you would be willing to fly operations again?”

“Of course. With a skipper I know and trust, I’d be happy to fly tomorrow.”

Dr Grace nodded but remarked with a mildly reproving smile. “That may just be a touch over-zealous, Pilot Officer Moran.”

“You did say the question was hypothetical,” Moran reminded him with the hint of a smile.

Dr Grace smiled back in acknowledgement, but then turned serious again.  He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk and his hands clasped. “RAF Psychiatrists such as myself have been looking at the evidence, and we have come to the conclusion that the tours of duty are too long and the breaks between tours too short. The men who volunteer for aircrew are, with very few exceptions, men of superior dedication and character. Nevertheless, as a colleague of mine put it, courage is like money in the bank. If you use it up more rapidly than you can replenish it, you will eventually have nothing left.”

That sounded to Moran as if the wing commander was implying there was nothing fundamentally wrong with him. Indeed, he seemed to suggest that Moran had nothing whatever to be ashamed of. The psychiatrist appeared to be saying that what had happened was perfectly normal and almost inevitable. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, sir,” Moran admitted.

“Nothing very complicated, Pilot Officer Moran. I’m simply positing that on the afternoon of November 23, 1943 your personal reserves of courage had been wiped out by a severe blow — the loss of your close friend and skipper on an operational sortie the previous night. You needed time to recover your confidence, your equilibrium, and indeed your physical health. You also needed time to grieve. You were a wreck when you arrived here — in case you didn’t notice.”

“Are you saying, sir, that you don’t think I’m lacking in moral fibre?”

“That is a ridiculous term with no medical basis whatsoever,” the psychiatrist retorted with an irritated gesture. “The entire notion of LMF was nothing but an administrative solution to an unexpected problem: the refusal of some volunteers to continue volunteering. Such men had, temporarily at least, lost the confidence of their commanding officers and needed to be removed from active duty, yet they could hardly be charged with desertion or insubordination. Volunteering is, after all, voluntary.”

“That doesn’t entirely answer my question, sir. I understand that for you the term LMF isn’t scientific or medical or however-you-want-to-word it, but it does describe aircrew who have failed to do their job, doesn’t it?”

“Failed? Do you feel you have failed, and if so, in what way?”

Bombarded by emotions and confused by his own thoughts, Moran couldn’t answer.

Dr Grace gently resumed talking. “Isn’t it true that the only way in which you have failed is in not living up to your own expectations? Is it not your high standards — as a member of an elite military force — that trap you into thinking that you have failed?” Grace paused and then continued, “Objectively, you have already done a great deal more to win this war than ninety-nine percent of the British population. Many would say you have indeed ‘done your bit.’”

“What ‘many’ say isn’t really the issue, is it?” Moran shot back. “The question is what does the RAF say? What do you say? It seems to me that my future is very much in your hands, Wing Commander.” Moran realized he was tired of being in limbo. Tired of waiting for the axe to fall. He wanted to know what they were going to do to him.

 

Helena P. Schrader is an established aviation author and expert on the Second World War. She earned a PhD in History (cum Laude) from the University of Hamburg with a ground-breaking dissertation on a leading member of the German Resistance to Hitler. Her non-fiction publications include “Sisters in Arms: The Women who Flew in WWII,” “The Blockade Breakers: The Berlin Airlift,” and “Codename Valkyrie: General Friederich Olbricht and the Plot against Hitler.”

In addition, Helena has published eighteen historical novels and won numerous literary awards. Her novel on the Battle of Britain, “Where Eagles Never Flew,” won the Hemingway Award for 20th Century Wartime Fiction and a Maincrest Media Award for Historical Fiction. RAF Battle of Britain ace Wing Commander Bob Doe called it “the best book” he had ever seen about the battle. “Traitors for the Sake of Humanity” is a finalist for the Foreword INDIES awards. “Grounded Eagles” and “Moral Fibre” have both garnered excellent reviews from acclaimed review sites such as Kirkus, Blue Ink, Foreword Clarion, Feathered Quill, and Chantileer Books.

Visit her website at http://helenapschrader.com or connect with her on Facebook. You can also visit her blogs:  

https://schradershistoricalfiction.blogspot.com

https://europeanaviationhistory.blogspot.com

Sponsored By:

Book Spotlight: Wolves At our Door by Soren Paul Petrek

The Allies and the Nazis are in a deadly race to develop the ultimate weapon while supersonic V-2 rockets rain down on London. Madeleine Toche and Berthold Hartmann, the German super assassin who taught her to kill, search for the secret factory where Werner von Braun and his Gestapos masters use slave labor to build the weapons as the bodies of the innocent pile up. The Allied ground forces push towards Berlin while the German SS fight savagely for each inch of ground.

Finding the factory hidden beneath Mount Kohnstein, Hartmann contacts his old enemy, Winston Churchill and summons Madeleine to his side. While she moves to bring the mountain down on her enemies, Hartmann leads a daring escape from the dreaded Dora concentration camp to continue his revenge against the monsters who ruined his beloved Germany.

Together with the Russian Nachtlexen, the Night Witches, fearsome female pilots the race tightens as the United States and the Germans successfully carry out an atomic bomb test.

Germany installs an atom bomb in a V-2 pointed towards London, while the US delivers one to a forward base in the Pacific. The fate of the Second World War and the future of mankind hangs in the balance.

Read the first chapter at Booksie and don’t forget to give it a like!

ORDER YOUR COPY:

Amazon

***********

Soren Petrek is a practicing criminal trial attorney, admitted to the Minnesota Bar in 1991.  Married with two adult children, Soren continues to live and work in St. Paul, Minnesota.

Educated in the U.S., England and France Soren sat his O-level examinations at the Heathland School in Hounslow, London in 1981.  His undergraduate degree in Forestry is from the University of Minnesota, 1986.  His law degree is from William Mitchell College of Law in St. Paul, Minnesota 1991.

Soren’s novel, Cold Lonely Courage won Fade In Magazine’s 2009 Award for Fiction.  Fade In was voted the nation’s favorite movie magazine by the Washington Post and the L.A. Times in 2011 and 2012.

The French edition of Cold Lonely Courage, Courage was published January 2019, by Encre Rouge Editions, distributed by Hachette Livre in 60 countries.  Soren’s contemporary novel, Tim will be released along with the rest of the books in the Madeleine Toche series of historical thrillers.

Website: https://www.sorenpetrek.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/SPetrek_Toche44

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/soren.petrek

Interview with Julie K. Rose, Author of Dido's Crown

A member of the Historical Novel Society and former reviewer for the Historical Novels Review, Julie lives in the Bay Area with her husband and rescue cats, and loves reading, following the San Francisco Giants, and enjoying the amazing natural beauty of Northern California.

The Pilgrim Glass, a finalist in the 2005 Faulkner-Wisdom competition and semi-finalist in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards, was published in 2010.
Her second novel, Oleanna, short-listed for finalists in the 2011 Faulkner-Wisdom literary competition, was published in 2012. Dido's Crown, a literary-historical adventure, is her latest novel, published in 2016.

http://www.juliekrose.com

http://www.goodreads.com/juliekrose

https://www.facebook.com/juliekroseauthor/

http://www.twitter.com/juliekrose

http://www.youtube.com/juliekrose

Where did you grow up?

I spent the first part of my childhood in the Denver metro area. We lived there until I was 13, and it was a great place to grow up – my bedroom window had a view of the entire Front Range. After that we moved to the San Francisco Bay Area, which is, of course, an incredible place to live. I've lived here ever since, save for some time spent in Virginia for grad school.

When did you begin writing?

I started writing back in 2001 when I was 30. I'd never written fiction (beyond requirements for school) – I was much more focused on non-fiction. In fact, in high school, I wanted to be a journalist. But, it turns out, fiction is where my heart and my spirit are. Though I've definitely had my rough days, writing fiction is one of the best things that's happened to me.

Do you write during the day, at night or whenever you can sneak a few moments?

I feel most energetic and creative in the morning, so I generally write before I start my day job. I like to get up and cruise social media and check email while I’m drinking my coffee, but I'm usually writing by 5:00 for an hour or so before I get my day started. On the weekends, I'll usually start writing around 8:00 or so.

What is this book about?

Ultimately, it's a story about secrets, and the lies we tell to others and ourselves.

Here's the official blurb: Set in Tunisia and France in 1935, Dido's Crown is a taut literary-historical adventure influenced by Indiana Jones, The Thin Man, and John le Carré.

Mary Wilson MacPherson has always been adept at putting the past behind her: her father's death, her sister's disappearance, and her complicated relationship with childhood friends Tom and Will. But that all changes when, traveling to North Africa on business for her husband, Mary meets a handsome French-Tunisian trader who holds a mysterious package her husband has purchased — a package which has drawn the interest not only of Britain's Secret Intelligence Service, but the Nazis as well.

When Tom and Will arrive in Tunisia, Mary suddenly finds herself on a race across the mesmerizing and ever-changing landscapes of the country, to the shores of southern France, and all across the wide blue Mediterranean. Despite her best efforts at distancing herself from her husband's world, Mary has become embroiled in a mystery that could threaten not only Tunisian and British security in the dangerous political landscape of 1935, but Mary's beliefs about her past and the security of her own future.

What inspired you to write it?

I started writing the book while I was still trying to finish my last novel, Oleanna, in 2011.

I've always been interested in North Africa but had never planned on writing about the Maghreb. But I had a really powerful dream about Tunisia and I suppose I took it as a sign. I also love reading historical fiction set slightly off the beaten track, so it was natural to dig into learning about this beautiful country.

Who is your favorite character from the book?

Oh gosh, this is really hard. I love them all for different reasons. If you really pressed me, I think it would be Alain (who didn't actually appear until a much later draft). He's so suave, but that charm hides the real pain and conflict he deals with every day. And yet he's still good and steadfast. And gorgeous as hell.


Where can readers purchase a copy of your book?

Readers can purchase Dido's Crown (in paperback and ebook) anywhere they purchase books online, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and IndieBound.

Do you have a video trailer to promote your book? If yes, where can readers find it?

I don't have a trailer, but I do have a YouTube channel where I've posted a number of videos giving context to the world of Dido's Crown: introductions to Tunisia, the upheaval of 1935, and numbers stations. Upcoming videos will include an overview of fashion in 1935 and an introduction to the British Secret Service.

What is up next for you?

I'm working on my next book now. It's set in the Bay Area in 1906, right at the time of the great earthquake. There's plenty of stories of the earthquake in San Francisco itself, but there are scores of amazing stories of destruction and heroism elsewhere. The history of the Santa Clara Valley (now known as the Silicon Valley) is fascinating, and little known outside California, so I'm excited to share those stories!

Book Review: Cold Lonely Courage by Soren Paul Petrek

Cold Lonely Courage by Soren Paul Petrek blends the horrors of war, rich details, and a strong female lead to create a World War II novel that readers of this genre will enjoy.

Madeleine Toche races to the front to find her mortally wounded brother, Ives, as the Germans continue their attack on France. Her twin now lost to her forever, Madeleine grieves with her parents until she is brutally raped by a SS Stormtrooper. Hell bent on revenge, she becomes a trained assassin who seeks out her targets in the name of France and all she has lost.

This is a superb story from talented debut author Soren Paul Petrek. The author has taken his years of studying World War II, the stories he listened to while living in France and England, along with his imagination, and molds them into an engaging story that draws the reader in early and keeps a firm grasp until the final page.

As a lover of historical novels, I appreciated the level of detail Petrek adds into this story. The reader feels, lives, and breathes France during WWII. The author creates a strong heroine in Madeleine, but still manages to make the reader care for this trained assassin--not always easy to do. My one tiny nitpick is that the narrative overpowered the story and did not allow me to get into Madeleine's head, or the other characters' heads. I wanted a deeper point of view. I'm also a bit on the fence about the cover. It doesn't seem to encompass the story as a whole.

Cold Lonely Courage is a fascinating historical novel with a hint of romance. World War II history buffs should like this one.


Title:  Cold Lonely Courage
Author:  Soren Paul Petrek
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
ISBN-10: 0982582374

ISBN-13: 978-0982582374
SRP:  $15.95
Also available in a Kindle edition.

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinions. I received no monetary compensation of any kind to provide a review.

Interview: Douglas Jacobson, Author of The Katyn Order

Today's special guest is Douglas Jacobson, author of The Katyn Order: A Novel. He is an engineer, business owner and World War Two history enthusiast. Doug has traveled extensively in Europe researching stories of the courage of common people caught up in extraordinary circumstances. His debut novel, Night of Flames: A Novel of World War Two was published in 2007 by McBooks Press, and was released in paperback in 2008. Night of Flames won the “2007 Outstanding Achievement Award” from the Wisconsin Library association. Doug writes a monthly column on Poland’s contribution during WW2, has published articles on Belgium’s WW2 escape organization, the Comet Line and other European resistance organizations.

Welcome to The Book Connection, Doug. It is a pleasure to have you with us.

Where did you grow up?

I grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

What is your fondest childhood memory?

Summer vacation trips to Army Lake, where we could swim any time during the day as long as we waited for one hour after eating.

When did you begin writing?

In fifth grade, our teacher encouraged us to write whatever we wanted. My buddies and I wrote horror stories. Regardless of how stupid they must have been, our teacher would very diligently correct all the grammar and give them back.

Do you write during the day, at night or whenever you can sneak a few moments?

I write mostly in the early morning and early afternoon, but never after the five o'clock cocktail.

What is this book about?

The German War Machine is in retreat as the Russians advance. In Warsaw, Resistance fighters rise up against their Nazi occupiers, but the Germans retaliate, ruthlessly leveling the city. American Adam Nowak has been dropped into Poland by British intelligence as an assassin and Resistance fighter. During the Warsaw Rising he meets Natalia, a covert operative who has lost everything—just as he has. Amid the Allied power struggle left by Germany’s defeat, Adam and Natalia join in a desperate hunt for the 1940 Soviet order authorizing the murders of 20,000 Polish army officers and civilians. If they can find the Katyn Order before the Russians do, they just might change the fate of Poland.

What inspired you to write it?

My Polish heritage and my European relatives who lived through the Nazi occupation and shared their stories with me.

Who is your biggest supporter?

My wife, Janie. She's also my best promoter.

Are you a member of a critique group? If no, who provides feedback on your work?

Yes, I am. Redbird Writer's Studio in Milwaukee.

Who is your favorite author?

Ken Follett

Do you have an agent or are you looking for one?

I do not, and I'm not actively looking, but I would listen if one is interested in my work.

Was the road to publication smooth sailing or a bumpy ride?

It was bumpy, a box full of rejections, but it had a happy ending.

If you knew then, what you know now, is there anything you would have done differently?

I would have joined Redbird Writer's Studio at the very beginning of my writing effort.

Where can readers purchase a copy of your book?

On-line at Amazon, B&N, or at any bookstore.

Do you have a website and/or blog where readers can find out more?

http://www.douglaswjacobson.com

Do you have a video trailer to promote your book? If yes, where can readers find it?

It's on my website. Just click on "Watch the Video."

What is the best investment you have made in promoting your book?

Pump Up Your Book!!

What is one piece of advice you would like to share with aspiring authors everywhere?

DO NOT GIVE UP!

What is up next for you?

I'm going take some time to market The Katyn Order, continue writing my two monthly columns on WW2 and think about my third book.

Is there anything you would like to add?

Only to reinforce my earlier comment to would-be writers. This is a tough business and you have to be able to handle rejection, honest critique and KEEP GOING!


Thanks for spending time with us Doug. We wish you continued success.

Author Spotlight: Cold Lonely Courage by Soren Paul Petrek

An assassin born of death and violation is the most dangerous of all. Cold Lonely Courage tells her story. The action begins during the German Blitzkrieg attack on France in the opening days of World War II. The heroine, Madeleine Toche races to the front to find her brother dying after his unit is destroyed as the Germans advance. Crushed, Madeleine returns his body to her parents. In the months that follow, Madeleine is raped by a Nazi officer. Seeking revenge she kills him and flees to England to volunteer for duty with Britain’s shadowy Special Operations Executive. Trained as an assassin she clandestinely returns to France with Captain Jack Teach a veteran of the SOE ‘Dirty Tricks Department’. They find themselves in love but are torn apart by duty and the insurmountable odds of survival. Madeleine fights on terrorizing the murderous Nazi elite always only one step ahead of capture and torture.

Read an Excerpt!

More than three years later, Madeleine pushed her bicycle slowly down an alley towards the front entrance of a police station. She was acting on very recent intelligence and swift action was required. She didn’t like having to expose herself to enemy eyes, but the situation dictated it. She wore no disguise. She needed to appear as normal as possible and for the men to focus on her body, not her face. She could not disguise her beauty, and tried to utilize it to her advantage. There were too few clothes to choose from and the ones she’d chosen were worn and threadbare. Although the garments were loose, her looks captured the attention of the police officers loitering around the entrance. She hoped that the last thing the men would look at was her face. She made sure that the clothing didn’t obscure her curves completely, positioning her body to ensure that they did not. She leaned the bicycle against a lamppost and collected a few loaves of bread and a wheel of cheese from the basket behind the seat. The loaves were irregular in shape but were mostly baguettes, partially wrapped in paper with the top halves sticking out. She moved uncertainly, seemingly confused and frightened trying to appear subservient and nonthreatening. The men showed no concern for security, despite the fact that two of their more important masters were inside the station on an inspection. “Bonjour, mademoiselle, you are new. Where is Marc today?” The closest of the officers called to her as she moved towards the door. “My uncle is ill today and cannot make his rounds,” She answered, making only brief eye contact with the policeman and smiling demurely, shrinking slightly into herself. This is a shy one, the man thought. With looks like that perhaps she will not always be so. He admired her openly, and inwardly bemoaned his own lack of success with women. Half of them seemed to be afraid of him because of his position as a police officer working with the enemy, the Vichy government. It wasn’t his fault France had fallen so quickly. In his mind, one did the best they could under the circumstances and followed orders. His situation had been vastly improved by his cooperation. He was better off now than before the war. His food and clothing were more than adequate. He was thriving under the occupation. He felt that reporting illegal activity was his duty. After all, he was a police officer and the Resistance were terrorists and subversives. They made life harder for everyone else. The war couldn’t last forever, and it didn’t seem like the Germans were going to leave France. He sighed inwardly as he looked at her. In passing he thought about searching the bundle of bread and the small package the girl carried, but she seemed so young and insecure, she’d probably collapse in fright if he did so. “Let me get the door for you. I hope Marc remains ill for a while so that we may enjoy your company again.” The man smiled and looked over at his fellow officers who were only interested in Madeleine’s feminine charms. They made no move to search her deliveries. “Thank you monsieur, I will be sure to tell my uncle of your kindness,” She almost whispered as she slid past him and into the hallway of the police station. As she entered she saw two leather overcoats hanging in the hallway. They bore the insignia of the Gestapo. The intelligence had been correct. A routine visit by the hated German secret police was underway. As soon as she was out of sight of the men at the front of the building, the transformation in her demeanor was instant. She seemed to grow and harden, her limpidness replaced with iron. She moved swiftly towards the back of the building where the small kitchen was located. She walked past two offices along the corridor and heard voices coming from the one closest to the kitchen. They were distinctly German. As she unloaded the bread onto a table she listened to see if a third voice came from the room. She moved slowly and with patience, knowing that for what she intended to do, patience and nerve beat bravado and recklessness every time. The men in the room were smoking, and thus would have at least one of their hands occupied. She could detect different odors of tobacco. One of them had a pipe. Their conversation was languid and unhurried. There was no excitement in their voices. Given the time of day, it was likely that these officers had eaten a good meal. Their movements would be slow. Madeleine worked with her hands as she kept an eye on the front. She was aware of everything around her. Her senses heightened and became acute. She selected one of the thicker baguettes and tore open one end, revealing a small metal cylinder. She raised her skirt and took out a pistol that was bound to the inside of her thigh, a location few men felt comfortable searching under fairly routine circumstances. She quickly screwed the cylinder into the end and tucked the gun under the bread paper and carried it over to the office door behind which she heard the steady cadence of the men’s conversation. She paused briefly, then gently pushed the door open and walked into the room holding the silenced weapon along her side so that it wouldn’t instantly be noticed. The officer seated at the desk turned only after she was fully into the room. Without hesitation she shot him squarely in the forehead. The other officer seated in front of the desk didn’t have time to register surprise. She turned and put a bullet through his throat and face in instant succession. Turning back to the first officer she shot him a second time so there would be no mistake. Aside from the smell of gunpowder in the room, there had been little sound. Both men remained slumped in their chairs, surprise etched on their faces. Madeleine moved swiftly out of the room and closed the door behind her. With practiced efficiency she unscrewed the silencer and tucked it away inside her sweater. She placed the gun in her pocket. She moved back to the kitchen, opened a window and dropped a short distance to the pavement below. It was a market day, and although many things were scarce, the street was getting crowded. She was well into the crowd and away before she heard the first shriek of a police whistle.

Read the Reviews!

"If you are looking for a tremendous war story, try Cold Lonely Courage."

--Mary Long, Amazon.com Reviewer

"...awesome mix of factual, historical information with a fictional story that quickly places the reader into the middle of the French Resistance during WWII."

--Don Nordness, Amazon.com Reviewer



Soren Petrek is a practicing trial attorney with a passion for studying World War Two. He lived in England and France listening to people’s stories of struggle and sacrifice during the darkest periods of the war. Soren’s debut novel, Cold Lonely Courage was inspired by the true story of a young Belgian woman who helped countless Jewish children escape from the terrors of the Nazi regime. Soren lives with his wife, Renee and sons, Max and Riley, in central Minnesota. You can visit Soren’s blog at http://coldlonelycourage.blogspot.com. Cold Lonely Courage is Soren’s debut novel.

Douglas Jacobson, Author of WW2 Historical Novel, Night of Flames, Shares How It All Began

Today's guest blogger is Douglas W. Jacobson, author of the WWII historical novel, Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II.


In 1939 the Germans invade Poland, setting off a rising storm of violence and destruction. For Anna and Jan Kopernik the loss is unimaginable. She is an assistant professor at a university in Krakow; he, an officer in the Polish cavalry. Separated by war, they must find their own way in a world where everything they ever knew is gone.

Anna’s father, a prominent intellectual, is deported to a death camp, and Anna must flee to Belgium where she joins the Resistance. Meanwhile, Jan escapes with the battered remnants of the Polish army to Britain. When British intelligence asks him to return to Poland in an undercover mission to contact the Resistance, he seizes the opportunity to search for his missing wife.

Through the long night of Nazi occupation, Anna, Jan, and ordinary people across Europe fight a covert war of sabotage and resistance against the overwhelming might of the German war machine. The struggle seems hopeless, but they are determined to take back what is theirs.

Night of Flames, How It All Began by Douglas W. Jacobson


A funny thing happened on the way to college. My daughter’s college, that is. In 1991 we sent our daughter off to the University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire, an excellent mid-size university campus four hours from our home in Milwaukee. It was difficult at first having her that far away, but like all parents of college-age kids we took a deep breath thinking it could be worse, she could be going to New York or California. Hah! Little did we know!

As time passed, a nice young man entered her life, a nice young man who was not from New York or California . . . but from Antwerp, Belgium. And so, the journey began.

As it turned out the young couple got married and eventually moved to Belgium. That was fourteen years ago. If having our college-age daughter four hours away by car was tough, having our newly married daughter an eight-hour plane ride away was a bit tougher. The remedy, of course, was traveling to Europe . . . often.

Now I have always been interested in WW2 history. Over the years I’ve read everything I could, both fiction and non-fiction, about this incredible world conflict which changed the course of human history. As I’ve often said in the talks I give about my book, for an American interested in WW2, spending time in Europe changes your perspective. As an example, consider this: In the memory of most Americans, WW2 began with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. By that time, more than three million Europeans had died in the war. By the time the war ended, four years later, that number would be more than thirty million . . . and eighty percent were civilians.

Over the years, as my wife and I traveled to Europe 2-3 times a year, we developed many relationships, including a very close friendship with my son-in-law’s parents who were children during the German occupation of Belgium. They didn’t talk about it at first; in fact they never talk about it all, except when someone like me-—whom they know and trust is really interested and really wants to know. And, in time, they did tell me about it. They told me about living in the cellar during the shelling of their working-class neighborhood near the port of Antwerp. They told me about foraging for food in the streets then rushing home before the German snipers could shoot them. They told me about the day in 1941 when the Gestapo barged into their home during dinner and took away my son-in-law’s grandfather. Four years later he returned, having walked home from Hamburg, Germany where he’d been a forced laborer.

Much has been written about the great battles of World War Two in Europe, the epic clashes of great armies at Normandy and Stalingrad, in the mountains of Italy and the deserts of Africa. But what has really inspired me were the stories of courage and perseverance of the common people caught up in this titanic struggle. Stories like those of the women and teenagers of the Comet Line who rescued hundreds of Allied aviators shot down over Belgium and Holland. Stories like those of the Armia Krajowa, Poland’s Home Army who risked their lives every day for six long years trying to preserve what little they could of their humanity.

In his book, World Crisis, Winston Churchill said, “When the trumpet sounded every class and rank had something to give. But none gave more, or gave more readily, than the common man and woman.” In those eloquent words lies the essence of what I have tried to honor in my historical novel, Night of Flames.





Douglas W. Jacobson is an engineer, business owner and World War Two history enthusiast. Doug has traveled extensively in Europe researching stories of the courage of common people caught up in extraordinary circumstances. His debut novel, Night of Flames: A Novel of World War Two was published in 2007 by McBooks Press, and was released in paperback in 2008. Night of Flames won the 2007 OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENT AWARD from the Wisconsin Library Association. Doug has also published articles on Belgium’s WW2 escape organization, the Comete Line; Poland’s 1st Armored Division; and the liberation of Antwerp. Doug has just completed his second novel set in Europe at the end of WW2. You can visit his blog at www.douglaswjacobson.blogspot.com.

To see where Douglas stops next on his virtual book tour, visit http://virtualbooktours.wordpress.com/.

Author Spotlight: Alan Faust and The Spies of Warsaw

An autumn evening in 1937. A German engineer arrives at the Warsaw railway station. Tonight, he will be with his Polish mistress; tomorrow, at a workers’ bar in the city’s factory district, he will meet with the military attaché from the French embassy. Information will be exchanged for money. So begins The Spies of Warsaw, the brilliant new novel by Alan Furst, lauded by the New York Times as “America’s preeminent spy novelist.”

War is coming to Europe. French and German intelligence operatives are locked in a life-and-death struggle on the espionage battlefield. At the French embassy, the new military attaché, Colonel Jean-Francois Mercier, a decorated hero of the 1914 war, is drawn into a world of abduction, betrayal, and intrigue in the diplomatic salons and back alleys of Warsaw. At the same time, the handsome aristocrat finds himself in a passionate love affair with a Parisian woman of Polish heritage, a lawyer for the League of Nations.

Colonel Mercier must work in the shadows, amid an extraordinary cast of venal and dangerous characters–Colonel Anton Vyborg of Polish military intelligence; the mysterious and sophisticated Dr. Lapp, senior German Abwehr officer in Warsaw; Malka and Viktor Rozen, at work for the Russian secret service; and Mercier’s brutal and vindictive opponent, Major August Voss of SS counterintelligence. And there are many more, some known to Mercier as spies, some never to be revealed.

Alan Furst is widely recognized as the master of the historical spy novel. Now translated into seventeen languages, he is the bestselling author of Night Soldiers, Dark Star, The Polish Officer, The World at Night, Red Gold, Kingdom of Shadows, Blood of Victory, Dark Voyage, and The Foreign Correspondent. Born in New York, he now lives in Paris and on Long Island.

You can visit his website at http://alanfurst.net/index.htm.

EXCERPT:

HOTEL EUROPEJSKI

In the dying light of an autumn day in 1937, a certain Herr Edvard Uhl, a secret agent, descended from a first-class railway carriage in the city of Warsaw. Above the city, the sky was at war; the last of the sun struck blood-red embers off massed black cloud, while the clear horizon to the west was the color of blue ice. Herr Uhl suppressed a shiver; the sharp air of the evening, he told himself. But this was Poland, the border of the Russian steppe, and what had reached him was well beyond the chill of an October twilight.

A taxi waited on Jerozolimskie street, in front of the station. The driver, an old man with a seamed face, sat patiently, knotted hands at rest on the steering wheel. "Hotel Europejski," Uhl told the driver. He wanted to add, and be quick about it, but the words would have been in German, and it was not so good to speak German in this city. Germany had absorbed the western part of Poland in 1795-Russia ruled the east, Austria-Hungary the southwest corner-for a hundred and twenty-three years, a period the Poles called "the Partition," a time of national conspiracy and defeated insurrection, leaving ample bad blood on all sides. With the rebirth of Poland in 1918, the new borders left a million Germans in Poland and two million Poles in Germany, which guaranteed that the bad blood would stay bad. So, for a German visiting Warsaw, a current of silent hostility, closed faces, small slights: we don't want you here.

Nonetheless, Edvard Uhl had looked forward to this trip for weeks. In his late forties, he combed what remained of his hair in strands across his scalp and cultivated a heavy dark mustache, meant to deflect attention from a prominent bulbous nose, the bulb divided at the tip. A feature one saw in Poland, often enough. So, an ordinary- looking man, who led a rather ordinary life, a more-than-decent life, in the small city of Breslau: a wife and three children, a good job- as a senior engineer at an ironworks and foundry, a subcontractor to the giant Rheinmetall firm in Düsseldorf-a few friends, memberships in a church and a singing society. Oh, maybe the political situation- that wretched Hitler and his wretched Nazis strutting about-could have been better, but one abided, lived quietly, kept one's opinions to oneself; it wasn't so difficult. And the paycheck came every week. What more could a man want?

Instinctively, his hand made sure of the leather satchel on the seat by his side. A tiny stab of regret touched his heart. Foolish, Edvard, truly it is. For the satchel, a gift from his first contact at the French embassy in Warsaw, had a false bottom, beneath which lay a sheaf of engineering diagrams. Well, he thought, one did what one had to do, so life went. No, one did what one had to do in order to do what one wanted to do-so life really went. He wasn't supposed to be in Warsaw; he was supposed, by his family and his employer, to be in Gleiwitz-just on the German side of the frontier dividing German Lower Silesia from Polish Upper Silesia-where his firm employed a large metal shop for the work that exceeded their capacity in Breslau. With the Reich rearming, they could not keep up with the orders that flowed from the Wehrmacht. The Gleiwitz works functioned well enough, but that wasn't what Uhl told his bosses. "A bunch of lazy idiots down there," he said, with a grim shake of the head, and found it necessary to take the train down to Gleiwitz once a month to straighten things out.

And he did go to Gleiwitz-that pest from Breslau, back again!-but he didn't stay there. When he was done bothering the local management he took the train up to Warsaw where, in a manner of speaking, one very particular thing got straightened out. For Uhl, a blissful night of lovemaking, followed by a brief meeting at dawn, a secret meeting, then back to Breslau, back to Frau Uhl and his more-than-decent life. Refreshed. Reborn. Too much, that word? No. Just right.

Uhl glanced at his watch. Drive faster, you peasant! This is an automobile, not a plow. The taxi crawled along Nowy Swiat, the grand avenue of Warsaw, deserted at this hour-the Poles went home for dinner at four. As the taxi passed a church, the driver slowed for a moment, then lifted his cap. It was not especially reverent, Uhl thought, simply something the man did every time he passed a church.

At last, the imposing Hotel Europejski, with its giant of a doorman in visored cap and uniform worthy of a Napoleonic marshal. Uhl handed the driver his fare-he kept a reserve of Polish zloty in his desk at the office-and added a small, proper gratuity, then said "Dankeschön." It didn't matter now, he was where he wanted to be. In the room, he hung up his suit, shirt, and tie, laid out fresh socks and underwear on the bed, and went into the bathroom to have a thorough wash. He had just enough time; the Countess Sczelenska would arrive in thirty minutes. Or, rather, that was the time set for the rendezvous; she would of course be late, would make him wait for her, let him think, let him anticipate, let him steam.

And was she a countess? A real Polish countess? Probably not, he thought. But so she called herself, and she was, to him, like a countess: imperious, haughty, and demanding. Oh how this provoked him, as the evening lengthened and they drank champagne, as her mood slid, subtly, from courteous disdain to sly submission, then on to breathless urgency. It was the same always, their private melodrama, with an ending that never changed. Uhl the stallion-despite the image in the mirrored armoire, a middle-aged gentleman with thin legs and potbelly and pale chest home to a few wisps of hair-demonstrably excited as he knelt on the hotel carpet, while the countess, looking down at him over her shoulder, eyebrows raised in mock surprise, deigned to let him roll her silk underpants down her great, saucy, fat bottom. Noblesse oblige. You may have your little pleasure, she seemed to say, if you are so inspired by what the noble Sczelenska bloodline has wrought. Uhl would embrace her middle and honor the noble heritage with tender kisses. In time very effective, such honor, and she would raise him up, eager for what came next.

He'd met her a year and a half earlier, in Breslau, at a Weinstube where the office employees of the foundry would stop for a little something after work. The Weinstube had a small terrace in back, three tables and a vine, and there she sat, alone at one of the tables on the deserted terrace: morose and preoccupied. He'd sat at the next table, found her attractive-not young, not old, on the buxom side, with brassy hair pinned up high and an appealing face-and said good evening. And why so glum, on such a pleasant night?

She'd come down from Warsaw, she explained, to see her sister, a family crisis, a catastrophe. The family had owned, for several generations, a small but profitable lumber mill in the forest along the eastern border. But they had suffered financial reverses, and then the storage sheds had been burned down by a Ukrainian nationalist gang, and they'd had to borrow money from a Jewish speculator. But the problems wouldn't stop, they could not repay the loans, and now that dreadful man had gone to court and taken the mill. Just like them, wasn't it.

After a few minutes, Uhl moved to her table. Well, that was life for you, he'd said. Fate turned evil, often for those who least deserved it. But, don't feel so bad, luck had gone wrong, but it could go right, it always did, given time. Ah but he was sympathique, she'd said, an aristocratic reflex to use the French word in the midst of her fluent German. They went on for a while, back and forth. Perhaps some day, she'd said, if he should find himself in Warsaw, he might telephone; there was the loveliest café near her apartment. Perhaps he would, yes, business took him to Warsaw now and again; he guessed he might be there soon. Now, would she permit him to order another glass of wine? Later, she took his hand beneath the table and he was, by the time they parted, on fire.

Ten days later, from a public telephone at the Breslau railway station, he'd called her. He planned to be in Warsaw next week, at the Europejski, would she care to join him for dinner? Why yes, yes she would. Her tone of voice, on the other end of the line, told him all he needed to know, and by the following Wednesday-those idiots in Gleiwitz had done it again!-he was on his way to Warsaw. At dinner, champagne and langoustines, he suggested that they go on to a nightclub after dessert, but first he wanted to visit the room, to change his tie.

And so, after the cream cake, up they went.

For two subsequent, monthly, visits, all was paradise, but, it turned out, she was the unluckiest of countesses. In his room at the hotel, brassy hair tumbled on the pillow, she told him of her latest misfortune. Now it was her landlord, a hulking beast who leered at her, made chk-chk noises with his mouth when she climbed the stairs, who'd told her that she had to leave, his latest girlfriend to be installed in her place. Unless . . . Her misty eyes told him the rest.

Never! Where Uhl had just been, this swine would not go! He stroked her shoulder, damp from recent exertions, and said, "Now, now, my dearest, calm yourself." She would just have to find another apartment. Well, in fact she'd already done that, found one even nicer than the one she had now, and very private, owned by a man in Cracow, so nobody would be watching her if, for example, her sweet Edvard wanted to come for a visit. But the rent was two hundred zloty more than she paid now. And she didn't have it.

A hundred reichsmark, he thought. "Perhaps I can help," he said. And he could, but not for long. Two months, maybe three-beyond that, there really weren't any corners he could cut. He tried to save a little, but almost all of his salary went to support his family. Still, he couldn't get the "hulking beast" out of his mind. Chk-chk.

The blow fell a month later, the man in Cracow had to raise the rent. What would she do? What was she to do? She would have to stay with relatives or be out in the street. Now Uhl had no answers. But the countess did. She had a cousin who was seeing a Frenchman, an army officer who worked at the French embassy, a cheerful, generous fellow who, she said, sometimes hired "industrial experts." Was her sweet Edvard not an engineer? Perhaps he ought to meet this man and see what he had to offer. Otherwise, the only hope for the poor countess was to go and stay with her aunt.

And where was the aunt?

Chicago.

Now Uhl wasn't stupid. Or, as he put it to himself, not that stupid. He had a strong suspicion about what was going on. But-and here he surprised himself-he didn't care. The fish saw the worm and wondered if maybe there might just be a hook in there, but, what a delicious worm! Look at it, the most succulent and tasty worm he'd ever seen; never would there be such a worm again, not in this ocean. So . . .

He first telephoned-to, apparently, a private apartment, because a maid answered in Polish, then switched to German. And, twenty minutes later, Uhl called again and a meeting was arranged. In an hour. At a bar in the Praga district, the workers' quarter across the Vistula from the elegant part of Warsaw. And the Frenchman was, as promised, as cheerful as could be. Likely Alsatian, from the way he spoke German, he was short and tubby, with a soft face that glowed with self-esteem and a certain tilt to the chin and tension in the upper lip that suggested an imminent sneer, while a dapper little mustache did nothing to soften the effect. He was, of course, not in uniform, but wore an expensive sweater and a blue blazer with brass buttons down the front.

"Henri," he called himself and, yes, he did sometimes employ "industrial experts." His job called for him to stay abreast of developments in particular areas of German industry, and he would pay well for drawings or schematics, any specifications relating to, say, armament or armour. How well? Oh, perhaps five hundred reichsmark a month, for the right papers. Or, if Uhl preferred, a thousand zloty, or two hundred American dollars-some of his experts liked having dollars. The money to be paid in cash or deposited in any bank account, in any name, that Uhl might suggest.

The word spy was never used, and Henri was very casual about the whole business. Very common, such transactions, his German counterparts did the same thing; everybody wanted to know what was what, on the other side of the border. And, he should add, nobody got caught, as long as they were discreet. What was done privately stayed private. These days, he said, in such chaotic times, smart people understood that their first loyalty was to themselves and their families. The world of governments and shifty diplomats could go to hell, if it wished, but Uhl was obviously a man who was shrewd enough to take care of his own future. And, if he ever found the arrangement uncomfortable, well, that was that. So, think it over, there's no hurry, get back in touch, or just forget you ever met me.

And the countess? Was she, perhaps, also an, umm, "expert"?

From Henri, a sophisticated laugh. "My dear fellow! Please! That sort of thing, well, maybe in the movies."

So, at least the worm wasn't in on it.

Back at the Europejski-a visit to the new apartment lay still in the future-the countess exceeded herself. Led him to a delight or two that Uhl knew about but had never experienced; her turn to kneel on the carpet. Rapture. Another glass of champagne and further novelty. In time he fell back on the pillow and gazed up at the ceiling, elated and sore. And brave as a lion. He was a shrewd fellow-a single exchange with Henri, and that thousand zloty would see the countess through her difficulties for the next few months. But life never went quite as planned, did it, because Henri, not nearly so cheerful as the first time they'd met, insisted, really did insist, that the arrangement continue.

And then, in August, instead of Henri, a tall Frenchman called André, quiet and reserved, and much less pleased with himself, and the work he did, than Henri. Wounded, Uhl guessed, in the Great War, he leaned on a fine ebony stick, with a silver wolf's head for a grip.

From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpted from The Spies of Warsaw by Alan Furst Copyright © 2008 by Alan Furst. Excerpted by permission of Random House Trade Paperbacks, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Winner of Spring Book Giveaway!!!!!

Random.org has spoken and the winner of our Spring Book Giveaway is DEEDLES! Congratulations!

Deedles has won a copy of French Letters by Jack Woodville London.


You can pick up your own copy of French Letters at Amazon.com. Thanks to everyone who participated.

Don't forget about our book giveaway that ends tomorrow for John Hart's The Last Child. You can enter to win here.

Spring Book Giveaway--French Letters by Jack Woodville London

We are long overdue for a book giveaway, so I figured I better get myself in gear and post this message.

Travel to the small town of Tierra, Texas in the World War II historical novel, French Letters - Virgnia's War: Tierra, Texas 1944.

In the little town of Tierra, Texas, the young boys play war while the men are already off fighting Hitler and the Nazis. But Virginia has a war all her own. Dealing with a spiteful brother, a manipulative father, and a dark secret that threatens to be revealed, she lives her life under the watchful eyes of the entire town. Sometimes the casualities of war are not wounded on the battlefield.

You can read my full review of French Letters here.

Here are the rules for this contest:

1) Comment here with your working email address so that we can contact you if you win.

2) Get an additional entry for blogging about this contest. Leave a comment here telling us where you are blogged about it.

Contest ends on May 15, 2009. The winner will be announced at this blog on May 16, 2009.

This contest is open to residents of the United States and Canada only.

Good luck!