William A. Glass's Blog: William A. Glass, Author Blog

I've been immersed in writing a new novel, so it's been a while since I've posted. However, Crossing Day was recently published, and the Kindle will be free until June 13. Here is a link: https://tinyurl.com/crossing-day

Crossing Day is a wild thriller set 160 years after the Confederacy won its independence in the Civil War. So here we are in modern times, but slaves of African descent still perform heavy labor in the South. That seems normal to the teenagers in my story who attend high school in Alabama. That is until a shocking event wakes them to the injustice. Now, despite the danger, they decide to help a slave girl escape. Will they succeed?

I'm excited about this book. Feedback from early readers has been great! They say that in addition to being a gripping thriller, Crossing Day is a thought-provoking read. I would love to hear what you think!! Crossing Day by William A. Glass

Cutting passages out of a draft manuscript is one of the toughest things writers do.
What truly hurts is spending hours on editing a portion of a book, getting it just right, and then deciding that part can be dispensed with.


My novel, 'As Good As Can Be' is heavily autobiographical. I'm often asked about real-life episodes that didn't make it into the final draft. Of course there are a large number of them otherwise the book length would be out-of-control.


One crazy episode from my childhood that came close to being included in 'As Good As Can Be' occurred in 1955 when my family traveled to Europe on the SS United States. On the last night of the voyage, my parents were invited to dine at the captain's table. They left my sister, then 11, in charge of her four younger siblings. We played nicely until eleven or so. That’s when the fighting started.


After a storm of complaints from passengers in neighboring cabins, the deck steward tried but couldn’t stop the mayhem. He called on a ship’s officer who also failed to halt the effusion of blood. The officer reluctantly went to the first-class dining room for a word with the captain, who then asked my father, Colonel Glass, to restore order.


During dinner, my father had been charming the socks off of a Duchess (or so he claimed) and was so irate at being interrupted that he kept us children up for the rest of the night. This meant we were all asleep later that morning when the ship made a brief stop to let passengers off in Liverpool. Dad was still awake, however, and went ashore. Later he rubbed it in that he saw England and we didn’t. The ship landed in Bremerhaven that evening, and the Glass family spent the next four years in Germany.

IT ALWAYS ROLLS DOWNHILL

Review of Street Without Joy and Hell In A Very Small Place by Bernard Fall

When I was in the army, a popular saying was that “the shit always rolls downhill.” By this, it was meant that decisions by the generals were handed off to the colonels, who then downloaded them to the captains, and so on until a group of privates were sacrificed on a suicide mission. That pretty much describes what happened to the cream of the French army at Dien Bin Phu in the First Indochina War.

Hell In A Very Small Place, by Bernard Fall, chronicles that defeat in devastating detail. However, to fully understand Dien Bin Phu, it is necessary to read Fall’s prior book, Street Without Joy, which describes the bloody series of debacles the French suffered leading up to that last battle.

The road to Dien Bien Phu began shortly after World War II when French leaders set out to reclaim the country’s colonial empire, starting with Viet Nam. Ho Chi Minh, the communist revolutionary who had battled Japanese forces, wanted Vietnam’s independence. This conflict led to the First Indochina War.

Aided by copious weaponry and advisors from both Russia and China, Ho Chi Minh’s ragtag guerrilla force morphed into a highly disciplined army. With it, he dealt the French a series of blows. General Navarre, the overall theatre commander of French Forces in Vietnam, had no answer to the Viet Minh’s hit and run tactics. His heavy tanks and artillery meant that the French were road-bound while the lightly equipped Viet Minh could flit through the jungle, appearing suddenly to ambush a French column or attack a sitting-duck checkpoint.

Street Without Joy chronicles the tragic fate that befell many French units posted in stationary guard posts in remote areas. As the war dragged on the Viet Minh became masters of camouflage. Their sappers were among the world’s best. They turned Viet Nam’s roads into death traps. Route 1, which French soldiers called “the street without joy,” was the scene of many bloody ambushes.

In the classic Hell In A Very Small Place, Fall describes how Navarre blundered into his final defeat. Hoping to lure the Viet Minh’s main battle forces away from the vital Red River delta, Navarre decided to parachute ten battalions of his best troops into Dien Bin Phu, a small town located in the heart of an indefensible valley. The troops and their equipment were parachuted because the roads, and in fact the entire region, were controlled by the Communists. When coming up with this plan, Navarre failed to consider that parachuting is a one-way affair. Once in, there was no way out for the French.

Soon Navarre had his wish to decoy the Viet Minh away from the delta. The communist commander, General Giap, surrounded the 10,000-man French garrison of Dien Bin Phu with three divisions comprising 40,000 soldiers. This was done in accordance with the military maxim that to succeed, attackers must outnumber defenders by 4-1. Once Giap had his troops and artillery in place, the outcome of the battle was not in doubt.

The Second Indochina War preoccupied much of my youth. Decisions made by Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson led America to replicate the French debacle, thus destroying the lives of many of our most promising young people. At the time, Bernard Fall was acknowledged as the expert on Indochina. Street Without Joy and Hell In A Very Small Place were considered must-reads by bright young American officers during the sixties. However, they and their superiors could not shake the idea that the French were the B-team, not quite ready for primetime, while the US army would be like the varsity coming in to kick ass.

But in fact, the Foreign Legion and French paratroopers were among the best professional soldiers in the world. They and their Moroccan, Algerian, and Vietnamese auxiliaries fought bravely and well in a doomed clause. One wonders if Robert MacNamara, William Westmoreland, Dean Rusk, Lyndon Johnson, and other architects of America’s effort in Viet Nam understood this or bothered to read Fall’s books.

Reading Street Without Joy and Hell In A Very Small Place caused me to ponder how generals find the hubris to put their finger on a map and decide to pour the blood of their men on the ground there. In General Giap’s case, it’s understandable that he and his men would fight for their home. By contrast, French soldiers had nothing at stake. Victory for them would only have benefited corporations like Michelin, wealthy French planters, and other beneficiaries of colonialism. So in the end, the side that was fighting off an existential threat to their country beat soldiers who at first were motivated by professional pride and later fought only to save their own and their comrades’ lives.

If you are a history buff, then I would highly recommend Bernard Fall’s work. He assumes that his readers want all the details, so he provides them. But this is not a dry history recitation. Fall introduces us to many intriguing characters on both sides of the conflict and peppers the narrative with their quotes plus telling anecdotes so that we truly get to know them. While Fall is sympathetic to the plight of the French soldiers, he makes sure to honor the bravery, professionalism, and dedication of the Viet Minh and their leaders. Sadly, after documenting the tragic story of France’s Indochina war, Fall went on to write about America’s turn to take on the Vietnamese communists. Never an armchair historian, he was killed by a mine while out on patrol with US marines in 1967.

IT ALWAYS ROLLS DOWNHILL

Review of Street Without Joy and Hell In A Very Small Place by Bernard Fall

When I was in the army, a popular saying was that “the shit always rolls downhill.” By this, it was meant that decisions by the generals were handed off to the colonels, who then downloaded them to the captains, and so on until a group of privates were sacrificed on a suicide mission. That pretty much describes what happened to the cream of the French army at Dien Bin Phu in the First Indochina War.

Hell In A Very Small Place, by Bernard Fall, chronicles that defeat in devastating detail. However, to fully understand Dien Bin Phu, it is necessary to read Fall’s prior book, Street Without Joy, which describes the bloody series of debacles the French suffered leading up to that last battle.

The road to Dien Bien Phu began shortly after World War II when French leaders set out to reclaim the country’s colonial empire, starting with Viet Nam. Ho Chi Minh, the communist revolutionary who had battled Japanese forces, wanted Vietnam’s independence. This conflict led to the First Indochina War.

Aided by copious weaponry and advisors from both Russia and China, Ho Chi Minh’s ragtag guerrilla force morphed into a highly disciplined army. With it, he dealt the French a series of blows. General Navarre, the overall theatre commander of French Forces in Vietnam, had no answer to the Viet Minh’s hit and run tactics. His heavy tanks and artillery meant that the French were road-bound while the lightly equipped Viet Minh could flit through the jungle, appearing suddenly to ambush a French column or attack a sitting-duck checkpoint.
Street Without Joy chronicles the tragic fate that befell many French units posted in stationary guard posts in remote areas.

As the war dragged on the Viet Minh became masters of camouflage. Their sappers were among the world’s best. They turned Viet Nam’s roads into death traps. Route 1, which French soldiers called “the street without joy,” was the scene of many bloody ambushes.

In the classic Hell In A Very Small Place, Fall describes how Navarre blundered into his final defeat. Hoping to lure the Viet Minh’s main battle forces away from the vital Red River delta, Navarre decided to parachute ten battalions of his best troops into Dien Bin Phu, a small town located in the heart of an indefensible valley. The troops and their equipment were parachuted because the roads, and in fact the entire region, were controlled by the Communists. When coming up with this plan, Navarre failed to consider that parachuting is a one-way affair. Once in, there was no way out for the French.

Soon Navarre had his wish to decoy the Viet Minh away from the delta. The communist commander, General Giap, surrounded the 10,000-man French garrison of Dien Bin Phu with three divisions comprising 40,000 soldiers. This was done in accordance with the military maxim that to succeed, attackers must outnumber defenders by 4-1. Once Giap had his troops and artillery in place, the outcome of the battle was not in doubt.

The Second Indochina War preoccupied much of my youth. Decisions made by Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson led America to replicate the French debacle, thus destroying the lives of many of our most promising young people. At the time, Bernard Fall was acknowledged as the expert on Indochina. Street Without Joy and Hell In A Very Small Place were considered must-reads by bright young American officers during the sixties. However, they and their superiors could not shake the idea that the French were the B-team, not quite ready for primetime, while the US army would be like the varsity coming in to kick ass.

But in fact, the Foreign Legion and French paratroopers were among the best professional soldiers in the world. They and their Moroccan, Algerian, and Vietnamese auxiliaries fought bravely and well in a doomed clause. One wonders if Robert MacNamara, William Westmoreland, Dean Rusk, Lyndon Johnson, and other architects of America’s effort in Viet Nam understood this or bothered to read Fall’s books.

Reading Street Without Joy and Hell In A Very Small Place caused me to ponder how generals find the hubris to put their finger on a map and decide to pour the blood of their men on the ground there. In General Giap’s case, it’s understandable that he and his men would fight for their home. By contrast, French soldiers had nothing at stake. Victory for them would only have benefited corporations like Michelin, wealthy French planters, and other beneficiaries of colonialism. So in the end, the side that was fighting off an existential threat to their country beat soldiers who at first were motivated by professional pride and later fought only to save their own and their comrades’ lives.

If you are a history buff, then I would highly recommend Bernard Fall’s work. He assumes that his readers want all the details, so he provides them. But this is not a dry history recitation. Fall introduces us to many intriguing characters on both sides of the conflict and peppers the narrative with their quotes plus telling anecdotes so that we truly get to know them. While Fall is sympathetic to the plight of the French soldiers, he makes sure to honor the bravery, professionalism, and dedication of the Viet Minh and their leaders. Sadly, after documenting the tragic story of France’s Indochina war, Fall went on to write about America’s turn to take on the Vietnamese communists. Never an armchair historian, he was killed by a mine while out on patrol with US marines in 1967.

A REVIEW OF: BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM, BY JAMES MCPHERSON
If you only read one book about the American Civil War this is it! Everything is covered beginning with the intractable differences that led to the disaster and ending with a clear picture of the aftermath. But this is not a boring survey or dry recitation of facts. It's an entertaining and thought-provoking read that will engage your attention from beginning to end.

I have read a lot of American history but until this book, never really understood to what extent the Civil War was a rebellion, not by the South against the North, but the reverse. Battle Cry of Freedom explains that the impetus for the blood-letting came from the growing revulsion of decent people, primarily but not exclusively of the North, against slavery. These Americans elected Abraham Lincoln as president.

Recognizing that the expansion of slavery was now impossible in the United States, and that without it their peculiar institution would wither and die, the slaveocracy concluded to found their own country. When the border states declined to join them, the Confederates started the war in order to draw the wavering slave states in. No other conclusion is possible after reading McPherson's masterful work. Upon reflection just about every other book I have read on the war aligns with this view.

So this one volume will either provide all you want to know about the Civil War era, or better yet stimulate your interest in the subject and give you a framework that will provide context for further reading.

I’m often asked what inspired me to write my first book. The answer is that my early life was crazy enough to provide plenty for a novel. The story begged to come out.

But it requires more than inspiration to finish a book project. It takes motivation. People are motivated by things like money, competition, achievement, and ego. Reflecting on what drove me to work so long on my novel, I ruled out the first two items. That left self-actualization (achievement) and ego. The two are related in that it takes a healthy ego to believe that you have unrealized potential.

I learned about motivation during my sales career. Back then, I was known as a “rainmaker.” A business development specialist who could bring trophy clients to the firm. It wasn’t easy selling multi-million-dollar consulting engagements to Fortune 100 companies. Many salespeople who were hired by our company failed. This turnover was expensive, so human resources paid to have several top salespeople analyzed, hoping it would help to refine the hiring process. I was chosen for the experiment. That’s how I learned about motivation and other personality traits that affect job performance.

Several outfits provide talent assessment services to corporate America. The most prestigious is the Center for Creative Leadership (CCL). I got to spend a week at their Colorado Springs boot camp, having my brain picked by the best Industrial and Organizational Psychologists in the business. My fellow guinea pigs included CEOs, political leaders, army generals, and successful entrepreneurs. The report they furnished at the end dissected my patterns of thought, feeling, and behavior, then summed it up in four letters: ENTJ.

So, my firm went on a hiring spree using tests designed to identify the 2% of the population with the ENTJ personality type. It didn’t matter if they had any sales experience. If the data said hire, we hired. The results were not spectacular. The failure rate among salespeople got worse. Why? In my book, AS GOOD AS CAN BE there is a clue. To say more would spoil it!

This brings us back to ego drive. My wife was not happy when I took up writing. She accused me of being an egotist. That hurt, but then I remembered something one of the CCL shrinks said. He told me what I already knew, that I’m rebellious and independent. Then he explained something I didn’t know. That according to Freud, independence is the manifestation of ego, and a healthy ego is not prideful or arrogant, just confident. Starting a book requires confidence, finishing it requires motivation, and ego drive is the strongest motivator of all. Like it or not.

A Writer’s Kryptonite
By: William A. Glass

Writing is a lonely business. Sometimes it’s nice to have your Old Grandad for company, or maybe Uncle Jack. Recently an interviewer asked me, “What’s your kryptonite?” Without a missing a beat, I answered, “whiskey.”

There’s been many a night when I got on a roll, words were pouring onto the page, and I could have continued writing into the wee hours if it hadn’t been for too many wee drams. I’m a natural-born alcoholic with every Celtic cell in my body clamoring for refreshment at the end of the day. Still, I can’t drink like I used to. I look back on the many boozy adventures of my youth, and while I don’t have any regrets about those wild times, I don’t miss them. Nowadays, two or three drinks on occasion and I’m ready for bed.

Many people my age still manage to guzzle drinks all night and get blotto. The ones I know are good-natured drunks and have an uproariously fun time getting tanked. As to what their mornings are like, don’t ask don’t tell!

Me, I’ve lost my capacity for booze. Probably because at the height of my hard-partying career, I went on the wagon. Marriage and children forced my hand. You see, my father was a degenerate alcoholic and I didn’t want my kids to grow up the way I did. It’s baffling to young people when normally sane parents lose control. Only later do they figure out that it’s what they’re drinking that causes it.

Another factor in my decision to refrain was family history. Not all Irish people are drunks, and not all Scots love whiskey. But genetics do play a role in alcoholism and with Celtic blood on both sides of the family, and a sot for a father, I feared passing on a drinking habit to my three sons.

During their childhoods, My kids never saw me drink. Now that they are all adults, however, our family’s predilection for spirits has shown up in each of them. Fortunately, they manage to keep it under control.

Maybe my preaching during their early years helped. Chiefs and elders of American Indian tribes had some good sayings about alcohol that I relayed to my kids. One was, “Why put a thief in your mouth to steal your brains?” Another goes, “First the man takes a drink, then the drink takes a drink, and then the drink takes the man.”

For twenty years, I didn’t touch a drop of liquor then as my oldest was heading off to college and the youngest was graduating from middle school, I decided an occasional drink wouldn’t hurt. My fear was that I’d immediately go back to swilling the volume of liquor I used to. But to my relief, that didn’t happen. My hollow leg was gone.

You might wonder why, at my advanced age and knowing what I do about the dangers of alcoholism, I still take an occasional glass. The only answer I have is that whiskey is the devil. If you are susceptible to alcoholism, then it’s a lifelong fight. Sometimes you win, other times you lose. Just don't give up!

I knew from the age of 16 that alcohol was going to be a problem. That was the first time my parents allowed me to have a drink. But one wasn’t enough. For more about what happened that night, here is an excerpt from my novel AS GOOD AS CAN BE. The character, Dave Knight, is based on me. This scene takes place at a debutante ball.

EXCERPT FROM: As Good As Can Be, by William A. Glass

“Would it be all right if I have a beer?” Dave asks. He’s seen several college-age boys walking around holding beer cans.

“Sure,” Knight replies, “you’re what now, sixteen?”

“Just make sure you only have one,” Bobbie says sternly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dave agrees, and as his parents move off, he gets in line at one of the makeshift bars.

Soon Dave’s guzzling a beer, despite the bitter taste, and gradually an unaccustomed sense of well-being overtakes him. His senses tingle and a warm glow spreads within. He decides to have another.

Dave doesn’t want Bobbie to see him in one of the bar lines again, so he goes to look for beer in the kitchen. There are none in the refrigerator, but several cases of liquor are stacked by the back door. Reaching into one, Dave pulls out a bottle of Scotch. Hurriedly he uses a paring knife to remove the seal. Then he fills his empty beer can. Presently Dave’s back in the living room, sipping the drink.

As the orchestra breaks into a jitterbug, Dave taps his foot. He wants to dance, but Mrs. Rice is nowhere around. However, lots of old ladies are nearby, so Dave decides to be a gentleman. He asks an elderly woman in a red dress to dance, and she acquiesces delightedly. Dave rests his can of booze on a side table and goes out to cut a rug. He has no idea what he’s doing, but that doesn’t discourage his geriatric partner. She takes the lead and does her best to get Dave into some sort of rhythm. At the end of the number, he politely escorts her back to their starting point. “Thanks for the dance,” Dave says with a little bow.

“You’re perfectly welcome,” the woman smiles.

Back on the sideline, Dave chugs Scotch as he takes in the scene. He’s dazzled by the swirl of color as the dancers spin past. What a lovely group of people, he thinks. However, an older woman nearby seems sad, and Dave’s heart fills with compassion. He takes another swig of his drink, puts the can down, and asks her to dance. The lady’s expression takes on a youthful gaiety as he walks her onto the floor.

After dancing, Dave returns to his spot, and soon the beer can requires a refill. He makes his way to the kitchen and tops up. When he gets back, the band has progressed to a hipper part of its repertoire. People are doing the twist, and Dave gets the urge to join in. He has no trouble finding a blue-haired companion.

Dave swivels himself into a frenzy, then escorts his partner back to the sideline. On the way, he receives several compliments on his twisting. Then Dave retrieves his drink and nurses it a while. Later he wends his way to the kitchen again.

The crowd has noticeably thinned when Dave returns, but those who remain make up in enthusiasm what they lack in numbers. The band essays more rock ’n’ roll and decorum is relaxed. Dave takes to excusing himself in the middle of dances to tend to his beer can. No one takes it amiss. His partners wait happily in the middle of the dance floor until he returns.

As the hour grows late, Dave is slow dancing with a woman who must have been something in her prime. They are cheek to cheek, and she’s gently caressing the back of his neck. That’s all Dave remembers until he opens his eyes and sees the water. “Don’t bite me, you son of a bitch,” his father says.

Slowly Dave realizes that the object being pushed down his throat is his father’s index finger. Knight’s other hand is on the back of Dave’s head forcing it into the toilet.

Meanwhile, Dr. Wilbur Hughes stands swaying in the doorway. “He’s got to throw up,” the physician slurs. “Make him throw up.”
Knight energetically reams Dave’s oral cavity but fails to get the desired result. The tile floor is hard on his knees, so he stands and joins Wilbur in swaying. They look like two gentlemen aboard ship in a storm. “Son of a bitch won’t vomit,” Knight complains.

Dave laboriously pulls an arm up from the floor and rests it on the rim of the porcelain bowl. Then he lays his head on the sleeve. “Just want to sleep,” he mumbles, “sleep.”

“He can’t sleep,” Wilbur tells Knight. “That might be fatal. We have to walk him.”

The two men take hold of Dave’s legs and drag him out of the bathroom and into the living room of the cottage. It’s all they can do to hoist the boy to his feet. Then they force their shoulders under his armpits and haul him across the small room. After several turns back and forth, Wilbur and Knight agree to take a break. They plop Dave down on the sofa and fall into armchairs. Knight lights a cigarette.

A few minutes later, Elizabeth Hughes breezes into the cottage. “Well, that was a shock,” she says. “Mrs. Ferndale couldn’t believe it when he keeled over just like her late husband.” Elizabeth finds a pillow and blanket in the hall closet, removes Dave’s shoes, and covers him up. “Let’s go,” she tells Wilbur.

As Good As Can Be

MIRACLE at MIDWAY by Gordon W. Prange
THE ADMIRALS by Walter R. Borneman
REVIEWER: William A. Glass Https://www.williamaglass.com
Date: 01/11/2021

I recently read Miracle at Midway by Gordon W. Prange and got so caught up in the history of World War II in the Pacific that I next picked up The Admirals by Walter R. Borneman. These two books contain many revelations. I learned that famous American generals and admirals were often incompetent, that Japanese military leaders who prided themselves on their warrior spirit got cold feet at critical moments, and how vital FDR’s top military advisors were to the ultimate U.S. victory.

Incompetence among America’s top brass was evident from the first. In the days before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, both Admiral Husband Kimmel, the U.S. Pacific Fleet commander, and General Douglas MacArthur, who commanded our forces in the Philippines, were warned of a Japanese attack. Still, U.S. forces were not put on alert and the Japanese attacks on Hawaii and the Philippines had the advantage of surprise. Kimmel’s battleships were arrayed in a neat row and MacArthur had his airplanes parked wingtip to wingtip. Japanese pilots obliterated these easy targets.

Kimmel lost his command, but somehow McArthur kept his. He promptly led his army into a trap of his own making. MacArthur escaped capture by the enemy, but his troops were not so lucky. As they were led away on a death march, he was in Australia pledging to return to the Philippines. MacArthur looked and spoke like a great military leader and became a hero to the public despite his shortcomings.

Admiral “Bull” Halsey was another brass hat who looked and talked like he knew what he was doing. Early in the war, he commanded the carrier task force that ferried James Doolittle and his daring raiders close enough to Tokyo for them to drop bombs. This made Halsey a hero to the public, but afterward his story was one of bad luck, poor judgement, and sorry seamanship.

Fortunately for Halsey and MacArthur, the Japanese military leaders had worse faults that surfaced immediately. One more attack at Pearl Harbor to target U.S. dry docks, repair facilities, and oil storage tanks would have made Japan master of the Pacific indefinitely. But Admiral Yamamoto was anxious to head back to safer waters, so the U.S. was allowed to rebound.

Next, Yamamoto messed up the plan for the Japanese attack on Midway Island by making the occupation of this American base the objective, rather than designating the U.S. Pacific Fleet as the target. So, while the Japanese were arming their carrier-based planes with bombs for another attack on the island, U.S. aircraft carriers launched dive bombers against the Japanese ships. Four Japanese aircraft carriers, thousands of sailors, close to three hundred planes, and an equal number of Japanese pilots paid the price.

Two years later, the Imperial Japanese high command decided to bet everything on one roll of the dice. The U.S. Navy was landing MacArthur’s army in the Philippines, and the Americans had to be stopped, or all was lost. Tokyo’s plan was to send a decoy fleet to draw Halsey away from his responsibility to protect MacArthur’s landing. Meanwhile, a powerful Japanese strike force would sneak through a passage between two Philippine Islands and destroy MacArthur’s troops and their transports. Naturally, Halsey fell for the Japanese ruse and took off after the decoy with all his ships. Incomprehensibly, he didn’t leave any to guard the strategic passage the Japanese strike force came through. The only thing that saved the Americans was the pusillanimity of the Japanese Admiral commanding the strike force. He skirmished with the few escort vessels guarding MacArthur’s landing, then retreated. Thus, Halsey was hailed in U.S. newspapers as the victor of The Battle of Leyte Gulf!

Back in Washington, Admiral William Leahy, General George Marshal, and Admiral Ernest King ran the war for President Franklin Roosevelt. Marshall was in overall command of the army, King was boss of the navy, but Leahy outranked them both. He was FDR’s chief of staff, plus his National Security Advisor. Leahy, King, and Marshall allowed guys like MacArthur and Halsey to get the headlines and be the heroes, content in the knowledge that they were doing their duty to destroy America’s enemies and protect our democracy. They made all the strategic decisions during the war. Historians are only now realizing how critical these three men were. But congress knew. In 1944 they created the five-star rank. Leahy received it first, then Marshal and King. Guess who else got five stars? MacArthur and Halsey, of course! Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

I highly recommend reading Miracle at Midway and The Admirals one after the other. This brief review contains only a few of the many revelations I gleaned from these magnificent works of history.

REVIEW OF THE BOY WHO LIVED WITH GHOSTS
AUTHOR: John Mitchell
REVIEWER: William A. Glass
Date: 12/26/2020


It’s said that no one does poverty like the Irish, but in this memoir, the Scots stake their claim. As in chronicles of Irish squalor, the father in this memoir is a binge drinker, the mother is loving but ineffectual, and the children are dirty snot-noses. They live in crumbling houses that are crawling with vermin. What lends shock value to these Dickensian scenes is that they play out during modern times in so-called advanced countries.

John Mitchell is five years old when we meet him. He lives with his parents, grandparents, and two sisters. His older sister, Margueretta, is getting messages from the devil with instructions on evil tortures to perpetrate on John. She’s mentally ill. That’s what inspires her vicious attacks. They only stop when John is old enough to fend her off. About that time, Margueretta redirects her attacks against herself, and the story increasingly focuses on her.

What I like about this book is its ambition. Rather than giving us a dry memoir from the safe precincts of hindsight, John Mitchell renders his story in the terrifying present tense. It’s stream-of-consciousness technique makes us privy to a young boy’s thoughts and emotions as he goes through the horror movie of his childhood.

With horror movies, you can put your hands over your ears and close your eyes. However, for John, there is no escape. Even his sleep is tormented by screaming monsters coming up from the basement or down from the attic. His waking hours are infused with dread of Margueretta, knowing that’s it not a matter of if but when she will come for him. Reading this reminded me of what I saw once in the pediatric ward of a hospital burn unit. Nurses would come every afternoon to take children for skin debridement treatment. The dread on the patient’s faces as they were wheeled out of their rooms to face the agony was heart-rending. In The Boy Who Lived With Ghosts, John exhibits the same grim resignation in the face of daily torment from his sister.

The possibility of paranormal malfeasance hangs over John’s story and keeps the reader engaged. It’s not an easy read and I found myself wishing for a respite, if not for John then for me. The author’s frequent use of short declarative sentences enhances the shock value. “That’s gruesome!” Margueretta says at one point, which pretty much sums up John’s childhood.

Often memoirs become self-aggrandizing and fail on that account. Witness John Bolton’s recent effort. But in this one, none of the characters come off particularly well. Teachers are bullies, scoutmasters are perverts, relatives are alcoholics, and neighbors succumb either to madness or Valium. The author owns up to his failings, but it’s his intelligence and loving nature that allows him to climb out of the hell he grows up in. I give this book five out of five stars because of the story’s authenticity and the author’s creative approach to telling it.

REVIEW OF SHOT DOWN; The true story of pilot Howard Snyder and the crew of the B-17 Susan Ruth
AUTHOR: Steve Snyder
REVIEWER: William A. Glass
Date: 12/09/2020

Shot Down by Steve Snyder is a non-fiction book about the air war over Western Europe during World War II. The story focuses on the crew of an American bomber, the Susan Ruth, piloted by the author’s father, Lieutenant Howard Snyder. In 1944 the Susan Ruth was hit by a German fighter and the crew bailed out over Nazi occupied Belgium. The flyers were trained in escape and evasion. The story tells how they put their knowledge to the test.

This is a meticulously researched, clearly written, historical work. Remarkable, in that Steve Snyder is not a trained historian. Since this book sets forth the heroic actions of his deceased father, one can surmise that Steve’s passion for telling the story motivated him to do the on-the-job training needed to master the historian’s craft.

After an informative preface, Shot Down kicks off with a jolting, attention-getting scene that got me interested enough to wade through the next hundred pages of background information. I’m glad because this section puts what happens later into context and explains how the aircrew of the Susan Roth came to be in Germany dropping bombs.

Steve’s research provides a wealth of fascinating details. I’ve read about the vast fleets of allied bombers that attacked Germany, but nowhere before did I learn how they managed to get into formation in the low-to-no visibility conditions that often prevailed over England. Now, thanks to this book, I understand the role radio beacons played in the process.

An aspiring historian would do well to note how Steve enhances Shot Down with excerpts from letters and diaries, statistics gleaned from military records, eyewitness reports, and photographs. It’s one thing to read about the frigid cold B-17 crews endured at 20,000 feet, and quite another to see pictures of airmen in action wearing bulky, arctic-proof clothing. Steve does a great job humanizing the frightful odds that made it statistically impossible for the airmen to survive. After a horrendous day of losses known to the airmen as “Black Friday,” he talks about the demoralization that ensued when crews returned to sleep in rooms containing the empty cots of comrades who didn’t make it.

This book focuses on the story of one B-17 crew that fails to return, but in doing so, the author chronicles the fate of many others. The story of the Susan Ruth is stirring, but it’s only one of many planes whose end the author describes. In dramatic fashion, Steve relates grim tales of other bombers limping home, often bedeviled by German fighters, some with an engine on fire, bomb bay doors jammed open, and horribly wounded crew members struggling to survive. A gunner has his leg shot off, and to stop the bleeding, he pokes it through a hole in the fuselage to freeze it. Incredible courage is routine in this narrative, with many instances of pilots staying at the controls and dooming themselves in order to steer their damaged plane away from populated areas and give their crew time to bail out.

The climax of the story comes when it’s the crew of the Susan Ruth whose bunks are left empty one night. Steve recounts the dramatic shoot down using excerpts from his father’s diary. As he describes what comes next for the survivors, we learn myriad historical facts about conditions in POW camps for those captured and about life on the run for ones who evade the Germans. Shot Down gives us an understanding of the resistance groups operating in NAZI occupied Belgium, the underground escape networks created to aid allied airmen, and the dangers they faced from home-grown Fascists plus the Gestapo. For the evaders lucky enough to avoid capture and summary execution, Steve describes their efforts to rejoin the war. Some flee NAZI occupied Europe by crossing into neutral Spain, hoping to rejoin their units in England. Others continues their fight against the Germans by joining resistance fighters.

I learned much from Shot Down thanks to Steve’s in-depth research and clear writing. My only quibble with the book is that early on, he occasionally gets too detailed. Do we need to know the serial number on the special orders that sent Snyder’s crew overseas, or that his mother gave his father a hickey so powerfully that it was visible weeks later? Still, I give Shot Down five out of five stars for the story’s strength and the author’s excellent rendition. The book is a must-read for anyone interested in World War II. It fills in many important details about the battle in the skies over Western Europe, even for knowledgeable readers.

William A. Glass