WINSTON'S WAR IS NOT a novel about World War II. It is hardly even a novel about Winston Churchill. It ends when Churchill becomes Prime Minister. 

It is rather a lesson that is oft repeated in history, never forgotten, simply ignored out of fear. There are always bullies. They haunt children's playgrounds. They infect workplaces. They lurk on street corners. They rape, murder, and pillage whole nations. And, all bullies love a peacemaker – an appeaser – who believes that the best way of handling a bully is by letting them have what they want. Or, maybe reasoning with them is the best course of action. The sad truth, revealed eloquently in Winston's War: A Novel of Conspiracy by Michael Dobbs, is that the peacemakers may be equally responsible for the crimes of the bully. 

If all you know about the prelude to World War II is that Neville Chamberlain negotiated a peace treaty with Adolf Hitler, you are seriously missing this lesson. As Prime Minister of Great Britain, Chamberlain not only sought to compromise with Hitler, but also did everything in his power to prevent Churchill from leading the nation in mounting an effective defense. The most frightening aspect of this story is that he almost succeeded. 

Today's appeasers probably will argue that Chamberlain may have been correct. War, they may aver, is never justified. It only became inevitable when Churchill took the reins of government and Great Britain began to strike back. Maybe Hitler would have been satisfied with simply dominating Europe. It matters not that England promised to stand by Czechoslovakia and then allowed Hitler to annex it. One's honor is a small price to pay for peace, even when Poles died in the hundreds of thousands while England hesitated to keep its word to come to their defense. And, what of Norway, Belgium, and Holland? They were such small countries, no one missed them as they disappeared down the maw of Hitler's gluttony for power. At least, Chamberlain kept England out of war, and he might have succeeded keeping it out of war forever had he persisted in compromising with this evil man.

Look, too, at the price Great Britain paid for defending itself. It lost an empire. It lost hundreds of thousands of its children. Think about it. If Churchill had not interfered, Europe would have been united under Hitler's leadership. The Jewish question would have been resolved for all times. Communism would have been eradicated from the face of the planet. America could not have stood alone once Hitler dominated the rest of the world. By this time, America would have been a socialist paradise. Need you be reminded that Nazism was a socialist movement?

Yes, those who believe in appeasement might well argue with the outcome of Churchill's rise to power. As the author notes in his novel, the appeasers are still among us, still making the same arguments “...such as whether we should appease or confront the forces of terror... how many of today's leaders in Europe and the United States can be found echoing Chamberlain's plaintiff words that their world had been turned upside down by 'a quarrel in a faraway country between people of whom we know nothing.'”

Some might argue that we may be excused for missing this lesson of history. We are speaking of events that occurred midway through the last century. However, the lesson was repeated in our own time. 

Look at all the ways we attempted to appease the Soviets. The Truman Doctrine of “containment” was nothing more than a compromise that allowed them to persecute the peoples they had already enslaved. The Nixon Doctrine of “detente” was an elaboration of the Truman Doctrine with the same result. Only the Reagan Doctrine of “confrontation” worked, and the Soviet's will to bully was broken. Curiously, the appeasers argue to this day that Reagan's confrontational policy had nothing to do with the demise of the Soviet Union. They aver that the Soviets, led by Gorbachev, tore down “That Wall” of their own volition. That may be, but I agree with schoolchildren who know that the only effective method of handling bullies is to stand up to them, to confront them, to meet force with overwhelming force.

Forgive me for wandering so far afield. Mr. Dobbs, the author of Winston's War did not. He restrained his story to the past and we must infer its implications for the future. However, if it was his purpose to cause a reader to think, he has succeeded with me. He has caused me to reflect on the war that we find ourselves now engaged in. Not just the war with strange people in strange lands, but also, the war for the Republic. 

I can only hope that someone in Congress will rise and utter the same words that helped depose Prime Minister Chamberlain, words uttered centuries before by Oliver Cromwell:

“You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you! In the name of God – go!”

ISN'T "FLUTTERBY" MORE descriptive than “Butterfly?” How about “Ourstory” rather than “History?”

Seriously, it really is our story. 

My interest in our story began as the result of an accident of birth. I was born on the same date as George Washington, February 22nd. Thus, I grew up with the myth of the father of our country. You know, chopping down the cherry tree, throwing a dollar across the Patomac, and all that. Yes, there were cherries on my birthday cakes in the early years.

Then, as I grew up, I discovered that the myths were contrived by a political faction who wanted to anoint Washington as “chosen by God” to be king, rather than pledge allegiance to another after throwing off the yoke of George III of England. The idea of crafting a republic didn't come until later.

I set out to discover the real George Washington and found him to be a far more interesting man than the mythical one I had been told about in elementary school. Indeed, this led me to look at the other founders, mortal men like you and I. This study led me to the conclusion that people often excuse themselves from emulating their heroes by ascribing supernatural abilities to them. After all, how can we be expected to fight the good fight, perform a Herculean task, or rise above the call of duty. Those are the acts of demigods and we are just a mere men and women.

No, they too were mere mortals. Their story is just a chapter in our story. They won liberty. They crafted a republic with inalienable rights for all. They fought to salvage that republic when others attempted to tear it asunder and deny those rights to some. They explored and tamed the wilderness. They built an economic engine that surpassed the achievements of all other nations in history. They helped save the world from the Axis Powers. The Greatest Generation were our fathers and mothers. If they could do it, why can't we?

More importantly, why can't we again? Our nation and, indeed, the rest of the world, has fallen on hard times. Much of the foundation built by our forefathers has been eroded. I blame our history teachers, the keepers of our story, for this failing. They have led us to focus on the evil that our forefathers perpetrated. Of course they erred at times. They were mere mortals. However, rather than help us to see the good in their accomplishments, they forced us to memorize dates and arcane facts. They destroyed all interest in the fabric of our story.

Lacking this awareness of and respect for our story, we have followed leaders who have experimented with the false history of others. We have fallen prey to the propaganda of those who hold themselves out to be demigods of our times. We allow Ivy League graduates to make our decisions for us, to manage our affairs and our economy, and to provide for us all that we should be providing for ourselves. 

We have failed to see that our leaders are mere mortals, just like our founders and ourselves. We have been led in the false belief that their story is different than ours, even superior to ours. The result is that their errs become everyone's errs.

I have been a storyteller all my life and now, in the last half of my life, I have chosen to begin telling our story. Ourstory. I can only hope that others will add their fuel to the fire and that it will become a shining beacon towards which we can sail the ship of state to a safe harbor.    

THE RADIO HOST left his microphone in search of a beer and the engineer was asleep at the switch when members of a yacht club from the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay came on the air. 

“We don't give a damn for the state of Maryland,” they sang. “We're from the Eastern Shore.”

I watched this tableau play out during Opening Day at the Maryland Yacht Club one June in the late 1950s.

Delaware as well as pieces of the states of Maryland and Virginia occupy the peninsula that separates the Chesapeake Bay from the Atlantic Ocean. It was built from silt carried down from the Piedmont Plateau over the millennia. Flat and featureless, it was fertile farm land. Its occupants used their boats to fish for crabs and oysters in the months with “r's” and carry produce grown there to Baltimore during the rest of the year.

Plantations dominated the Eastern Shore during antebellum days. Hariett Tubman and Dred Scott were both born their and escaped slavery to make their marks on American history.

Several rivers, notably the Northeast, Chester, Wicomico, Wye, and Choptank, as well as major creeks such as Worten and Onancock, make deep cuts into it. We explored them all during my years sailing with the Sea Scouts from the Baltimore Yacht Club.

One of our most frequent ports-of-call on the Eastern Shore was Rock Hall, Maryland. We tied up at the nearby Gratitude Marina and walked the mile into town to attend the movie show. Films were presented in an old barn. The show began after sunset so that light that stole between the clapboard siding wouldn't distract the audience. The price of admission was just twenty-five cents for which you received a double feature, cartoons, serials, and newsreels. The show was free if you arrived more than a half hour late. The box office was closed by that time. There were no fixed seats. You picked up your folding chair from the stack along the back of the theater when you arrived.

As a group of teenaged boys we were frequently mistaken as a “gang.” Local toughs, thinking that their turf was threatened would sometimes come after us. Fortunately, we were better organized than most gangs and acquitted ourselves well, especially on the road between Gratitude and Rock Hall. I remember several occasions when we had beer cans thrown at us from passing cars. Actually, I thought it was right friendly of them. The beer cans were usually full.

Yes, the Eastern Shore wasn't just a tidewater region, it was full of backwater towns. In fact, I discovered that if I wrote a check on the Eastern Shore, it wouldn't clear my bank for several months.

Frequently, when we visited many of the small towns in the company of the fleet from the Baltimore Yacht Club, the local officials would welcome us with open arms. The local volunteer fire department might have their engine at dockside blowing its siren and ringing its bell to make us feel welcome. On one visit to Crisfield, Maryland, we found barrels of beer in ice and steamed crabs waiting for us on the dock. It seems they were politicking for something, nothing that the Sea Scouts could provide, but we enjoyed the treats. 

Things began to change there in 1952 when the Bay Bridge opened to traffic. However, most of the motorists were just passing through from Baltimore and Washington on their way to Ocean City, Maryland. They didn't stop frequently enough to bring change to the rest of the region.

Thus, the people of the Eastern Shore have never felt part of the rest of the state and separatist movements have sprung up regularly throughout history. The most recent was in 1995. The more modern proposals have attempted to consolidate the portions of Maryland and Virginia with the state of Delaware which probably makes the most sense.      

IF YOU HAVE followed my blog postings about growing up on the Chesapeake Bay, you may well ask, what was I doing in the Army? Good question. I had grown up as a sailor. The Navy was the logical choice, wasn't it? Well, I tried.

I graduated from law school in 1965, at the beginning of the build up of U.S. Involvement in Vietnam. I went immediately to the local Navy Recruiting Office and applied for Officer Candidate School. Where were they going to find a better applicant? I was a college graduate. A sailor. A champion navigator. A Coast Guard licensed operator.  

I had dreams of becoming a member of what would later be known as the Brown Water Navy. Small boats delivering soldiers and supplies to the combat operations, patrolling the backwaters of Vietnam, and interdicting Viet Cong supply lines and channels of communication. Who was better suited for that job?

Also, I reasoned that if I were going to war, I would rather fight in an environment where I was master. What did I know about jungles?

The Navy loved everything about me except for my weight. Yes, I've struggled with my weight all my life. I have the upper body of a man about six and a half feet tall atop short legs. Although I am 5'8” tall, my inseam is the same as my 4'11” wife. Seriously, people who meet me are surprised when I stand up. What does that have to do with my weight? Well, actually, nothing.

“Come back after you get down to 175 pounds,” they said. I did. I went to a doctor who was dispensing some “miracle medicine” and shed the excess weight in just three months. The doctor was sent to jail. The recruiter sent me to Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D.C., for my physical exam.

I was working as a Post Entitlement Adjudicator (don't you love that title?) at Social Security in Woodlawn, Maryland at the time, and Washington was just forty minutes down the road. Thus, it was not a problem when the recruiter called and asked if I could return to Walter Reed for another x-ray. It wasn't even a problem the second or third time. I became worried at the fourth request. Is something wrong? The recruiter wasn't sure.

After some checking around, the recruiter learned that I had stepped into the middle of a dispute between a senior Navy doctor and the radiology department at Walter Reed. He was using my “case” as a lever to get them to produce better images. Their feud delayed my application for several months.

Meanwhile, I received a notice from my draft board to report for a pre-induction physical. No problem. I was happy to accommodate them. I expected to be enlisted in the Navy long before I would be ordered to report for induction into the Army.

My application languished with the Navy as the induction date approached. I approached the Army Recruiters to explore my options there and found them eager to enlist me for Officer Candidate School. My education and my test scores on the Army Battery of Tests were outstanding. Still, I expected the Navy to come through well before I was forced to sign up with the Army. 

My draft notice came and I was ordered to report for induction at 6:00 am on Monday, March 3, 1966. (No, I didn't have to refer to any record to get that date and time.) I had to enlist prior to close of business at 5:00 pm on the preceding Friday or report as ordered. Thus, at 4:15 that Friday, I borrowed a telephone and made my final call to the Navy from the recruiting office at Fort Holabird, Maryland. No word. I hung up and turned to the waiting officer and was sworn in. 

I went back home with orders to report to Fort Holabird at 6:00 am Monday to join the draftees who were being taken to the Reception Center at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.

The Navy called at 9:00 pm that Friday night. “Congratulations,” they said. “You're in.” 

“No, I'm not,” I replied. “I'm in the Army now.”

“Well, you can apply for an inter-service transfer after you complete your enlistment in the Army,” they suggested.

Why did the Navy act with so little alacrity? It could have had something to do with the fact that the North Vietnamese only had a few assault boats, but it was enough to start a war. 

WHILE SORTING THROUGH the accumulated flotsam of a long life, I came across a box of color slides including photos from Vietnam - photos, quite honestly, that I had forgotten. I am going to use these photos in my blog over the next year to help stir up the memories.

I sent a few to be digitized but the results were far from satisfying. The service bureau apparently scanned them and there aren't enough pixels to view them at any reasonable size on the computer screen.
I purchased an eighteen inch square piece of rear projection screen material and photographed them with a Nikon digital camera. The results are less than perfect but far better than the alternative.

I wish I had a good camera in Vietnam. The one pictured here in my hand belonged to a friend. I carried a cheap Kodak point 'n shoot camera in an ammo pouch. I wasn't able to attach filters to compensate for the dense humidity that rendered almost all my photos in blue, especially those taken from the air. I have attempted to compensate digitally with mixed results. 
I was sent to Vietnam with orders to join the 185th Military Intelligence Company in Saigon, but that post was taken by another lieutenant who upset the 9th Infantry Division Adjutant General and I was diverted to replace him. I think I replaced him admirably inasmuch as I too upset the AG during my tour of duty.  

The 9th Infantry Division operated in the Mekong Delta region of South Vietnam. Its three brigades and attached regiments were scattered over several base camps that I will visit in these blog postings. I got around a lot. The division headquarters was located at Camp Bearcat to the northeast of Saigon. I estimate that it covered a rectangle of about one mile by two and a half miles. It was very flat with a dirt berm about eight to ten feet high surrounding it. The headquarters building was located midway between the two vehicle gates and faced the berm. It was a prime target for snipers and I distinctly remember taking rounds if I walked outside at night while on duty officer. 

This photo was taken early in my tour of duty. Someone later planted a nice grass lawn in front of it and surrounded it with an ankle-high course of barbed wire to dissuade us from walking across it. Several people tripped over it as the fled the building during a rocket attack one night.

The radio tower was located about a hundred yards away from the headquarters building. I should have asked one of the Vietnamese day workers. Any one of them probably could have told me the exact distance.
Affectionately known as The Aiming Stake, we were certain that the Vietnamese who frequented our base camp every day were pacing off the distance from the radio tower to every major target and noting its bearing.
Of course it was equipped with flashing red aircraft beacons making it perfect for directing mortar fire at night.

I guess that the tower was about 150 feet high. We learned that even at that height, it was not sufficient to maintain radio communication with patrols in the nearby rubber plantation. The signal corps launched a barrage balloon with radio antennae shortly after a patrol was badly beaten there.

My memoirs of Vietnam will probably amuse some and upset others. I have very strong opinions about our role there and my service during that time, opinions that are not popularly expressed. Feel free to comment. You can't insult me any worse than that which I've already heard.

Ultimately, these memoirs will serve as the foundation of a novel that I hope to write right after two others that are already in progress.

IN MY OPINION, North Korea must be the most God Forsaken place on the planet. There are other peoples who are equally poor. There are other places similarly destitute. But there is no other place so lacking in hope. Generally, I believe that all people have the government they deserve, except in North Korea. Their lives are so bereft of minimal sustenance that they lack the energy to rebel. 

What could they hope to obtain through rebellion. They have been taught from cradle to grave that the rest of the world is far worse off than their miserable lot, and there's no one to correct the lie. They cannot travel. They cannot participate in global communications. They are shielded from every truth.

North Korea is an asylum run by the maddest of the hatters and its leaders are hellbent on spreading bedlam to the rest of the world. To this end, they abet the disciples of intolerance, men of other nations who have deluded themselves into believing that they alone possess the one truth to which all people must submit or die. Their greatest danger is that they do not fear death. They welcome it, and Korea is ready, willing, and able to supply the instruments of death.

I knew that I shared this planet with these people but didn't really know them until I began collecting research materials in preparation for writing my next novel, Behind Every Mountain, a story of the Korean War. Once again, as with every research project, my first lesson was to learn the extent of my own ignorance. 

The war itself was a relatively simple affair. It may be summed up briefly in four campaigns: (1) The North Koreans drove the South Koreans from their capital and almost totally from the peninsula; (2) The South Koreans, with the aid of the Americans led by Douglas Macarthur, landed at Inchon, cutting off the North Koreans from their bases and briefly uniting the peninsula under one command; (3) the Chinese Communists launched a surprise attack drove the South Koreans and Americans back to the southern tip of the peninsula; and (4) the South Koreans and Americans, reinforced by U.N. Forces drove the Chinese Communists back to the original border, the 38th Parallel, where the war became stalemated. All of this occurred in a brief, though bloody, two-year engagement.

Koreans, both North and South, suffered terribly during the war. North Koreans murdered their cousins in the South during the first campaign, and South Koreans exacted brutal revenge during the second. As a result, enmity between the two halves of the Korean population remains strong to this day. 

The only people Koreans despise more than their neighbors are the Japanese. Most of us know that the Japanese treated the Koreans terribly during World War II. Most notably, few are unaware that the Japanese Army used Koreans as “comfort women,” irredeemably debasing them and leaving them with self-loathing. However, Japanese crimes against Korea extend from well before World War II. Following the Sino-Japanese War in the early Twentieth Century, Japan annexed Korea and renamed it Chosin, a province of Japan.

Korea remained a province of Japan until the end of World War II. During that time, the Japanese attempted to eradicate all vestiges of Korean culture. Koreans were forbidden to speak their own language or practice their own cultural or religious celebrations. Japanese commanders and bureaucrats carried off Korean national treasures. Korean dissenters, sometimes whole villages, were annihilated to enforce Japanese demands.

Some may dismiss the loss of Korean culture as a minor event in human history. However, I have come to learn that Korea had a rich cultural heritage predating Western Civilization. It simply had the misfortune of being located between two militarily superior forces, China and Japan. Ultimately, it fell victim to that fate alluded to in the African Proverb - “When two bulls fight, it is the grass that suffers.”

Korea suffered. 

It is my habit to research the people and the place in time long before the milieu of my story so that I will have a deeper understanding of them. As I studied the history of Cuba to pre-Columbian times to better understand Fidel Castro's Revolution, I am reaching back into antiquity to understand the Korean culture that Japan attempted to eradicate. I believe that it still resonated during the Korean War as well as it resonates today despite Japan's best or worst efforts.

WHAT BINDS A NATION together? Religion? Schisms within the same religion often tear theocracies apart. Geography? The world simply isn't divided into convenient parcels and peoples often spill into one another's domains in search of resources. Loyalty? Loyalties to family, tribe, and king never lasted more than a few generations as nations, especially those with an abundance of ambitious hereditary leaders, ripped themselves apart with internecine strife. 

This question haunted the leaders of the United States in the early part of the 19th century as its citizens began pouring through passes in the Allegheny Mountains. What would bind these pioneers to Washington? It was a valid question. These were the people, or the first generation descendants of people, who had fled motherlands to find liberty and opportunity in the new world. They didn't share one religion. They felt trapped by the Allegheny Mountains as they were trapped in their motherlands. They had long before cast off loyalties, most recently to England. To the west they saw vast unclaimed territories where they could own property and escape the yoke of established landowners in the east. 

Poor communications threatened to isolate these early pioneers from the new nation and America's leaders in Washington knew that they would lose control as they lost touch with them.

Enter Robert Fulton and his little steamboat, the Clermont. Few could have foreseen that the wake of its passage up the Hudson in 1807 would ripple across the nation. The technology that it demonstrated was quickly employed to establish lines of communication along the waterways of the nation's interior, between the Allegheny and the Rocky Mountains. Thus, Fulton provided the answer. We would be one nation bound by commerce.

Indeed, it seemed that the men who drafted the Constitution were prescient in adding the commerce clause. They not only insured freedom of commerce between the several states, but also between the nation and its territories. 

Thus, The Fire of His Genius is more than a story of a man and his invention, it is the story of an invention and its ability to unite a nation.

I HAVE A NEW PLAN and I hope that you approve. I'm going to devote each day of the week to a different topic in my blog: Short Story, Opinion, Book/Author Review, and the periods/topics of history that inspire my writing such as The American Revolution, The Cuban Revolution, The Korean War, and personal memoirs from Vietnam and more. 

I had thought that my reflections on Sea Scouting, inspired by their 100th anniversary, would last a few installments, maybe a dozen at most. However, it has become apparent that there is a lot of grist in that mill. Just one posting each week devoted to this life experience may span the rest of the year. My wife has long encouraged me to write a book about that period of my life and I believe that with a little editing, these blog posts may be joined into one continuous narrative that will satisfy her.

Currently, I am writing a novel about the war in Korea. My research has unearthed a wealth of material for blog posts, history that I believe holds important lessons that could help us better cope with current events. You will see my first installment this week.

Also this week, I will begin posting my personal memoirs from Vietnam. These will serve as the basis for a new novel, one that will help readers view that war from a totally new perspective.

I suspect that my Opinions will draw the greatest ire inasmuch as I am neither Republican nor Democrat nor a member of any fringe political party. I am neither liberal nor conservative. I find myself ducking from trench to crater in a war of ideologies without many allies. Thus, I suppose that I may offend everyone with my opinions. However, if I cause anyone to think outside the boundaries set by their political and ideological leaders, I will be grateful.

Lastly, I believe that there is no more important topic than the continuing American Revolution. I believe that the Revolution has entered a new campaign that may well decide the fate of the Republic. Unfortunately, most citizens are ill-prepared for it. Schools and media have failed miserably in their roles of educating and informing us about it, and forces who wish to recast it in a new mold find little opposition because the masses do not understand the value of what has been handed down to them. My goals in commenting on American history are to dispel the myths created for political and ideological advantage, and to help citizens once again feel proud of their heritage. I was raised on those myths. Inasmuch as my birthday coincides with that of George Washington, I was exposed to them at a very early age. As I grew and matured, I sought out the real man and found him to be a far more interesting, compelling, and inspiring personality than the mythical one.

I will not gloss over our mistakes and missteps. Anyone who has read Rebels on the Mountain knows that I was brutal in my assessment of the role of racial prejudice in our foreign policy, especially as it has been applied in Latin America. If we do not confront our mistakes and missteps honestly, we will be forever condemned to suffer them again and again.

Ultimately, I am compelled to write. It is as necessary to my well being as eating and breathing. I could no more still the voice of the storyteller in my head than I could still my beating heart. As I write, I hope to become a better writer, one who you will continue to read in this blog and in my books. 

OUR SHELVES USED to be stacked with every book Dean Koontz ever wrote. My wife and I were both fans. Then we got rid of them all. Why? Our daughter bought us a Kindle. My wife had resisted. “I like the feel of holding a book in my hands.” “I like the smell of the binding.” “I can't read computer text as well as paper.” I held off buying one for myself because it was an extravagance we couldn't afford, buying traditional books for her and the same ones in eBook format for me. However, once she got the Kindle I couldn't get it away from her and I had to buy a second one for me. 

My wife has a friend who also resisted buying a Kindle. Same reasons. She didn't have a daughter to tempt her away. Her husband wanted to read my book but couldn't because it's available in eBook format only and they didn't have a Kindle. It was an extravagance to purchase one just to read my book. However, now he'll get to read Rebels on the Mountain because Mr. Koontz published a Kindle single, The Moonlit Mind, and she can't get it in hard cover or paperback. I guess a Kindle was an extravagance for my book but not Mr. Koontz's.

What's all the fuss about? If you have to ask that question, you haven't read Dean Koontz yet. He writes thrillers, believable thrillers populated with characters you can identify with. I would almost read any book by him rather than my book. Almost, but not quite. Mine is a really good read, too. But, I don't write thrillers. I write historical fiction. I wouldn't attempt to compete with him.

Where do you begin? You can pick up any Dean Koontz book you like and enjoy it as a standalone novel. However, he wrote two series that are enjoyed best when read in their correct order: The Odd Thomas books and the Frankenstein books. Odd Thomas is a gentle character with a quirky “super-power,” one he cannot control. If he gives himself over to it, it leads him where he needs to be to prevent a tragedy or solve a crime. If he attempts to force it, he may not only fail but also cause a tragedy for which he suffers greatly. The Frankenstein series is a sympathetic treatment of a man made monster (I could have written "man-made" - I didn't on purpose - think about it). Dean will make you think about Mary Shelley's monster in a whole new way.

I suppose that a journalist will knock at Mr. Koontz's door and ask why he did it – publish a Kindle single without a companion book in hardcover or paperback – if such a thing as a journalist still exists. (Please forgive the editorial comment there.) Maybe one already has. I suppose that Amazon might have paid him to do it to help promote sales of Kindles. I know of at least one case in which the strategy worked. He might have done it as an act of curiosity. He appears to have a very curious mind. Whatever the reason, he certainly helped me sell at least one copy of my book.

Thank you, Mr. Koontz. 

POOLES ISLAND LIGHTHOUSE, the first lighthouse built by the United States government, is one National Historical Monument you never want to visit. Even the Sea Scouts weren't foolish enough to go there inasmuch as it is surrounded by a mass of unexploded ordnance. The reason is that Pooles Island, near the confluence of the Gunpowder River and the Chesapeake Bay, was the target of nearly continuous artillery barrages from 1918 until some time in the 1960s. Located just offshore of the United States Army Aberdeen Proving Grounds, Pooles Island was the impact area for shells fired to test artillery and mortars since the beginning of America's entry in the the First World War. 

The narrow passage between Pooles Island and the Aberdeen Proving Grounds on the Western Shore of the Chesapeake Bay was closed to boat traffic during test firings. Pickett boats patrolled both ends of the narrow strait. Our USAAF P-250 Crash Boat came to us from that service. It was stuck in ice one winter while attempting to return to its moorings. The crew walked ashore on the ice shelf and the boat was allowed to sink during the Spring thaw. Fortunately, the water was shallow and we were able to retrieve it without too much difficulty. 

We didn't have the funding to buy new or even used boats and had to take what we could get. The crash boat was an opportune find. It had a double-planked mahogany hull fastened over closely spaced oak frames. The crew who abandoned the boat probably could have forced their way home like an ice breaker. Luckily for us they didn't and we acquired the perfect vessel for our purposes. It was built to respond to emergencies. A continuous bilge ventilation system allowed us to fire up the engines at a moment's notice without worrying about igniting fumes.

The boat had two bench seats in the cabin forward of the bridge and two in the one aft that could be used as berths. We added three hanging pipe racks with bed springs and cot mattresses forward and converted the seat backs in the after cabin into berths that were hinged to serve as both berths and seat backs. This gave us a total of nine berths. We carried cots on board for two to sleep on the bridge and four in the after cockpit, giving us accommodations for a total of fifteen. 

As I researched Castro's revolution to write Rebels on the Mountain, I learned that he had attempted to purchase a P-250 Crash Boat like ours to transport his group of 83 rebels from Mexico to Cuba. I can't imagine where he would have put them. Indeed, the cabin cruiser he used, the Granma, was only about twenty feet longer.

I visited Aberdeen once with my junior high school class, about two years before I joined the Sea Scouts. The landscape was dominated by skeletal steel structures that held two electronic sensors. Canon cockers fired artillery and mortar rounds through them to measure the velocity of the shells. This data was transmitted to Philadelphia where human computers calculated ballistic charts, called firing tables, that soldiers used to fire accurately at the enemy. American Heritage magazine recently featured a story about the women who were recruited during World War II to perform this duty, and who programmed the first digital computers.

We frequently observed the impact of artillery rounds on Pooles Island from a safe distance. However, there were times when a few rounds fell short of the island and sank a buoy marking the channel between the island and the mainland. The Coast Guard who had to maintain and replace these buoys were none to happy. They accused the Army of sinking them intentionally. If true, it represented an amazing feat of marksmanship.

As I learned later in my training as an infantry officer, artillery and mortars are principally used in batteries of three to four tubes. One tube fires a round for registration. A forward observer reports adjustments to a fire control team who calculate changes in the weapon's elevation and direction to hit closer to the target. In the case of mortars, they also have to calculate changes in the number of supplemental propellant packages attached to the fins of the mortar round to alter the weapon's range. Several rounds may be needed to bracket the target. When the observer believes that the registration round has impacted close enough to the target, he requests that the entire battery fires for effect. With three or four tubes firing simultaneously, chances are good that the target will be struck. If the target is a group of personnel, the combined bursting radius of all three or four rounds should spread a sufficient amount of shrapnel in their ranks to decimate them.

However, when we observed a buoy being sunk, the canon cockers at Aberdeen usually required no more than two rounds for registration and hit it squarely with the third round. Only later, when I studied artillery tactics, did I come to appreciate their accuracy. The buoys were no more than four feet in diameter!

I must admit to visiting Pooles Island twice. On the first occasion, the picket boat must have moved further up the channel, out of sight, and the firing hadn't commenced when we ventured into the channel. We got out of there just as fast as you can imagine as soon as the first rounds impacted. Luckily, they fired in trajectories that impacted towards the center of the island, away from the beaches. On the second occasion, we beached to bailout a small sailboat and, since they weren't firing that day, we explored a little. We hadn't heard of duds before and, fortunately, didn't encounter any otherwise my career as a storyteller would never have gotten off the ground any farther than an exploding shell could have launched me.