Someone Like You by Roald Dahl (1953)

When I’m writing a short story I’m haunted by the thought that I’ve got to hold the reader’s attention for literally every second, otherwise I’m dead.
(Roald Dahl, in the Introduction to the first collection of Tales of the Unexpected)

Someone Like You is a collection of 19 short stories by Roald Dahl, published in 1953. It was only after a bit of poking around that I realised what’s always confused me about Dahl’s short stories is that they a) were mostly published very early on, in the 1940s and 50s b) were subsequently repackaged and published multiple times, in different volumes, with a wide variety of titles, thus muddying the order and leading to a confusing plethora of collections.

Take the volume which I associated with Dahl as a schoolboy, the first volume of Tales of the Unexpected, published in 1979 to tie in with the ITV dramatisations which were very popular, stories I, not unnaturally, assumed must have been written during the 1970s. Except it turns out that all the stories in it had been previously published in either this 1953 collection, Someone Like You, or in Kiss Kiss, published in 1960. Presented in shiny packaging at the very end of the 1970s, all these stories in fact dated from the second half of the 1940s and the 1950s, a generation earlier.

  1. Man from the South (September 1948)
  2. Taste (December 1951)
  3. The Sound Machine (September 1949)
  4. Poison (June 1950)
  5. Dip in the Pool (January 1952)
  6. Skin (May 1952)
  7. My Lady Love, My Dove (June 1952)
  8. Lamb to the Slaughter (September 1953)
  9. Nunc Dimittis (September 1953)
  10. Edward the Conqueror (October 1953)
  11. Galloping Foxley (November 1953)
  12. Neck (1953)
  13. The Wish (1953)
  14. The soldier (1953)
  15. The Great Automatic Grammatizator (1953)
  16. Claud’s Dog (1953)
    • The Ratcatcher
    • Rummins
    • Mr. Hoddy
    • Mr Feasey

Man from the South (September 1948)

Two things are made perfectly plain in this first story: It is a gruesome story, which raises the central question, whether Dahl realised early on that the gruesome, macabre and sadistic would sell. And it is written with great clarity and limpidness, plain and open.

There are at least two consequences: one is that he places you in the situation, in the mise en scène, with tremendous speed and efficiency. Witness the first sentence:

It was getting on towards six o’clock so I thought I’d buy myself a beer and go out and sit in a deckchair by the swimming pool and have a little evening sun.

The story is a first-person narrative told by the male narrator who goes down to the pool, orders a beer and sits on a lounger and is watching the guys and girls playing in the pool when the action begins. The stripped-back style acts as a foil to set off the gruesomeness of the central premise. In this case, a middle-aged fully clothed man comes and sits near the narrator, engages him in conversation speaking with an indeterminate accent, maybe Italian maybe Spanish.

They chat a bit, then one of the fit young men from the pool comes splashing out and sits nearby with his girl. He goes to light a cigarette, the man from the South admires his lighter, yes, the Yank says, It lights every time. Every time? asks the man from the South. And then quickly, with an eerie believability, he escalates the conversation, asking the Yank if he wants to bet: why sure, why not, says the young man.

The man from the south escalates it further, saying he’ll bet his car that the Yank’s cigarette lighter won’t light ten times in a row, and not just any old car but a Cadillac. The American’s eyes light up at the prospect of winning a car, but then the man from the South makes his demand…He insists that he takes from the American something he doesn’t need, something like…his little finger! From this point onwards the story becomes not only macabre but actively gripping.

Obviously the girl the American has picked up, and the sensible narrator, are scandalised by the man’s proposition and tell the Yank not to do it…But the man from the South works on him, telling him that if he’s right about his lighter, then he stands to win a Cadillac, until the young man, in a burst of boyish bravado, agrees! At which point they all go to the man’s hotel room where he tells his servant to go and get: string, a hammer, nails and a hand axe.

With these he proceeds to tie the American’s left hand to a table, splayed open in such a way that the little finger is isolated, all of which the American agrees to, and the narrator watches with horrified fascination. Then he instructs the American to start firing his lighter, whilst holding the small axe poised over the American’s finger. One light works. Then number two. Then three.

The reader is, by now, on the edge of their seat. From nowhere (lounging by the pool) this has developed into a heart-stopping thriller. The count gets up to seven successful fires when…the door opens and…the man from the South’s wife storms in.

She immediately puts a stop to everything, pushing him and the axe away, making him put the axe down, untying the American’s hand, saying the whole thing is null and void. She changes the whole mood and context of events by explaining that her husband has a psychiatric disorder, a compulsion to gamble mixed with sadism, ‘they’ have tried repeatedly to stop him. They eventually managed although at some cost and the narrator suddenly notices, as the woman swiftly unties the American’s hand, that she only has the thumb and one finger remaining on her right hand. Gruesome.

Taste (December 1951)

At a posh dinner party a City broker seeks to impress a famous epicure who he’s invited. This posh fellow ignores his food and the extremely expensive wine put in front of him in order to chat up the host’s 18-year-old daughter. Whereupon the banker-host proposes a bet that the Epicure can’t identify the rare red wine he’s just served. The stakes between the two blowhards escalate until the Epicure says that if he wins, if he identifies the wine correctly, he wants the host’s daughter as his winnings. He’ll stake his house in the country, in fact his town and country houses. The wife intervenes, the daughter screams ‘No’ but the obsessed banker-father insists.

There follow several pages in which the Epicure makes a great show of tasting the wine and forensically deducing which vineyard it came from until he announces the correct vineyard and vintage. The banker turns white and asks if they can go to another room for a private talk. Things threaten to turn nasty when the maid, an old woman nearer 70 than 60, steps forward to hand the Epicure his glasses, quietly pointing out that he left them in the study when he popped in there for a few moments just after arriving. The study where he and the host had agreed was the best place to leave opened bottles of wine to air! In other words, he cheated. The expression on the banker’s face hardens as a vast fury grows inside him, and at that moment the narrative ends, leaving us to imagine the rest. Silly but hugely effective.

The Sound Machine (September 1949)

This story has an amateur inventor, H.G. Wells vibe about it. Klausner is an inventor who works in a shed at the bottom of his garden and is putting the finishing touches to a new device. It’s like a miniature coffin filled with wiring, with knobs on the front – amateur inventor stuff.

In a first passage of exposition, Klausner explains what it’s for to Dr Scott. Humans can only hear a subset of the audible spectrum. It’s well know that dogs, for example, or bats, can hear frequencies we can’t. Therefore, he’s built a device which can detect these higher frequencies and convert them into sounds hearable by human beings.

Next day he goes out into his garden, puts on the headphones, turns it on and the, over the background hum, he suddenly hears an intense piercing scream of a sound. He’s still reeling when he hears another one. Suddenly he realises it’s his next door neighbour, Mrs Saunders, cutting yellow roses in her garden.

Klausner leans over the fence, interrupts her horticulture and asks if she can snip one more. She does so and he hears the ‘scream’ at exactly that moment. He can hear plants scream.

Bright and early next morning Klausner carries the machine over to his local park along with an axe. He sets it up by a tree and takes a swing, embedding his axe in the bark. At that exact moment he hears a deep groaning sound. Trees feel pain and trees express it through sound, in this case a deep powerful moaning. He looks at the gash he’s made in the tree with horror and remorse.

Now it becomes clear why the narrative introduced Dr Scott at the beginning because Klausner rushes home and phones the doctor, hurriedly telling him he must must must come over, despite the good doctor complaining that it’s 6.30 in the morning.

But drive round he does, and Klausner hustles him into the park where he insists that the doctor a) puts on the headphones and b) takes the axe and strikes the tree, and so become a witness of his great scientific breakthrough.

Against his better instinct the doctor hits the tree with the axe but, in the seconds before, Klausner realises that one of the tree’s enormous branches is working loose, it bends and snaps at the exact moment Dr Scott’s axe blow hits the tree. The doctor pushes Klausner to safety and they both watch the branch fall on and crush the sound machine.

Feverishly Klausner asks the doctor whether he heard the tree cry out, did he, did he? No, he didn’t. At which point Klausner topples over into madness and asks the doctor to stitch the axe gash in the tree. When the Dr says that’s ridiculous Klausner brandishes the axe menacingly and orders the doctor to paint the wound with iodine i.e. to sterilise it and prevent it becoming infected.

Poison (June 1950)

First-person narrative told by Timber Woods. We’re in India. It’s evening. Woods drives up to the house he shares with Harry Pope. He finds Pope in bed, sweating, absolutely stationary and whispering. He tells Woods there is a krait, a lethal snake, coiled on his chest; it crawled up his leg and across his body while he was lying on his back reading. Now he daren’t move. He’s been lying in an unmoving rictus of terror for hours.

Woods realises it’s an emergency, makes a couple of not very sensible suggestions, then phones Dr Ganderbai, a small Indian Hindu doctor, who comes right round. He brings some anti-venom serum and, after some thought, gets Woods to drive to his clinic and get some choloroform. Once it’s fetched, he rigs up a funnel and long flexible tube and spends fifteen or more minutes very carefully pushing it under the bedsheet to where Harry whispers that the krait is located. Then he pours the cold liquid down the tube so that it slowly spreads over Harry’s tummy, making the narrator, Woods, feel woozy.

The upshot is that after all the doctor’s scrupulous care, when he and the narrator slowly pull the sheet back, there is no snake! Maybe there never was one. As soon as this is confirmed Pope leaps up and dances with horror on the bed and starts ranting and raving. In his release from terror he abuses Dr Ganderbai in insulting racist language. The narrator tries to shut him up and then accompanies the poor abused doctor to his car and tries to apologise and say how much he appreciates all his efforts.

So there are two focuses of interest; for almost the entire story it’s the very tense situation with the supposed fatal snake which has a kind of horror/melodrama vibe; but right at the end it completely switches to being much more human and literary, as Dahl records Pope’s unforgivable racist rant against the doctor and Wood’s embarrassment and attempts to redress the balance by profusely thanking him. The last page where this happens seems like it comes from a different aesthetic and moral universe to everything which preceded it, and it has tremendous understated power.

Dip in the Pool (January 1952)

A gruesome black comedy. We’re aboard an ocean liner. Apparently, in the old days, they bet on what distance the ship would cover in the next 24 hour period. The captain gives his best guess and then gambling-minded passengers buy, at auction, a range of hours either longer or shorter than the captain’s prediction i.e. bet on whether the ship covers a greater or lesser distance than the captain predicted.

Mr William Bonibot is a small earnest American married to frequently cross and critical Ethel. He wants to impress her by returning from his cruise with a fortune. He wants to win the daily sailing auction so, in the middle of a storm, when the ship is forced to slow down, he buys the slowest speed, paying for it with his entire life savings of £200 (British currency on a British ship). The total pool which he stands to win is £2,100 or about $6,000.

Trouble is, the next day the sea is flat and calm and the ship picks up speed so Bonibot is set to lose his life savings. Into his head pops the mad idea of jumping overboard to delay the ship and win the auction.

When he goes up on deck to put his mad plan into action, there’s only one person on deck, an elderly woman. Good – he mustn’t be seen to be deliberately jumping overboard, but, on the other hand, he needs someone to raise the alarm.

It occurs to him that she might have poor eyesight or be deaf so he calls her, at which she a) turns and b) sees him and c) engages in a little conversation. Good. She can hear and see and talk, so she’ll report man overboard alright. So Bonibot takes his courage in his hands, steps onto the rail, shouts out HELP loudly to catch the woman’s attention, and jumps out and away from the ship.

She watches astonished as she sees a dressed man plummet into the ocean far below, his head reappearing after a few seconds in the ship’s wake. For a few seconds she has a little panic wondering what she’s meant to do, throw a lifebelt, run and fetch help, shout and yell. But it passes and she returns to leaning over the railing watching the tiny head dwindle into the distance and then disappear.

Some time later her minder appears, a hard-looking spinster. The elderly lady begins to explain that she saw a man jump off the ship but the spinster cuts across her, telling her not to talk such nonsense, also telling her she knows she’s not meant to go off alone without supervision, before leading her away by the hand.

Thus, in a few quick strokes, we realise that she is certainly not blind or deaf or mute as Bonibot ascertained. But he hadn’t bargained for a witness who was simple, touched in the head, not all there. And so the old lady and her minder walk away from the rail and both forget about Bonibot as if he’d never existed.

Obviously, considered rationally, the plot is ridiculous and contrived. But the feeling behind it is eminently believable, the sense of the teeth-gnashing frustration, the sense of the universe’s absolute indifference to us and our feeble plans, or, worse, that the universe is actively malevolent, teasing us and torturing us. These are childish feelings, suppressed but lurking beneath the rational adult, which Dahl’s gruesome tales reignite.

(Also, in the first part, the auction for speeds/times, Dahl conveys very well indeed the feverish, sweating excitement of real gambling, the white knuckles and small intense eyes. So these are stories designed to appeal to our irrational obsessive drives…)

Skin (May 1952)

Imagine one of the great modernist painters, living in an attic before he was famous, has a little celebration with his friend the tattooist, whose wife he fancies and paints over and over. Imagine the tattooist adores his work so much that, once they’re plastered, he suggests the artist paints a portrait of his wife on his back. In fact, why stop there? Why not get him to paint the portrait and then show him how to convert it into a tattoo?

That was back in 1913, the Paris atelier years, the early years. Then imagine that two world wars later, the old tattooist, long parted from his wife who died in the second war, is walking the streets of Paris, poor, shabby and hungry. And walks by an art gallery which is having a special private showing of an exhibition by the very same painter whose works are now worth millions. And he not only refuses to leave when politely asked to, but makes a scene, yelling how much he loved the artist and then tears his coat and shirt off and reduces the haute bourgeoisie to stunned silence, when they see the tattoo on his back, unmistakably by the master, and even signed by him.

So the artist is (the real-life artist) Chaim Soutine, the tattooist is named Drioli and now, in the present, he finds two men fighting over the work of art on his back. The gallery owner offers to pay him a fortune in exchange for which he’ll have Paris’s leading plastic surgeon cut the entire tattoo off his back and give him a skin graft to replace it. But standing behind Drioli is a tall suave man wearing lemon-yellow gloves.

This fellow claims to be the owner of the Hotel Bristol in Cannes and offers to keep Drioli in a life of luxury for the rest of his natural life – fancy food, private rooms, tailored suits, young women doing his nails – as long as, at the end of it, Drioli legally gifts him his back.

Yellow gloves wins. His offer to buy the starving old man roast duck and chambertin right now trumps all the old man’s reservations.

The story concludes with the information that just a few weeks later a dramatic new work by Soutine arrives on the market, slightly unusual portrait, stretched and varnished and framed, in Bueno Aires (i.e. far from the gallery incident). The narrator lugubriously comments that he hopes Drioli is safe and sound somewhere, being pampered in expensive suits. But the strong implication is that he isn’t. The implication is that he’s dead, murdered for the work of art on his back.

Regarding Soutine, I wrote a review of an exhibition of his paintings in 2017 at the Courtauld Gallery:

My Lady Love, My Dove (June 1952)

The story rotates around the hen-pecked character of the first-person narrator, Arthur Beauchamp, a short man who is bullied and hectored by his large, domineering wife, Pamela. The catch is he can’t leave or even criticise her because she’s rich, comes from a titled family, and he married her for her money. So he lives the life of Riley in a big house with orchards and full-time gardeners etc, tinkering with his precious butterfly collection, seething with barely suppressed discontent (like so many married couples in Dahl).

They have invited a couple, the Snapes (Henry and Sally), to come and stay although, in the way of the English upper-middle-classes – at least in stories like this – they cordially dislike and despise the couple and are wondering why the devil they invited them. It is, in fact, because the wife in particular is potty about bridge and the couple are the best bridge players they’ve ever met.

Anyway, out of nowhere the overbearing wife suggests, well, orders the husband eavesdrop on the couple by installing a microphone in their room. He makes loads of objections (it’s like spying through a keyhole) but she rather oddly replies that they’re both complete stinkers already and they might as well be honest about it.

So Arthur finds a microphone and a load of wiring (in his workshop), goes into the room where the visiting couple are due to stay, ponders a number of places to hide the microphone and settles on the sofa, slits the undercovering, fixes it in place, and begins laying the wiring under the carpet, to the door and out into the corridor.

As he goes through all these processes I was wondering two things: 1) if you bug a couple’s private room you are liable to hear things you didn’t want to, the obvious one is sexual byplay or actual sex; or, less prurient, people burping, farting or going to the loo; 2) the more likely outcomes, especially if you embed the mic in a sofa, is that it simply doesn’t work, is smothered, and doesn’t pick up anything.

The reason they’d invited this couple they despise is because they play a good game of bridge, which our couple are particularly keen on. There’s a bit of tension/excitement when the couple arrive, knocking on the front door before the narrator has finished laying the wire as unobtrusively as he can along the top of the skirting board from the guest room to the master bedroom, and it crossed my mind that this would be a funny outcome, that the guest couple spot the wire, find the mic, and then play up to the situation, concocting and acting out who knows what outrageous scenario to punish their sneaky hosts.

In the event none of these things happen. The invited couple settle in, unpack, dress for dinner, don’t notice the mystery wire, and they all have a very civilised dinner served by servants. Henry is tall and went to Eton and knows about wine. Arthur is attracted by the bright young wife but after a while begins to sense that she is slightly brow-beaten by her husband. Then they settle down for an evening of bridge, which is described in some detail. Long story short, the guests lose because the wife makes an unwise bid at the contract stage of the game.

Finally the game ends about midnight and everyone retires to bed. The narrator and his bossy wife gather round the loudspeaker connected to the microphone. And what they hear is…the couple transformed. The husband is livid with the wife for making that mistake which cost them making any profit on the evening. It turns out that they are using a complicated system of cheating whereby the precise tone of his voice and position of his fingers indicates precisely what cards he is holding so that the wife’s bidding can be exact. And this is because they make a living by cheating rich people at bridge. He reminds her they are playing different people every night the following week and insists that they stay up for a few hours now practicing till she has it off perfect, despite her tearful refusal.

And the story ends with Arthur’s domineering wife suddenly insisting that they devise a similar form of cheating, too, and drives him off to get a pack of cards, so they can start right now!

Lamb to the Slaughter (September 1953)

Maloney, a big senior policeman comes home to his loving wife, six months pregnant, who’s ready to do anything for him, pours him a Scotch with ice and prepares to make him dinner. That’s when he sits her down and tells her he’s leaving her. She gets up dazed and insists on going down to the freezer in the cellar to get a joint of something to cook for his dinner. The first thing that comes to hand is a leg of lamb frozen solid, which she carries back up from the cellar, walks into the front room where her husband is staring out of the window and brings it down on h is head with the force of an axe. He falls dead.

She wonders what to do then dresses and walks to the local grocer. Here she buys some peas, potatoes and nice cheesecake, making a big deal of describing cooking for her husband. In fact she does such a good job convincing herself of her normality that when she returns to the house and discovers her husband’s body, she is genuinely shocked and distraught.

In this state she calls the police who flock round (given that the dead man is one of them), question her, carry out forensic procedures, interview the neighbours and even the grocer who vouches for Mrs Maloney.

oney’s normality. They come to the conclusion (a bit stupidly) that Maloney was killed by a single blow to the head by person unknown.

Since they’re there, and Mrs Maloney is has cooked the joint and had put the vegetables on…she invites the detectives to eat the roast dinner. They hesitate and say it wouldn’t be respectful but she wins them round by saying it’s what her husband would have wanted. So eventually they all sit down at table and she serves up the very leg of lamb she used to murder her husband and the story ends with some of them wondering where the murder implement can have ended up…Probably right under their noses, one of them jokes, as he raises his fork of lamb to his mouth.

And the story ends with a quietly macabre note as Mary Maloney, in the kitchen, listens to the big strong clever men tucking into the lamb, and starts to giggle…

Nunc Dimittis (September 1953)

An exercise in a style quite different from anything else in the collection, this is a first-person narrative which is deliberately different from the practical, clear, Hemingway tone of ‘the Man from the South’ or ‘Poison’. Here’s the first sentence of ‘Poison’:

It must have been around midnight when I drove home, and as I approached the gates of the bungalow I switched off the headlamps of the car so the beam wouldn’t swing in through the window of the side bedroom and wake Harry Pope.

Quick, direct, to the point. Now here’s the opening of ‘Nunc Dimittis’:

It is nearly midnight, and I can see that if I don’t make a start with writing this story now, I never shall. All evening I have been sitting here trying to force myself to begin, but the more I have thought about it, the more appalled and ashamed and distressed I have become by the whole thing.

We are inside the fevered mind of Lionel Lampson. He is a wealthy middle-aged bachelor, art collector and all round connoisseur (cf the wine connoisseurship evinced by the narrator of ‘My Lady Love, My Dove’), ‘a person of some consequence in society’ (p.385).

One evening after a drinks party he accompanies short gossipy Gladys Ponsonby back to her place and she asks him in for a drink.

Obviously flirting, she starts off by telling him about the portrait hanging in her living room. She’s just had it done by the fashionable painter, John Royden. She explains that Royden has a special technique. He only does portraits of women (Society ladies) and he insists, by way of preparation, of painting them nude, so as to fully understand the frame, the scaffold, the chassis of the dressed person. First he paints them naked, then paints on the underwear, then paints on the final clothing. When Lampson goes up close to Gladys’s painting he sees this is true because the paint of her dress is significantly raised above the surface of the canvas.

Anyway, as she continues to drink freely Gladys becomes a bit malicious and tells Lionel that his (Lionel’s) young girlfriend, Janet de Pelagia is slagging him off behind his back. Specifically, Janet freely refers to him as that ‘crashing bore’ (p.382). Lionel is very upset and goes home crushed and depressed.

Next day he conceives his revenge (on Janet). He rings this painter, John Royden, gets him round and asks him to do an unusual commission. He’ll pay for a portrait of Janet de Pelagia but doesn’t want her to know. He wants Royden to bump into her at a party somewhere and exclaim that she has exactly the figure and face he wants to paint and he’ll do her for free. She’ll be flattered. Royden can do the portrait, exhibit it at the Royal Academy, safe in the knowledge that Lampson will pay full whack and buy it off him. Deal?

Deal. For a 5 foot by 3 foot full-length portrait. Now he has to be patient and, to pass the time, goes off on holiday to Italy for four months. He returns in July just as the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition is opening. Royden’s portrait of Janet has been much admired but the painter has refused to sell it. When the exhibition closes the portrait is delivered to Lampson’s house.

At this point he reveals the rather contrived fact that he is not only a connoisseur but a picture restorer complete with all the equipment. So now he sets about carefully rubbing the surface layer off to reveal Janet standing in her bra and corset and suspenders, the corset indicating how fat she is, and the surprising revelation that she’s noticeably bow-legged. As the narrator drolly comments, ‘One lives and learns’ (p.392).

This done, he invites a dozen or so of society’s upper crust (‘the most distinguished men, the most brilliant and influential women in the top crust of our society’) to an elite dinner at his place, service by candlelight so in deep gloom. As the meal is ending the candles have guttered right down, Lampson order his servant to turn on the electric lights which reveal… the portrait of Janet in her underwear, trussed and contained in her stays, legs bowed like a jockey’s. Lampson doesn’t loiter to see the effect but is exiting the room as the lights go on, just long enough to hear the uproar as the assembled guests catch sight of the portrait and, above all, the sight of Janet de Pelagia like someone who’s been shot through the heart and freezes for a moment before collapsing.

At that point Lampson flees his London home, getting his chauffeur to drive him to his country house to rejoice in his revenge. After a few days Gladys phones him and gleefully tells him how he is being criticised and ostracised for this beastly treatment of Janet, rejected by his entire social circle. She (Gladys) on the other hand is only too glad to come down to his country house and ‘comfort’ him i.e. sex. But Lampson is too upset and slams the phone down.

And this is where the narrative began, with Lampson fussily aware of having been ostracised by polite society and all his ‘friends’. And here’s where we come to the sting in the tail, though, which is he says he’s had a letter from Janet which completely forgives him, tells him she understands it was a joke, assures him she still loves him. And it was accompanied by a gift, a large jar of caviar, his favourite food which he has just wolfed down. And now…he is starting to feel a bit unwell, really rather ill…

So the story ends with the strong implication that the caviar was poisoned and the narrator is dying. Upper class bitchiness turned fatal.

Edward the Conqueror (October 1953)

Third person story about a middle-aged, middle-class couple, Edward and Louisa, living in a big house without kids. He’s gardening and has made a big fire when she goes out into the garden, calls him to lunch and spots a funny-looking cat by the fire. The cat follows them indoors and she gives it a bowl of milk. After lunch Louisa sits down to play some piano. She’s a fair pianist and goes through classical numbers by Schubert and the like but notices that when she plays a piece by famous Hungarian composer Franz Liszt (1811 to 1886), the cat suddenly sits up and becomes attentive. Slowly, carefully, Dahl describes a number of further incidents or details which convince Louisa that the cat is the reincarnation of Franz Liszt. It sounds bonkers writing it down in black and white which is precisely why you have to read the story and enter into the mindset of Louisa as she plays different pieces and notes the cat’s responses in ever-greater detail. She even pops out to the local library to borrow a book about reincarnation, some of which the story summarises.

Anyway, by the time her husband comes in from an arduous afternoon’s gardening, Louisa has convinced herself that the cat is the reincarnation of Franz Liszt and proceeds to tell her husband that she is going to invite the world’s leading composers to come and meet him! She also says she needs to cook him special food appropriate for such a genius and goes into the kitchen to make the cat her best soufflé.

When she returns to the living room the cat has gone and her husband is just coming back in from the garden, sweating a bit and acting suspiciously. When she looks closely she notices a raw scratch across his hand. He tries to persuade her that it was one of the beastly brambles he’s been clearing, but she, and the reader, know better. Without being told we know he’s done away with the wondercat.

Galloping Foxley (November 1953)

A very charged story with a twist in the very last line.

The narrator is a small-minded punctilious worker in the City of London named Perkins. A big deal is made of how much he loves commuting to work on exactly the same train every morning, the 8.12. He’s been doing it five days a week for 36 years. In fact he had composed a little memo about the pleasures of the day and its predictable routine when everything is disturbed by the arrival of a new man on the station platform, a bounder with oiled hair, a white silk scarf, and twirling a cane. Worst of all, the chap insists in getting into the same train carriage as Perkins and smoking a filthy pipe.

Not just once but several days in a row. And slowly Perkins realises that this fellow was the head of his house at public school, a beast named ‘Galloping’ Foxley, and this releases a flood of memories of how he was relentlessly bullied and beaten by this sadistic, taunting bully. The details of all the trivial transgressions he could beaten for and the experience of the beatings are dwelt on with excruciating vividness.

Eventually Perkins can bear it no longer and decides to confront his old bully, who has shown no flicker of recognition. It takes quite a bit of bravery to nerve himself to confront his old persecutor but one morning he politely leans forward and introduces himself, explaining that he was at Repton in 1907, expecting the bounder to agree that he, also, was at Repton, and then to recognise the poor little boy whose life he made a misery.

By this stage the reader, like the character, is quite wound up and tense and anxious about what will happen. But the twist is that the bounder with the pipe quite simply replies, ‘I’m glad to meet you, Mine’s Fortescue, Jocelyn Fortescue, Eton 1916.’

Perkins is completely, wildly mistaken about the other man’s identity. And all it has done is reveal just how very deeply wounded he was by his schoolboy experiences, and how little it takes to bring them all flooding back.

Neck (1953)

Weird and creepy. A rich bitch gets her come-uppance when she gets head stuck in a Henry Moore sculpture.

The first-person narrator is the writer of a daily column in an evening paper, presumably of society gossip for that is the subject of this story (p.449). It’s about a chap named Basil Turton who, when his father died, inherited the Turton Press which, for the purposes of the story, is a Fleet Street newspaper company. The point is that when he inherited the title and the fortune people like the author, Society gossips and commentators all drolly speculated who the lucky young woman would be who would bag this husband and his fortune. To everyone’s surprise it was a young beauty who swept in from the Continent, Natalia something from Yugoslavia or somewhere, and led young Turton up the altar before he realised what was going on.

Six years go by and Lady Turton now has her husband wrapped round her little finger, is running the newspaper and is a power in the land. The narrator finds himself seated next to her at a dinner and very off-handedly she invites him to come and stay at her country house, anytime. Being a gossip columnist the narrator leaps at the chance and motors down to this worthy pile, a great Tudor mansion with 47 bedrooms and an awesome garden, full of topiary and rather unexpected modern sculptures.

But something is very off. The creepy butler, Jelks, speaks about his own employer with a sneer and explains that instead of a tip (which is usual) he would like a third of the narrator’s winnings, which he thinks is both steep and forward.

At dinner it becomes obvious that the wife despises little Lord Turton, and has the bold dashing Major Haddock sat on one side of her and mannish, horsey Carmen La Rosa on the other. As in previous stories, we are in the world of upper-class bitchiness. When the table is brought to play cards Lady Turton cold shoulders her husband and insists on playing a four with Haddock, Carmen and the narrator. Around 11 she dismisses her husband and the butler and the narrator who goes to be thinking it’s a most unpleasant household.

Next morning the narrator comes down to find the butler serving Sir Basil breakfast, they get chatting, and after eating he takes our man on a grand tour of the amazing gardens. After some time they stop to sit on a bench by a carp pool and have a sensitive conversation about the history of the garden and the art pieces.

Then the narrator becomes aware of two figures some distance away, just about discernible as a man and a woman, presumably unpleasant Lady Turton and her lover Haddock. He and Sir Basil carry on chatting but in reality both are watching the progress of the couple who are gallivanting about the gardens then come to one of the Henry Moore sculptures.

Even from a distance it’s clear that they are mocking it, with the woman adopting ridiculous poses while the man photographs her and they both shriek with laughter, by implication mocking and belittling the taste of much-wronged Sir Basil. Eventually the woman sticks her head through one of the characteristic holes in the sculpture and the man takes a few more snaps before bending forward and obviously kissing her a few times. The narrator feels Sir Basil stiffen next to him. But then something goes wrong. She can’t get her head out of the hole. The man puts down his camera and tries to help her.

The charge of the story doesn’t come from the scenario itself but the uneasy way the narrator, very much an outsider and almost neglected guest, uneasily observes the reaction of Sir Basil to all this, obviously deeply hurt, trying to pass it off.

Eventually he says they probably ought to go down and help. They appear through an arch in the hedging and obviously surprise Natalia and Haddock, who quickly recovers and is all British, saying the lady needs help to get her head out of the hole. Sir Basil very calmly says are you asking me to cut a section out of my Henry Moore and his wife starts flinging filthy insults at him.

Out of nowhere appears the sly repellent butler, Jelks, appears out of nowhere and Sir Basil instructs him to fetch tools. And there follows the pregnant, powerful, disturbing climax of the story. For Jelks returns with an ax and a saw. As the narrator watches he sees Jelks very slightly proffer the axe which Sir Basil takes.

And then Dahl has the narrator very powerfully say that it’s like watching a child run out into the road just as a car rushes along, it’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, as Sir Basil takes the axe and he sees Lady Turton’s head helplessly caught in the hole of the sculpture and the narrator has such a vivid premonition of what will happen next that he closes his eyes. Obviously he, like all the other participants, suddenly realise that Sir Basil in his cold fury will behead his wife.

This possibility is imprinted in our minds for half a page and then the narrator opens his eyes and sees calm dignified Sir Basil reprimanding Jelks for handing him such a dangerous tool, and instead requesting the saw, before setting about the careful procedure of cutting his wife free.

But the narrator sees Lady Turton’s face has turned grey and she is opening and closing her mouth making a horrible gurgling sound. She had had the same premonition as everyone else, and had died in her imagination. And just visible on Sir Basil’s face the narrator sees two warm red spots on his cheeks at, at his eyes, the tiny wrinkles of a smile.

A fantastically weird and powerful story.

The Wish (1953)

Short hallucinatory story about a boy who has to cross the enormous carpet in the hall of his big country house, just sticking to the yellow parts of the pattern and avoiding like death the dark red and black patches. The way the story is situated entirely inside the mind of the terrified boy reminded me of the more psychotic of J.G. Ballard’s short stories, not the science fiction ones, the ones set in the contemporary world inside the minds of people going mad.

The soldier (1953)

And this is similar, a terrifying depiction of a soldier (as we know from the title) who has obviously been psychologically wrecked by the war and is experiencing extreme psychosis, hallucinating, convinced ‘they’ are changing all the fixtures of his house around when his back is turned, climaxing when he returns from walking the dog and appears in the bedroom of his sleeping wife holding a knife, demanding to know what she’s done with his wife.

Both of these stories depicting mental illness are effective but I think the subject as a whole has dated badly, with hundreds of other stories about psychotics exploding all over the 1960s and 70s till the topic became a cliché.

The Great Automatic Grammatizator (1953)

A gleeful satire on the whole business of writing.

Adolph Knipe is a lanky young fellow who invents a great automatic calculating machine, a computer which can do sums millions of times faster than any human, to the joy of his employer, Mr John Bohlen, head of a firm of electrical engineers.

But one morning he has a brainwave. If most human calculations can be broken down into smaller units which can be calculated automatically, could the same thing be done with language? Could a machine learn to break language down into its smallest components, and then build them up phrase by phrase, into sentences, paragraphs. He sets to work to build one.

His boss is sceptical until Knipe finally delivers it and explains the rationale: it can write stories. He has broken stories down into component parts (plot, setting, characters, excitement, romance etc) which the machine can now put together at the will of the programmer. In other words, it is a machine to automatically generate stories.

Dahl then sets about having gleeful boyish fun fleshing out the details of the machine, the backend fills an entire building with cables and valves and rods and levers and whatnot, and the front end is like an organ with a keyboard. You select the style of one of the popular magazines, an approach or treatment, a theme, the number of character and desired length, press all these buttons then keep your foot on the Passion Pedal and, within a few minutes, a full story is produced.

Knipe and Bohlen send the first few off to magazines and they are soon accepted. They set up a literary agency and cook up names of authors who they attribute the stories to but in reality they’re all being churned out by the machine.

Then they get ambitious and there’s comedy about Mr Bohlen’s first attempt to control the machine long enough to create a novel. He panics and puts the passion pedal to the floor with the result that the first attempt is far too rude to publish. Next time he exercises greater restraint, the novel is run off in fifteen minutes, sold to a publisher the same day, and becomes a runaway bestseller.

It’s sort of on a serious subject but the entire treatment reeks of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. In the middle there’s some satire about America, which was undergoing its great postwar boom and had become the world centre of consumer capitalism:

‘Nowadays, Mr Bohlen, the handmade article hasn’t a hope. It can’t possibly compete with mass-production, especially in this country you know that. Carpets… chairs… shoes… bricks… crockery… anything you like to mention they’re all made by machinery now. The quality may be inferior, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the cost of production that counts. And stories – well – they’re just another product, like carpets and chairs, and no one cares how you produce them so
long as you deliver the goods. We’ll sell them wholesale, Mr Bohlen! We’ll undercut every writer in the country! We’ll corner the market!’ (p.500)

The fact that is appears in what is more or less a children’s story suggests how inane and clichéd this level of criticism of consumer capitalism was even back in the 1950s.

Claud’s Dog (1953)

This is the umbrella title for four related tales which feature the character Claud Cubbage who lives in a filling station in Buckinghamshire.

The Ratcatcher

This is possibly the best ‘story’ in the book, for a number of reasons. Number one, it is not a ‘story’ at all, more an incident or anecdote. It just describes what happened when a rat-catcher was sent by the local council to the land next to the filling station (or petrol station) where the boy Claud lives and how the creepy rat-catcher proceeds to show them some tricks of the trade.

The power of it really comes from what a repulsive, physically repellent and creepy character the catcher is. For the first time, in these four stories, the physical presence of the characters becomes really central or dominant.

The man was lean and brown with a sharp face and two long sulphur-coloured teeth that protruded from the upper jaw, overlapping the lower lip, pressing it inward. The ears were thin and pointed and set far back on the head, near the nape of the neck. The eyes were almost black, but when they looked at you there was a flash of yellow somewhere inside them.

How they look, and how they sound:

‘Now, where’s them rats?’ The word “rats” came out of his mouth soft and throaty, with a rich fruity relish as though he were gargling with melted butter. ‘Let’s take a look at them rraats.’

And again:

His voice had the soft throaty sound of a croaking frog and he seemed to speak all his words with an immense wet-lipped relish, as though they tasted good on the tongue. The accent was similar to Claud’s, the broad soft accent of the Buckinghamshire countryside, but his voice was more throaty, the words more fruity in his mouth.

This is a child’s point of view. In adult fiction you tend to get one pen portrait of a character’s appearance and then their appearance, their physical presence, is forgotten about, because in adult fiction what counts is what they say and do, the matrix of dialogue and action and relationships which adults operate in. Unencumbered by all this complicated stuff, children notoriously notice first and foremost people’s appearances (and often, smell).

But the ‘grip’ of the story also comes from fantastic amount of information the catcher knows about rats, the creepy way he tells Claud and Gordon all about it, and then the uncanny way he actually produces rats from his pockets and proceeds to demonstrate gruesome tricks with them.

Rummins

Feels like an exercise in a certain aspect of Hemingway but without the logic.

Rummins is a mean dwarfish man who owns the farm opposite the filling station owned by Claud’s friend Gordon, who narrates this story. After the visit of the ratcatcher they mention the number of rats in the big hayrick he made last year to Rummins who, a few days later, turns up with his son, Bert, to dismantle it.

The narrator’s memory goes back to the previous summer, to a sweltering day in June when they’d built the big hayrick, himself, Claud, Rummins and his son Bert, Wilson the soldier and Ole Tommy. There’s a bit of Ole Tommy’s backstory, how he was chosen by the council to supervise the kids’ playground. Now he helps out on this day and when they stop for lunch turns out to have brought no food but six pint bottles of beer which he generously hands round. After a while the narrator goes back to his filling station to serve customers and when he comes back the hayrick is more or less built but Ole Tommy’s disappeared, leaving his bag behind which is unlike him. When asked, stumpy little Rummins shrugs and says he must have gone home.

That was all a flashback to last summer. The story cuts back to the present and the narrator and Claud are helping Rummins and Bert dismantle the hayrick in part to get rid of all the rats it’s hiding. Up on top of the rick, Bert is cutting through the string and then the hay itself to create chunks, like a cake, which he peels away down to his dad who loads them into a cart.

At one point the big knife he’s using encounters an obstruction. This is where things turn very weird. the narrator becomes aware that Rummins is scared. Bert is puzzled at meeting something hard in what’s meant to be a building of straw. It’s at this moment the narrator has his flashback to the hot summer’s day when they built it.

Rummins yells at his son to persist and cut through the obstacle which he does. Then he cuts the other angles of the straw and dislodges a segment to fall to the ground for his dad. But when he steps back he sees what has been revealed by his work. The narrator describes all this in a moment which has become supercharged with horror. He describes Rummins jumping down off the rick and running for his farm, just as Bert starts to scream. That’s it, the end.

Now there’s no denying the intensity of the story and the luminous details Dahl picks out to really make it come alive, all the way through, in all aspects. The only problem is it doesn’t make sense. Is he saying Rummins for some reason murdered Ole Tommy? Why on earth do that, and there would be no opportunity because the soldier Wilson was working on the rick. But anyway, why? Is he saying Rummins murdered Ole Tommy and placed his body high up in the rick? No way he could have done that without anyone noticing, not least his own son. And if Bert was in on it, how come he is staggered to screaming pitch when he’s seen what he’s cut through (presumably Ole Tommy’s corpse). Above all, if Rummy knows the body is there, why on earth does he let his son go up and start slicing up the rick, and why does he tell him to persist when he encounters the obstacle? Maybe I’m missing something but none of it makes any sense. Which doesn’t stop it, nonetheless, being eerie and intense.

Mr. Hoddy

Claud is taken by his girlfriend, Clarice, to meet her father, the self-important village grocer’s assistant, Mr Hoddy, with a view to asking him for her hand in marriage. Mr Hoddy persists in wanting to know what Claud’s plans are. Claud despises Mr Hoddy and all the small-minded men of his ilk, and would really like to come clean and explain that he and and friend are planning to pull a con involving two identical-looking greyhounds, but of course he can’t. Instead he makes up on the spot a ridiculous scheme about setting up a maggot factory, insisting despite Mr Hoddy’s scepticism that there’s a massive market for maggots among anglers and the like, and how his factory would mass produce them in old oil drums full of rotting meat before packing them into glass bottles and posting them to subscribers.

So carried away does Claud become that he doesn’t notice the look on Mr Hoddy’s face until it’s too late, realises he’s gone too far – although I wasn’t sure whether this was because Hoddy, as a greengrocer, was disgusted by the notion of maggots and took it as a sly insult to his trade (i.e. dealing in fresh, unmaggoty fruit and veg); or whether Hoddy at some point realises Claud is making it all up and the realisation makes him furious.

Mr Feasey

A really gripping tale, by far the longest of the lot, in which Claud and his partner Gordon (owner of the filling station) concoct and bring to fruition their plan to fiddle a dog race. Claud has acquired two whippets, both identical in shape and colouring. One is slow, one is fast. The plan is to take the slow one to a country dog race, and enter him there for a string of races in which he will predictably come last then, once his identity is established and the odds are long, to make heavy bets on him (small best across all 17 bookies at the race) at long odds, and then enter the superfast dog for this race, thus winning all the bests at long odds.

The story is so long because it contains an immense amount of lore about how dog owners cheat, a quite staggering range of fixes which make dogs slow or fast, and all the ways to fix the races. The effect of all this lore and the intense anxiousness of Gordon and Claud as they lock up the garage and drive to the pivotal race is to have the reader on absolute tenterhooks as to the outcome.

Thoughts

Vivid

Obviously the core of a story is the plot, the series of events. And the ability to handle dialogue convincingly over long stretches is important. But what makes Dahl’s stories so effective, for me, is the tremendous limpidity and clarity of the prose and the completeness with which he describes the actions he describes. He describes them fully and pedantically so you can feel yourself doing them, whether it’s teetering on the railings of an ocean liner or hurriedly laying a cable along a corridor, you can feel yourself doing it. Amazingly vivid.

Height

How many of Dahl’s rather pathetic male characters are short. He is always very aware of height. The painter John Royden is a small neat man (p.385). The purser is small and fat and red (p.298). The owner of the art gallery is plump and short (p.327). Basil Turton is ‘a little chap’, ‘a small man’ (p.446). Adolph Knipe’s boss, Mr Bohlen, is ‘a fat little man’ (p.510). Rummins is ‘short and squat like a frog’ (p.537). When his big wife leans over him, Arthur Beaufort feels surrounded, almost enveloped by her:

as though she were a great tub of cream and I’d fallen in. (p.341)

Gladys Ponsonby is so short that she gives Lionel Lampson, looming over her:

the comic, wobbly feeling that I am standing on a chair. (p.372)

One imagines that, at 6 foot 6, Dahl had that feeling when standing next to more or less anybody.

Gambling

The intense sweaty thrill of it, as in ‘Man from the South’, ‘Taste’ and ‘Dip in the Pool’, the central subject of his novella ‘The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar’, the competitive bridge in ‘My Lady Love, My Dove’, the game of bridge in ‘Nunc Dimittis’. Gambling is a central obsession of Dahl’s.

Class and 50s manners

Some of these characters are very nobby (Arthur Beaufort’s wife from a titled family and their guest was educated at Eton), Lionel Lampson moves in titled circles, the narrator of ‘Neck’ is a High Society gossip columnist. I think there are two aspects of this: 1) There’s an element of voyeurism in witnessing the bitchiness, spite and malevolence of posh, upper class people. It has an extra relish, for some reason. 2) It points to a broader truth which is how very dated all the stories feel.

They’re set in the early to mid-1950s, still very much in the backwash of the war, waaaay before the doors were blown off conventional morality in the 1960s. My point being that several of the scenes only make sense in a milieu of upper-class gentility which has all but vanished today. For example, the eavesdropping on a young couple would surely, nowadays, need something salacious to make it really hit home, whereas for Dahl and his audience, the most shocking thing he could imagine was their being card cheats! Similarly, the society lady who is revealed in her underwear leads to scandal and murder in ‘Nunc Dimittis’ but would barely wake anybody up in the 1990s of paparazzi and Wonderbras, and we’re 30 years beyond even that now, into Naked Attraction and Love Island, a world of plastic surgery and male depilation.

The mating game

Amazing how the simple process of human beings seeking the perfect mate, pairing off, reproducing and then trying to put up with each other for the rest of our lives, is at the heart of so much fiction – as an evolutionary interpretation of literature would expect.

Mind you, having just written that down makes you realise how few of them are actually love stories  at all, in fact most of them are ‘out of love’ stories about the frictions and resentments of long-married couples – ‘Taste’, ‘A Dip in the Pool’, ‘Lamb to the Slaughter’, ‘My Lady Love, My Dove’, ‘Edward the Conqueror’, ‘Nunc Dimittis’.

And, oddly for a man who became really famous for his children’s stories, there are no children in any of them, apart from the distinctly unchildish ‘The Wish’. Although, despite the ostensible subjects often being cruel or macabre, there is something profoundly childish about the simple glee and vengefulness of many of them. They’re obviously not children’s stories and yet they’re not quite, totally, for adults either…


Credit

References are to the versions of the stories published in Roald Dahl: The Complete Short Stories Volume Two published by Penguin in 2013.

Related links

Roald Dahl reviews

Over to You: Ten Stories of Flyers and Flying by Roald Dahl (1946)

Ten very early short stories by Dahl, all relating to the author’s own experiences flying for the RAF during the Second World War, and published in one volume the year after the war ended.

An African Story (1945)

A story within a story. The frame story is about a rebellious trainee RAF pilot in Kenya who one day flies so low he shears the head off a giraffe by accident. A few weeks later he is killed in a training accident and the ‘editor’ of the text says they found the following story among his papers.

The main text is a spooky and unpleasant story, set in Africa. A dirty miserly old man keeps a farm and the part of it that is relevant to the story is that each morning a slobbering idiot servant he keeps, named Judson, milks the one black cow who lives and grazes in the yard near the man’s house.

Judson is a cretin, slobbering at the mouth, doing what he’s told without question. At the start of the narrative, the old man discovers that the slobbering servant, who is hyper-sensitive to sounds (hyperacusis), has just whacked the old man’s dog with a stick and broken its back. Unpleasant. Why? Because it was making a ‘noise’ as it licked itself. Doubly unpleasant. The old man yells abuse at Judson then finishes the agonised dog off with a metal bar.

Judson is meant to milk the black cow once in the morning, once in the evening. On a couple of mornings in a row the cow has no milk. At first the old man accuses Judson of drinking it himself, but then he stays up all night cradling a shotgun and watching the cow, on the suspicion that maybe a native Kikuyu is sneaking in and stealing the milk.

In the event what he sees is strange: a massive black mamba snake slithers into the yard, rears its head and suckles the cow dry. The old man conceives a wicked revenge on Judson for killing his dog. He tells Judson it is a native boy sneaking in and stealing the milk, and he’ll get him, Judson, to lie in wait then jump out and beat him. So the old man gets Judson to dig a trench next to the cow and lie in it. Judson doesn’t like it because the cow is making a loud chewing noise which upsets him, but the old man covers him in straw and tells him if he pops up too soon he will shoot him dead.

The pair then wait up all night, the old man at the window with his gun, Judson in the trench. In the dark morning along slithers the huge black mamba snake and, when it is close to the cow and the trench, the old man yells at Judson to jump up and attack the phantom milk thief. Judson jumps up, the mamba leaps forward, biting him in the trench, and the story gives a long lingering description of his death throes.

As an amateur psychologist I’d say this story is overflowing with anger. Breaking the dog’s back is nasty and brutal but is only the preliminary for the contrive revenge which the old man takes. Now he hasn’t got a servant to help him. It makes no logical sense. It is a fantasia of super-human anger and vicious revenge. Was this streak in Dahl’s imagination already or is it a reaction to the war and the pointless deaths of so many friends?

Only This (September 1944)

An ageing woman alone in a cottage in the south of England hears the thundering of an immense flight of bombers flying overhead, pulls her armchair to the open window and imagines she can see her son flying one of them and slowly, as in a dream or nightmare or horror story, finds herself actually present in the cockpit as the the plane heads into flak over the enemy target, as a wing catches fire, then a sudden explosion, the cockpit fills with smoke then flames, the pilot heroically battles to keep it flying straight as the rest of his crew bail out, then slumps forward as the bomber begins its death fall.

At which the narrative cuts back to the woman in the chair by the window as dawn glimmers and the first roar becomes audible of the bombers returning. This short intense vision ends with the fact that the woman herself has died.

Katina (March 1944)

Quite a long narrative, packed with factual detail based on Dahl’s short period flying Hurricanes during the Battle of Greece, as the British force sent to try and hold the country was overrun by the German army and Luftwaffe.

It centres round the symbolic figure of a 9-year-old girl, the Katina of the title, who the narrator and his friends rescue from a bombed village where her entire family has been killed and who becomes a mascot to the entire squadron, is fed, dressed and looked after by all of them, even as German attacks become more intense, as the Germans strafe and bomb their airfields. There is a lot of affecting detail about the impact she has on the men of the squadron, her friendship with a flyer named Fin, how she is officially enlisted onto the squadron’s membership, given a tent of her own, invited to eat at all the meals and so on.

It rises to a visionary intensity when (spoilers) at the end, a huge flight of Messerschmitts is strafing the British airfield, everyone has run for the deep slit trenches but they all see Katina get out and run into the heart of the airfield, clenching her fists and defying the invader who murdered her family. Which is magnificent by a Messerschmitt fighter machine guns her to death. All the men run out to her but the doc concludes she’s dead but here’s the thing – in a non-realistic passage the narrator has a vision of flames within flames, of an intense red fire flaring up in the hearts of all the people of Greece.

All the story up till then had been underplayed, written in a muted, understated style which, for example, casually mentioned that this or that pilot didn’t return from a mission, as one by one they’re picked off. Which makes the florid efflorescence of this vision of fire and anger at the end of the story all the more startling.

Beware of the Dog (October 1944)

Opens with a Spitfire pilot badly wounded, his right leg blown away by enemy airplane cannon fire, struggling to make it back to Blighty. It is an exercise in describing the light-headedness and hallucinations resulting from loss of blood. The pilot manages to bail out and tumble through thousands of feet of cloud spinning round and round and this very cleverly turns into the alternation of day and night at the hospital where he finds himself when he comes round with no memory of how he got there.

The kindly nurse tells him he’s in a hospital in Brighton and is very kind and carefully gives him bed baths, he begins to suspect he is not in Brighton, not even in England, he suspects he fell in enemy territory and is being softened up prior to a debriefing in which he will be encouraged to give away military secrets. So when a man dressed impeccably as a British Wing Commander arrives, he refuses to reply to his questions with anything but his name, rank and serial number.

At first I thought this was a story about his paranoia, not least because of the brilliant way the point-of-view descriptions of him tumbling out of the sky morph seamlessly into his lying in the hospital bed. But then I, also, began to suspect the nurse and the so-called Wing Commander who comes to interview him and the factual basis of his suspicions appears to be given when he painfully tumbles out of bed and crawls across the floor to a window, hoists himself up and sees that he is not in busy urban Brighton at all, but in a house in the middle of country and that opposite it is a house with a sign reading ‘Garde du chien’, French for ‘Beware of the dog’ (hence the title of the story). So he is in occupied France and the entire thing really is a clever setup to lull him into a false sense of security and allow the Germans to milk him for military information.

They Shall Not Grow Old (March 1945)

The narrator is a fighter pilot based in Haifa, north Palestine, flying sorties over Vichy France-controlled Lebanon and Beirut. His mates are ‘the Stag’, ginger-haired and the oldest flyer in the squadron at 27, and Fin. The story opens with Fin failing to return from a mission. His friends kick around in the sun and conclude he must have bought it. Tents and schedules and rations are reorganised. The commanding officer, ‘Monkey’, reports him missing.

Then a miracle happens. Two days after he failed to return the others hear the droning of an engine and Fin’s Hurricane comes into land. He gets out and walks towards his stunned colleagues. But he himself is staggered and then upset when they tell him he’s been gone 2 days; for him, it was just a normal mission, he flew over Beirut harbour, confirmed the presence of two French ships, and flew back. Why all the fuss. Monkey has to carefully explain that he’s been gone for two days. Fin thinks he’s going mad.

Slowly things settle down and next day he goes out on another flight with some of the other planes. One of their colleagues, Paddy, is shot down, and as his plane hits the ground Fin suddenly remembers what happened to him, and starts yelling on the radio that he remembers, he remembers!

Once they’ve gotten back to base and gathered in the ops room, Fin tells them a long, visionary story about how he was enveloped in white cloud and dove down and down to clear it but descended beneath the surface of the earth and there was nothing there, then he looked up and saw a visionary line of planes flying across the sky, and he knew it was a procession of all the dead flyers and he flew up to join it, all sorts of planes, allied and enemy, and they fly into a wonderful light, and he realises pilots about him have opened their cockpits and are waving like children on a rollercoaster, then he sees a vast airfield where all the planes have landed and he descends towards it, sees all the pilots getting out and walking towards a beautiful light, but suddenly his plane won’t land, he tries to force it to, but it resists all his urgings and climbs away, up into the clouds so that he loses sight of the vision altogether and then he was in his plane over the sea and flying back to the airfield and landed.

Well, his audience of fellow flyers is stunned. People walk away without commenting or asking questions. The daily routine resumes and they continue flying sorties. They know the Syrian campaign is coming to an end. On one of these sorties, Fin is shot down. The narrator shouts through the radio for him to bail out, but all they hear, as his plane hurtles towards the ground, is Fin yelling: ‘I’m a lucky bastard, a lucky, lucky bastard.’

Is this because he knows he is now, at last, going to fly his ghost plane towards the great light he saw? That this time round he is going to die for real, and go to heaven? Is that where the procession of planes he saw was heading? Was there some cock-up in his passage to the afterlife, and now, after a few days hiatus, he is filling his destiny?

The impact of the story is all the greater because the style throughout is so plain and understated, and because Dahl is very good at picking out the details of scenes – the feel of the heat on the airmen’s backs as they hang round the airfield, the noise of the planes, and a little sequence about Fin’s local girlfriend, Nikki, which helps make the real world setting that much more convincing – which all makes Fin’s vision all the more spooky and supernatural.

Someone Like You (November 1945)

Two pilots are getting really drunk in a bar. The conversation is punctuated by them asking the waiter for more drinks, even while agreeing that the beer is foul and the whiskey is worse. Doesn’t stop them and the reader realises it is part of the ‘therapy’. They have both seen terrible things, have terrible emotions coiled up inside them, getting hammered is the only way they can let it out.

The older more experienced one is a bomber pilot. He has a lot to get off his chest. He admits he hates his job, He’d rather be anything else in the world. He’s become obsessed by the thought that, when he’s over the target, just a minuscule jink on his rudder will shift the plane a hundred yards to the left or right, and will mean the difference between life or death for hundreds of people on the ground. He asks his drinking buddy to look round the nightclub they’re sitting in, then drunkenly points out that he’s killed many times the number of people in this room, hundreds of times more.

They have another drink and the bomber pilot tells the story of old Stinker Sullivan. He had an Alsatian dog he doted on and named Smith. One day the squadron was ordered to up sticks and fly to Egypt, immediately. Old Stinker ran round the airfield shouting for his dog which didn’t turn up. Forced to fly off without him. Here’s the point of the story: in the new base he slowly began talking to Smith the dog, referring to Smith, then taking him for walks, then telling him to ‘behave’ in restaurants. All the time there was no Smith there. Hallucination. Or comfort.

The point of the story is the three indicators of psychological damage, namely their determination to get drunk, the bomber pilot’s obsessive worry about the innocent people he kills, the powerful story of Stinker Sullivan going mad (four, actually, since the unnamed narrator shares his own irrational behaviour which is, after he’s gotten into a car, to count to 20 before driving off in order to prevent accidents).

Death of an Old Old Man (September 1945)

‘Oh God, how I am frightened’ is how this story starts. First-person account of a fighter pilot, tired after 4 years of combat, describing how terrified he is all the time he’s on the ground, in the mess, preparing the plane, a state of continual anxiety and terror. Once he’s up in the air his computer mind takes over, making split second decisions. The Spitfire becomes an extension of his body. He has a long duel with a Focke Wulf somewhere over Holland, which ends with them flying towards each other and shearing each other’s wings off. The narrator bails out and parachutes down into a field, at the last minute realising he’s heading straight for a cows’ muddy drinking pool. The chute falls on top of him and he is struggling up to his chest in water with the huge tangled canopy when he hears steps and the enemy pilot jumps onto him, seizes him by the neck and drowns him.

Except he doesn’t die. His disembodied consciousness watches the struggle from a distance, watches the German flyer emerge from the pool dragging a wet bundle (his own body) drop it and stomp off across the field. And the consciousness of the dead pilot pursues him, talking to him, the German reacts with terror and starts running, the dead pilot considers following him but then decides to go and have a lie-down among the primroses and violets.

So a lot happens. There’s a lot of information packed into a small space. First the semi-nervous breakdown of a pilot cracking under the strain. Then the beautiful description of flying a Spitfire meshing with the intensity of aerial combat. Then the panic of parachuting from a stricken plane. The gruesome struggle in the muddy pond. And then the ghost story ending. Amazingly, this intensely male, haunted and violent story was first published in the Ladies’ Home Journal in September 1945, one month after the end of the war.

Madame Rosette (August 1945)

The longest story of the collection, at 41 pages, in which two pilots who we have met in other stories (the Stag, Stuffy) go for a night on the piss in Cairo, picking up a young pilot from 33 Squadron, William, along the way. There is a great deal of background colour, about the sights and smells of Cairo, descriptions of hotels and bars, and a lot of comedy, for example when they decide to befriend and buy drinks for two local men in a belly dancing club and discuss the relative merits of thin women versus fat women.

But the core of the story is that, earlier that day, Stuffy had been enchanted with a woman who served him in a shop and is surprised when the Stag explains that any woman in Cairo can be bought, if you have enough cash. He explains there is an ageless brothel keeper named Madame Rosette, and if you give her the young woman’s details, she will send a pimp to the shop in question and make the woman in question an offer she can’t refuse. Then Stuffy will be able to ‘take her out’ for dinner or a dance or whatever, confident in the knowledge that they’ll end up having sex.

Initially Stuff is intoxicated by this revelation, and gets Madame R’s phone number off the Stag and rings her (from the bar where they’re drinking, kept by an Englishman named Tim) at the last minute giving a fake name, claiming to be one Colonel Higgins, describing the woman who served him and the shop, and Madame Rosette says she’ll see what she can do. Without thinking Stuffy gives her the phone number and room number of the hotel they’re staying in.

To cut a long story short, as the day progresses Stuffy comes to have second thoughts, gets increasingly nervous at both the cost and the squalor of the deal and eventually gets the Stag to ring Madame Rosette back to cancel the deal, holding the phone at some distance from his ear to avoid the barrage of abuse she unleashes.

So then they bathe, dress and head out for a night on the town. But something the Stag mentioned has stuck in Stuffy’s mind, the notion that Madame Rosette’s brothel is staffed by women who have been coerced into prostitution and then blackmailed to remain in it.

Eventually, completely drunk, the three pilots decide to ‘liberate’ the prostitutes and take a horse-drawn carriage to Madame Rosette’s where they bluff their way past the enormous bouncer, demand to see the Madame herself, and tie and gag her in her office, before bursting into the room containing the hookers in various states of undress, announce with fake officiality that they are the Military Police and frogmarch them down the street to the nearest bar, where all military pretence collapses and it turns into a wild party, ending with the three pilots each taking a horse-drawn cab to deliver back to their homes the ‘liberated’ prostitutes all except for the three who have taken their fancy.

Why do young men join the army? Well, you couldn’t behave like that in Huddersfield or Hackney, could you?

A Piece of Cake (1945)

An account of Dahl’s crash in the desert, which he described more fully in the memoir Going Solo. The facts are more or less the same, including the name of the airfield he took off from, but he omits the basic fact that he was given the wrong co-ordinates for the airfield he was meant to be flying to and ended up circling round empty desert looking for it till his gas ran out, he was forced to make a crash landing and really did crash, his face violently thrown against the windshield, smashing his nose, dislodging a few teeth, knocking him unconscious, hitting his forehead so hard all the skin swelled up and effectively blinded him.

This version includes one of the most powerful elements of the incident which is the way he felt so sleepy, so lethargic, he just wanted to curl up in a ball and go to bed and found the increasing heat (his cockpit was on fire) really boring and only reluctantly could persuade himself to move, only then discovering he couldn’t and how it took a long time to realise this was because he was still strapped in and even longer to realise how to undo his straps and topple out of the cockpit onto the desert.

What distinguishes this version from the one in Going Solo is that it includes a number of vivid hallucinations, described at great length which, presumably are the result of the morphine or painkillers he was given back in hospital.

(It is itself a revised version of the original article which appeared in the Saturday Evening Post titled Shot Down Over Libya which gave the entirely misleading impression that Dahl was shot down by enemy action rather than running out of gas and attempting an emergency landing.)

Yesterday Was Beautiful (1945)

An unnamed British fighter pilot has bailed out and landed safely enough, on a Greek island, but sprained his ankle so walking is difficult. He hobbles into a dusty village which seems to be deserted. He notices an old man sitting by a water trough and asks him if someone has a boat to take him across to the mainland. The man thinks about it and says, yes, there is a man in the village who can help, a Joannis Spirakis. But his house was hit this morning by a German bomb and obliterated. So he is staying in the house of Antonina Angelou. But be aware that her daughter was in the house when it was bombed and killed. Her name was Maria.

So the pilot hobbles down the little main street to the house the old man indicated and knocks and the door is answered by a woman all in black who takes him through to a kitchen where sits a very old, shrivelled up old lady. She asks him about the Germans, how far away they are. They will be on the island soon. Then she asks him how many he has killed. Then she tells him to kill them all, every man, woman and baby.

Only after delivering this angry rant does she come back to his question, about the boatman Joannis Spirakis. She gets up, little shrivelled old creature, and walks him back to the front door and points up the little high street to the old man the pilot first spoke to. That, she says, is Joannis Spirakis.

It’s a very powerful short (8 short pages) story, told in a minimal prose style and conveying the unbearable pain and suffering, the dislocation and madness, of war.

Thoughts

1. The irrational

I came to this collection from Dahl’s war memoir Going Solo which was published in 1986. That book is, for the most part, rational and factual. Therefore the most striking aspect of these stories from 40 years earlier, right at the start of his career, is the way they focus on the irrational, the weird, the uncanny and the hallucinatory. On at least two occasions people seem to live on after their deaths – in fact we are given powerful visions of a pilot’s afterlife, along with the mother who dies when her son’s bomber crashes: the ten stories feature at least three ghost stories.

There are plentiful hallucinations, the three ghost stories being examples, along with the description of the pilot bailing out and tumbling through the clouds in Beware of the dog and the final fiery vision of the narrator of Katina. Most of the account of his crash in the desert in fact skips over the incident itself in order to describe at length a number of vivid and strange hallucinations he has.

Then there are the strange mental states explored in Yesterday was beautiful and the disturbed mental state of the bomber pilot in Someone like you.

This is all extraordinarily strong meat – very fierce psychological states, deeply disturbed individuals, visions and hallucinations littered with sudden violent deaths. They are written in Dahl’s crisp and understated prose but that makes the sound of screaming feel even louder.

2. Dahl and Hemingway

As I read through the stories it became obvious to me Dahl was deeply influenced by Hemingway. He uses very simple language and simple syntax. For example, rather than using commas to separate items he’ll write ‘and x and y and z’. He never uses contractions; he always spells everything out:

I did not use the altimeter… I do not know how long I sat there…

These are small things but they make the language feel stately, almost like the Bible at moments. I began to get irritated by his predilection for the word ‘upon’ instead of the more obvious ‘on’. ‘He laid it upon the table’.

The sun was hot upon their shoulders and upon their backs

He uses the simplest adjectives – good, bad, the simplest opinions – ‘it was fine’. Here’s an example from They Shall Not Grow Old:

We had only six Hurricanes in the air; there were many of the Junkers and it was a good fight.

The Hemingway thing is not to use contractions or short cuts or slang, but to spell everything out in a lightly mannered explicitness. Whether or not Dahl wrote like this earlier who can say. But all these stories bear the same hallmark of extreme, Hemingwayesque simplicity of style and syntax.

There is a direct parallel with the context of Hemingway’s earliest stories. Hemingway served as an ambulance driver with the American Red Cross in Italy during World War I and his earliest stories, the ones collected in In Our Time, describe men trying to manage the extremely powerful emotions triggered by the terrible sights and experiences of war. The plainness of the style is in deliberate contrast with the terrible events witnessed and the riot of awful emotions the protagonists are struggling to suppress and control. Very tightly controlled mania.

In this respect, in their context – the memories of combat and the wild thoughts and feelings unleashed by it, all controlled in an artificially plain and deceptively ‘simple’ style – Dahl is not just copying a ‘style’ but an entire strategy, an entire way of thinking about what writing is for.

6-foot-6 Roald Dahl (28) and 6-foot tall Ernest Hemingway (45) in London in 1944

I thought I’d been reasonably clever figuring this out from the style alone, but then 30 seconds on Google showed me that there was a well-known real life connection between the two authors. Dahl actually met Hemingway when the great man came to London working as a journalist during the war, and on the Roald Dahl Foundation website there’s a page about a student who wrote asking Dahl his advice about writing short stories, and Dahl replied telling him to ‘study Hemingway, particularly his early work’.

In that reply Dahl only mentions one aspect of Hemingway’s style i.e. use as few adjectives as possible, but hopefully my little analysis shows that the two writers had more than just that in common. It’s about using a minimalist style in the context of suppressed emotion that gives this approach its power.


Roald Dahl reviews

Another Bloody Love Letter by Anthony Loyd (2007)

Raised by talkative women, my childhood perception of what it took to be a man had long before attached itself to the wartime experiences of my family’s silent males…
(Another Bloody Love Letter, page 45)

Although I am going to subject it to detailed analysis and criticism, this is a bloody good book. It is deeply readable and hugely enjoyable, predominantly, for me, because Loyd’s confident insights into the political, military and cultural conditions of the four conflicts he reports on – Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan and Iraq – are profoundly interesting and illuminating.

As in his first book, My War Gone By, I Miss It So, as well as the war reporting there are extended passages about his family and his drug habit which I find a lot less interesting, but every paragraph he writes, about more or less any subject, is instinct with intelligence, reefed with psychological insight and written in an often gloriously over-the-top, deliquescing prose.

A real pleasure to read, I hope he publishes another volume soon.

My War Gone By, I Miss It So (1999)

Anthony Loyd is an award-winning war correspondent. He works mostly for The Times of London. He’s published two volumes of war reporting. The first one, 1999’s My War Gone By, I Miss It So, was a critical and popular success for several reasons. It contains blisteringly intense, visceral descriptions of the author’s experiences during the Bosnian War of 1992 to 1995, namely the sites of atrocities and massacres he visited. Then, emerging from these vivid scenes, are numerous insights and commentary on the reasons for the start and development of the war, which I found very useful.

Between 1992 and 1995 just over two hours flying time from Heathrow more than 200,000 people, the majority of them Muslims, were slaughtered. Set free by Europe’s stunning moral failure and refusal to intervene, the forces of nationalism and religious intolerance, emanating principally from Bosnia’s Serbs and Croats, were allowed to crush the more tolerant aspirations of the state’s Muslim community then reform them in their own mould. (Another Bloody Love Letter, page 48)

But what lifted it far among the usual run of war correspondent books were two further elements. One is the fact that Loyd was, throughout the period in question, a heroin addict. The book includes a surprising amount of material covering the origins and development of his addiction, along with frequent passages describing his struggles to give it up.

But the heroin sections fed into something even more unusual in a war correspondent book, which was the inclusion of a lot of autobiographical material, his unhappiness at boarding school then Eton (!) which he managed to get kicked out of; in particular describing his awful relationship with his father, who divorced his mother when Anthony was just 6 years old but continued to be a cold, domineering presence in his life.

As the book progresses it becomes clear that Loyd’s motivation to become a war correspondent was driven by the same compulsion as the drug addiction, and that both were ‘ways of escape’, ways to submerge, obliterate and repress the deep misery he felt if he found himself just living ‘normally’, in London. He tells us that trying to live the kind of everyday commuter life which he sees going on around him in London –

the clustering barnacle growths of life’s trivia and problems…my London world of rehab, relapse, routine normality and unutterable boredom… (p.22)

– drives him into deep despair at its futility and emptiness. At one point he discusses his descent into non-stop, all-day drinking and thoughts of suicide.

Only the effort required in a weekly visit to a therapist helped him at least partly emerge from his unhappiness, and it was out of this feeling of desperation that was born the idea of heading off to Bosnia as the war there started to kick off (in spring 1992) to busk it, to wing it, to see what happened. He went without a job, with no contacts, and with only a flimsy post-graduate qualification in photography to fib and bluster his way through. But on this basis (and with the kind of confidence which a top public school education gives you) he blagged a UN press pass, which he then used to travel to war zones, to get to know other correspondents, to prove himself as a man in the face of terrible suffering and real danger.

Eventually one of the journalists he was hanging out with was wounded enough to be sent back to England and he asked Loyd to temporarily replace him, giving Loyd the number of his editor in London. Again, Loyd’s posh bluffing paid off and he found himself a freelance war correspondent.

The rest of ‘My War Gone By, I Miss It So’ alternates between 1) eye-witness accounts of the terrible atrocities he saw in Bosnia; 2) descriptions of his father’s illness and death, with the revelation of more upsetting family secrets which have clearly damaged him; and 3) his ongoing trials and tribulations as a heroin addict, whose addiction serves as an escape from normal life back in London – which he just can’t handle – and also as a substitute for the intense experience of life under fire in Bosnia.

He is quite frank and open about all of this, especially the way that the heroin high and the buzz of war are related, cousins, sisters, extreme experiences which both stop him falling back into profound ennui and despair.

For months at a time I had exchanged the abandonment of the drug for the fulfilment of the conflict, then come home for a break and swapped mistresses. War for work, heroin for holidays. (p.56)

Another Bloody Love Letter (2007)

So this is Loyd’s second and, to date, final book, and it very much carries on the theme and style of the first one. With the war in Bosnia concluded by the Dayton Agreement of December 1995 there followed a lull in opportunities to feed his war addiction. But the new book finds him in Kosovo in the spring of 1998 as the political situation there unravels and this is the theme and setting of the first hundred pages or so of this 300-page book.

Heroin

Loyd is still on heroin and the book describes the rehab centre in West London he visits (CORE), the other outpatients he meets there and delves extensively into the psychology of the junkie. It covers his relationship with his dealer, Dave (who dies, during the course of the book, but whose job is immediately taken over by his junkie wife, Cathy, page 65). More importantly, it contains extended passages on the mind-set of a junkie, continually trying to give up, continually failing, in an endless ‘Sisyphean’ cycle (p.71).

There is always more to lose as an addict (p.59)

The thrill of war

Again and again he compares the highs of heroin with the thrill of being in a war zone, hanging with his homies, a tight crew of super-cool war aficionados. He repeatedly describes the buzz and kick and fulfilment to be got from close encounters with extremes of human suffering and danger.

The sheer high-octane thrill I had got out of the war. It had taken me to peaks of excitement, life affirmation and sensory enhancement. (p.48)

In his seemingly endless search for kicks, highs and intensities, his life is ‘a quest for event and happening’ (p.133).

Hero-worshipping colleagues

If the third element of the first book was the extended passages about his wretched childhood and his terrible relationship with his father, there’s some of that here (in particular his mother’s tearful terror that he’ll be found dead on a toilet floor somewhere or she’ll get a call from his employers saying he’s been killed in a war zone) – but the really deep emotional/relationship content of the book derives from his close friendship with a superstar American war correspondent who he calls Kurt.

In my review of the first book I commented on the odd dynamic whereby Loyd’s unblinkingly honest reporting of the atrocities he saw in the war zone was accompanied, in a strange logic, by idealisation of other aspect of the narrative, namely the British Army – whose officers he tends to see in a rosy light – and encounters with a succession of women who all turn out to be beautiful, statuesque, intelligent, passionate etc etc. A very James Bond litany of gorgeous babes he keeps tumbling into bed with, frenzied fucking amid the bombs and bullets.

The same odd dynamic between super-real and super-idealised elements obtains here. On the one hand he describes children with their heads blown off, just-raped young women weeping, old men dying in the snow, burned-out houses containing incinerated human remains, with clear-eyed accuracy. Yet when he comes to describe his closest friends among the war correspondents, and especially Kurt, his attitude descends into gushing, schoolboy hero worship.

Kurt was a man unlike any other I have met, or ever expect to, a rare and inspirational comet who one way or another affected the lives of almost everybody who met him, and many who did not. He was a pure force in a tainted world, a beacon of integrity: brilliant. And such essence needs protection for the world crushes fast…

Difficult and uncompromising, as a war correspondent he was a one-man Zeitgeist to the small band of Balkan war reporters, the standard bearer to our values. His work was succinct, sincere and consistently credible, its power singly lifting the level of reportage throughout the Bosnian and Kosovo conflicts. Innumerable journalists can crank out professional reports, observe and criticise. Kurt was different because of his vision and profound, Solomon-like sense of justice. Fuelled by an angry compassion, contained by common sense, this foresight and talent to discern righteousness beyond simple truth set him apart and, in allowing him to reveal a moral context within his stories it took him far beyond what most reporters are capable of doing. (p.27)

There’s more, much more:

[Kurt]’s extreme IQ and zero bullshit tolerance made him the terror of military and civilian spokesmen…

His involvement with war was the inevitable product of his being, for he was a man physically and mentally at his best in conflict and he glowed in that environment. War both completed and complimented him.

The man was the embodiment of purpose. He was vital… (p.139)

It’s odd. As if the brutal reality of the one aspect of his experience (war) can only be managed and coped with, by assigning a romantic glow and almost supernatural powers to the other aspect (friends and lovers).

He was my friend, my mentor. I was not looking for another father to replace my own, dead four years by then but absent much longer. Nevertheless, Kurt embodied goodness and wisdom to a degree I could never have imagined should I have had a thousand fathers.

Whatever the darkness of addiction or life’s other pitfalls, I could fall back on the certainty that Kurt was somewhere out there, and that his continued existence meant everything would work out fine in the end. He had a shine about him, the glow of assurance and invincibility that encouraged me to stick close and believe in hope. And, in my mind, he was never going to die. (p.28)

Of course, the second I read that final sentence, I realised that Kurt would die. The blurb on the back says this book is ‘a moving and painfully honest memoir of love and friendship, betrayal and loss, war and faith’ so I figured that the friendship and loss parts would be about Kurt. As the book progresses the hints get heavier.

Like his life force, his faith in both himself and his decision-making was so strong that I assumed him to be one of those rare men destined to survive while all around him died… (p.77)

Yep, he’s definitely going to die, and (spoilers) sure enough he does, in chapter 8, providing Loyd with a motive to fly to Freetown and obsessively try to track down the militia unit and officers who staged the ambush in which Kurt – and another old friend, Miguel – died in a hail of bullets.

Women

In true James Bond style, there’s references to the heroes success with women, to the number of beautiful, brave women Loyd has had hurried affairs with in the past. This book’s Bond girl is the tall, intelligent, beautiful Alexandra, with whom he has ‘a chariot race of a love affair’ (p.83) and ‘on-the-run relationship’ (p.140). Kurt’s death affects them in different ways (Loyd becomes cold and withdrawn) and they split up soon afterwards as a direct result.

Tall

Loyd’s number one attribute of praise is when someone is tall. All good people in his narratives (British officers, sexy women, valiant colleagues) are tall.

  • [Sami was] one of five brothers, born in Lausa, a small Drenica town with a long history of nationalist sentiment and armed resistance, he was a tall, rangy, thirty-year-old, bearded and with the shining eyes of a Biblical prophet. (p.32)
  • Miguel was not drinking either. The long, tall Spaniard, beak-nosed and gaunt like a young Jean Reno, preferred coffee and cigarettes. (p.43)
  • Alexandra [was] a Parisienne, striking in looks and temperament, she was a photographer in her thirties, tall, long-haired and veteran of Bosnia and numerous other conflicts. (p.83)
  • A tall, heavily built man with a shaven head and a goatee beard, Jago had once been the party king in the court of our early nineties London gang of revellers, able to work and play on minimal sleep and seemingly oblivious to comedown… (p.141)

It’s another aspect of the oddly comic-strip aspect of a lot of the text. The tall, striking men and women, the super-hero Kurt, his beloved grandmother in her ideal rural cottage etc. I dare say it’s all true. But it also has a kind of super-real, idealising feel to it. Sunday supplement perfection.

More wars than last time

The first book almost entirely described Loyd’s experiences in Bosnia and so had a geographical and geopolitical unity. (The exception is one long chapter about the completely unrelated war in Chechnya which he was sent to cover, but Bosnia is the main setting and backdrop to his various personal dramas.)

By contrast, this book is more varied in location. It includes descriptions of wars in not only Kosovo but also Sierra Leone, Afghanistan and Iraq. ‘My War Gone By, I Miss It So’ was very focused on the Bosnia War 1992 to 1996. This one covers the period from February 1999 to spring 2004, when a lot of other major conflicts kicked off and Loyd, now no longer blagging his way into the role, as he’d done in Bosnia, is now a full-time professional working for an employer and so goes where he is told.

1. Kosovo

In Yugoslavia ruled by the communist leader Josip Broz Tito from 1945 to 1980, Kosovo was a province of Serbia, one of the 6 republics which made up the federation of Yugoslavia. Tito held the country together by, in the cultural realm, the force of his personality and charisma; in politics, by shrewdly distributing power among Yugoslavia’s fractious ethnic groups; but mostly, like any communist state, by the rigorous deployment of the army and secret police to repress any serious opposition.

In one sense the mystery is how the complicated power sharing structures he set up survived so long after his death in 1980. The answer is that the heads of each republic remained communists and had a vested interest in keeping the existing power structures in place. It was the collapse of Soviet power in Eastern Europe which precipitated the Yugoslav wars. Because the leaders of the three relevant republics realised they could use nationalism as a force to maintain their hold on power.

1. Slovenia The Slovene Republic in the north was the first to declare independence from Yugoslavia, in June 1991, which led to a brief ten-day war between Slovene nationalist forces and units of the Serb-dominated Yugoslav Army. It was so brief because Slovenia was ethnically homogenous i.e. there was no substantial ethnic minority to contest Slovenian rule (unlike all the other republics) and also because the leader of Serbia, Slobodan Milošević, wanted to keep all units of the Yugoslav Army, predominantly Serb in character, for the war which was kicking off in neighbouring Croatia.

2. Croatia The war moved steadily south like a plague. The war in Croatia was caused by the fact that the tough Croatian nationalist tone of the new regime under president Franjo Tudjman led Serbs in the eastern part of the country to rebel and win backing from the Serb government and Yugoslav Army. The resulting war lasted from March 1991 to November 1995.

3. Bosnia Long before the Croatia war was over, however, the infection moved south into Bosnia where the Serb minority again rebelled against the country’s declaration of independence in April 1992. The war in Bosnia was the central and longest lasting conflict of the Yugoslav wars and changed character during its course. The Bosnian War is generally agreed to have lasted from April 1992 to December 1995 when the Dayton accords were signed. What made it so cruel was that, to begin with, adherents of the country’s multi-ethnic identity i.e. the country’s Croats and Bosnian Muslims (or Bosniaks), fought alongside each other against the Serb nationalists who seized Serb-majority territory in the east and north of the country.

But then, like a plague, the infection of nationalism spread among Bosnians and, eventually, turned Bosnian Croats and Bosnian Muslims against each other, turning the war into a three-way conflict. Often the Serbs, always the best supplied of the warring parties because of their links with economically dominant Serbia and the former Yugoslav Army, stood aside and watched the Croats and Bosniaks slaughter each other.

Loyd’s first book, ‘My War Gone By, I Miss It So’, is a vivid and heat-breaking record of this process, how the split between the former allies, Croats and Bosniaks, spread from valley to valley, from village to village, with disgusting consequences of civilian slaughters and massacres.

4. Kosovo There was a lull between the end of the Bosnian War and the start of the conflict in Kosovo in spring 1998. Under Tito, Kosovo had been an autonomous part of Serbia i.e. had a lot of autonomy but ultimately came under Serb administrative control. The population was made up of about 1.8 million people of Albanian ethnicity and Muslim religion, and 200,000 or so Serbs, ethnic Slavs and believers of Eastern Orthodox Christianity. Serbs tended to hold all the positions of power, and derived their control from Belgrade (capital of Serbia), something which had rankled for generations with Kosovo separatists.

Once the lid of communist rule was removed the way was open for nationalists of both sides to rouse ‘their’ people. Scattered militias, criminals and freedom fights came together to form the loosely organised Kosovo Liberation Army or KLA who carried out violent but ineffectual and counter-productive attacks on symbols of Serb power, like police stations. They began doing this following the end of the Bosnian War in what has become known as the Kosovan Insurgency, starting in 1996.

In 1997 there was anarchy and a brief civil war in neighbouring Albania early 1997, following the fall of President Sali Berisha. In March the police and Republican Guard deserted their posts, leaving their armouries open. Large amounts of guns and ammunition were stolen from barracks and smuggled across the porous border into Kosovo to equip the KLA.

What complicated the picture was that Kosovo happened to be the location of a famous battlefield, where Serbian defenders of Christendom and Europe had been defeated by the advancing Turks in 1389. On the anniversary of the battle, Serb leader Slobodan Milošević travelled to the site of the battle and made a highly publicised speech telling the Serbs in Kosovo that they would never be bullied or defeated again.

Thus, when in early 1998, KLA attacks increasingly targeted Yugoslav authorities in Kosovo, the Serbs responded by increasing the presence of army units and battle-hardened Serb paramilitaries. These set about pursuing a campaign of retribution, targeting KLA sympathisers and political opponents. In February 1998 this situation was recognised as being a war.

Extremists on both sides came to the fore. The KLA’s aim was to declare an independent Kosovo republic and take all the positions of power and administration out of Serb hands, driving all Serbs out of Kosovo if necessary. The Serbs, far more organised and better equipped, wanted to take full control of Kosovo and absorb it into their notion of a Greater Serbia. To do this required terrorising as many ethnic Albanians as possible into fleeing the country. So, as in Croatia and Bosnia, the Serbs set about ‘exemplary’ massacres, entering rural villages and killing everyone they found, rounding up civilians and shooting them in front of mass graves, letting some escape and shooting them as target practice, round them up into houses which they set fire to burn them to death.

Loyd reports on the KLA’s supremely cynical tactic which was to let the Serbs do it. The KLA gambled that, if the Serbs carried out enough well-publicised atrocities, NATO would be forced to intervene and then their moment would come. They were right but thousands of their own people had to die wretched, agonising deaths first.

But they were also wrong for they and NATO miscalculated and Slobodan Milošević showed himself to be a canny strategist. For Milošević realised that NATO was badly split. The Europeans were reluctant to intervene militarily, it was the Americans pushing for decisive action. So Milošević anticipated a NATO attack but banked on NATO lacking the resolve to follow it through.

Not only that but he realised that as soon the NATO air campaign began (as it did on 24 March 1999) he would be able to let loose his forces in a real wave of ethnic cleansing. Thus as the first NATO planes flew sorties against Serb targets, Serb forces unleashed a tsunami of ethnic cleansing across Kosovo. The air campaign was not as effective as anyone thought, due to bad weather and the strict limits NATO set itself to avoid all ‘collateral damage’. Nonetheless NATO planes hit a number of civilian targets, killing as many civilians as the Serbs. Moreover, if the aim was to protect Albanian civilians the air campaign had the opposite effect: the death toll among all concerned (including ethnic Albanians) skyrocketed following and a post-war report by the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe noted that ‘the pattern of the expulsions and the vast increase in lootings, killings, rape, kidnappings and pillage once the NATO air war began on March 24’.

After a total of 78 days the Serbian Parliament passed a resolution to comply with NATO requirements and the air campaign ceased. The NATO-led peacekeeping Kosovo Force (KFOR) of 30,000 soldiers began entering Kosovo but Loyd is acid, not only about the West’s miscalculation about Serb resolution, but what happened next. He devotes some scathing pages to NATO’s complete unpreparedness for the levels of ethnic hatred and vengeance they were about to encounter. They didn’t realise the extent to which returning Kosovar Albanian refugees, and emboldened units of the KLA, would wreak the kind of massacre on unarmed Serb civilians that Serb paramilitaries had meted out to Kosovars. So now it was the turn of many innocent Serb villagers to be shot out of hand and have their homes and villages burned. The NATO force lacked the manpower, and legal expertise, to intervene into the tens of thousands of grievances which flared across the country.

Outside Pristina, Serbs and gypsies were slain in their dozens and their property burned. Once the dominant minority, in the months following NATO’s arrival most of the province’s Serbs simply packed their belongings into their vehicles and fled north to Serbia…The list of the international community’s excuses for failing to protect the Serbs was endless…So many of the war’s good intentions died in the peace, as the result of the failure by Western powers to anticipate the level of hate that would remain in Kosovo after the arrival of their troops there…It was difficult even for a believer in NATO’s intervention such as me to swallow… (pages 130 to 132)

Incidentally, the point about ‘the Western powers’ not being prepared for the level of ethnic hatred they encounter in Kosovo is echoed by Michael Ignatieff who, in his 2003 book, Empire Lite, says the UN’s humanitarian ambassador to Kosovo once the fighting ended, Bernard Kouchner, was taken by surprise by ‘the ferocity of the hatred in Kosovo’, p.63. What Ignatieff’s book brings out that Loyd’s doesn’t is that the Kosovars came to think of themselves as the intended victims of a genocide. Ignatieff quotes the NATO estimate that between March and May 1999 Serbian police and paramilitaries killed some 10,000 Kosavar Albanians and would have carried on killing as many as they could had not the bombing campaign eventually brought it to a halt. When you believe an enemy force has tried to exterminate your entire race, then no amount of revenge is enough. Hence the virulent hatred the West, NATO and Kouchner were astonished by.

Recent news from Kosovo

When this kind of ethnic hatred has been created, can it ever go away?

2. Sierra Leone

Sierra Leone was granted independence by the UK in 1961. It is a poor country whose main assets are diamonds, gold, bauxite and aluminium in the east of the country. In 1991 a brutal civil war broke out which was to last 11 years. In part it was a spillover from the civil war in neighbouring Liberia whose dictator, Charles Taylor, sent forces to overthrow the Leonean government of Joseph Momoh. Nigeria sent peacekeeping forces in to try and secure stability.

The most striking element of the conflict was the rise of the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) which became notorious for:

  • abducting children who they brainwashed and drugged into becoming psychopathic killers; as many as 11,000 child soldiers were recruited
  • amputating the hands or arms of defenceless civilians as a form of intimidation and terror

The Sierra Leone civil war lasted 11 years, destroyed large parts of the country, and left up to 200,000 dead and tens of thousands disfigured and handicapped.

In Sierra Leone, in the west of the continent, the Revolutionary United Front, possibly Africa’s most infamous rebel army, had routed government troops, killed numerous United Nations soldiers, taken others prisoner, encircled many more, and was moving on the capital, Freetown. (p.134)

And:

The RUF was about as raving and insane as rebel groups get, its operations hallmarked by savage and wanton cruelty, utilising terror as a delight rather than as a tool…

The RUF’s political leader was Foday Sankoh, a clinically mad former corporal, by 2001 in jail on war crimes charges, whose manifesto was a mix of archaic Marxism and voodoo, and whose forces’ battle honours included class acts such as ‘Operation No Living Thing’, in which thousands of civilians had been butchered. The cutting off of prisoners’ hands with machetes was so commonplace that the rebels even had a terminology for it: ‘long sleeve’ and ‘short sleeve’ describing whether victims received their amputation at the wrist or elbow. (p.147)

So much for the grisly specifics. Loyd then delivers the kind of pithy and insightful summary which recur throughout the text and help you understand not just the specific conflict but the world we live in.

The RUF was an enduring manifestation of the general West African malaise: a lumpenproletariat of angry, ill-educated young men produced by the extreme poverty, rampant government corruption, spiralling disease and exploding population of the region. (p.147)

(These are the bayaye, idle unemployed youths who are also described as a causative factor in Somalia, Uganda and many other troublespots.)

It was here that Loyd’s hero, Kurt, was killed, in a pointless roadside ambush carried out by the RUF, and which Loyd then devotes weeks to tracking down the killers, although he hasn’t really succeeded before he is badly injured in a car crash caused by his reckless local driver.

3. Afghanistan

Life for most Afghans was a subsistence battle in a year-zero world (p.197)

Loyd’s account brilliantly conveys the wrecked, devastated nature of the country, shedding light on its harsh, basic but attractive culture (Islamic fundamentalism, hashish, beards). But I thought the most interesting part was his dwelling on the cultural acceptance of Afghan fighters switching loyalties (pages 206, 223 to 230)

Afghan timeline

1953
General Mohammed Daud becomes prime minister of Afghanistan and turns to the Soviet Union for economic and military assistance, the start of a long association with the USSR.

1963
Mohammed Daud forced to resign as prime minister.

1964
Constitutional monarchy introduced but leads to political polarisation and power struggles.

1973
Mohammed Daud seizes power in a coup and declares Afghanistan a republic. Daud tries to play off the USSR against Western powers.

1978
General Daud is overthrown and killed in a pro-Soviet coup. The People’s Democratic Party comes to power but is paralysed by infighting and faces opposition by US-backed mujahideen groups.

1979 December
With the communist government in danger of collapsing, the Soviet Army invades to prop it up.

1980
Babrak Karmal is installed as ruler, backed by Soviet troops, but the opposition from mujahideen groups intensifies, with the muj armed and equipped by the US, Pakistan, China, Iran and Saudi Arabia. Low level guerrilla war spreads across the country.

1985
The mujahideen come together in Pakistan to form an alliance against the Soviets. It’s estimated that half the Afghan population is displaced by war, with many fleeing to neighbouring Iran or Pakistan. In the same year Mikhail Gorbachev becomes General Secretary of the USSR and institutes his policies of perestroika and glasnost.

1986
The US starts supplying the mujahideen with Stinger missiles, enabling them to shoot down Soviet helicopter gunships. Babrak Karmal is replaced by Mohammad Najibullah as head of the Soviet-backed regime.

1988
Under Gorbachev’s aegis, the USSR signs peace accords with Afghanistan, the US and Pakistan and starts pulling out troops but leaving the communist government under Najibullah in place.

1989
The last Soviet troops leave but civil war continues as the mujahideen unite to overthrow Najibullah.

1990
Najibullah wasn’t a Soviet stooge. He tried to build support for his government via the National Reconciliation reforms, he distanced himself from socialism, abolished the one-party state and let non-communists join the government. He remained open to dialogue with the mujahideen, made Islam an official religion, and invited exiled businessmen back to re-take their properties. In the 1990 constitution, all references to communism were removed and Islam became the state religion

1992
Following the August Coup in Moscow and the dissolution of the Soviet Union in December 1991, Najibullah was left without foreign aid. His government collapsed and he resigned in April 1992. The mujahedin were triumphant but immediately relapsed back into regional factions and a devastating civil war began.

1996
A new, much more hard-line Islamist faction, the Taliban, seize control of Kabul. They ban women from work, and introduce Islamic punishments which include stoning to death and amputations. They do not, however, control large parts of the country.

1997
The Taliban are recognised as the legitimate government of Afghanistan by Pakistan and Saudi Arabia. They now control about two-thirds of the country.

1998
US embassies in Africa are bombed. US intelligence points the finger at Osama bin Laden who runs a terrorist organisation called al-Qaeda. The US launches missile strikes at suspected al-Qaeda bases in Afghanistan.

1999
The UN imposes an air embargo and financial sanctions to force the Taliban government to hand over Osama bin Laden for trial.

2001 September
Ahmad Shah Masood, leader of the main opposition to the Taliban – the Northern Alliance – is assassinated on 10 September. This is the point where Loyd enters the picture, with reminiscences of meeting Masood on previous visits to the country.

11 September, the attacks on the World Trade Centre in New York, quickly traced back to al-Qaeda and bin Laden.

2001 October
When the Taliban government in Kabul refuses to hand over bin Laden, the US commences a bombing campaign against the Taliban, co-ordinated with ground attacks by the Northern Alliance of mujahedin, formerly led by Masood. Loyd is with these forces when the first air strikes begin and then follows the escalating pace of the war, and is with Northern Alliance troops when they enter Kabul (which has largely been abandoned by the Taliban).

2001 December
Leaders of the various mujahedin groups are brought to Germany, where NATO i.e. the US, lean heavily on them to agree to create an interim government.

2002 January
Deployment of the first contingent of foreign peacekeepers – the Nato-led International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) – marking the start of protracted fighting against the Taliban.

2002 June
The Loya Jirga, or grand council, elects Hamid Karzai as interim head of state. Karzai is to be a key figure in Afghan politics for the next 15 years.

2003 August
NATO takes control of security in Kabul, its first-ever operational commitment outside Europe.

This map from Wikipedia gives a sense of the landholdings by different Afghan groups between the fall of Najibullah in 1992 and the overthrow of the Taliban in 2001.

The War of Afghanistan in four maps, showing the changing territory held by the major armed militias between 1992 and the October 2001 US-led intervention

4. Iraq

For Loyd’s involvement, see chapter 17, below.

Iraq timeline

28 February 1991
The Gulf War ends, leaving Iraq subject to United Nations sanctions and arms inspections designed to track down weapons of mass destruction (biological, chemical and nuclear weapons). Disputes over inspectors’ access to Iraqi facilities continue for years.

December 1998
US-led air raids on Iraq as punishment for not giving UN weapons inspectors access to facilities.

11 September 2001
Hijacked airplanes are flown into the World Trade Centre towers in New York, at the Pentagon and a fourth one was brought down by the passengers en route to attack a target in Washington DC. A Muslim fundamentalist organisation called al-Qaeda, led by Osama bin Laden, a Saudi citizen living in Afghanistan, is quickly identified as being behind the attacks.

20 September
President of the United States George W. Bush first uses the term ‘war on terror’ in a speech to Congress. The enemy in the war on terror was ‘a radical network of terrorists and every government that supports them’. The phrase was immediately criticised by every literate person who realised that you cannot declare war on an abstract noun, but also by US officials such as Richard Myers, then Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

October 2001
US intelligence knows that al Qaeda and bin Laden are based in Afghanistan. When American demands that the Taliban government of Aghanistan surrender bin Laden are rejected, US-led forces begin planning and then implementing military action in Afghanistan. Loyd is with Northern Alliance mujahedin forces as they fight their way south against the Taliban and into Kabul. Though the Americans don’t know it, the struggle to bring peace and security will last for twenty years and, ultimately, be a failure.

January 2002
Flush with success in Afghanistan, US President George W. Bush returns to the Middle Eastern nation which had been a thorn in the side of US policy since the 1991 Gulf War, Iraq. Many hawkish Americans think the coalition led by Bush’s father should not have stopped at pushing the Iraqi invaders out of Kuwait, but should have continued on to Baghdad. In his State of the Union address on 29 January 2002 Bush identifies Iraq as part of an ‘axis of evil’ along with Iran and North Korea i.e. preparing the public and international community for war.

12 September 2002
President Bush addresses the United Nations General Assembly and warns Iraq that military action will be unavoidable if it does not comply with UN resolutions on disarmament.

24 September 2002
Keen to side with a bellicose America, the British government under Prime Minister Tony Blair publishes an intelligence ‘dossier’ which claims to assess the threat posed by Iraq. It includes the claim that Saddam Hussein has weapons of mass destruction which could be deployed within 45 minutes. Even at the time, to anyone of even moderate intelligence, it was clear that this was complete bollocks and, even if it was true, it wouldn’t be London or Paris let alone Washington that Saddam would attack with his useless Russian rockets, it would be Iran, which he’d failed to defeat in an 8-year war, or Israel, which is very capable of protecting itself.

8 November 2002
The UN Security Council unanimously passes resolution 1441, giving Iraq ‘a final opportunity to comply with its disarmament obligations’ and warning of ‘serious consequences’ if it does not. It is obvious to observers that Bush Junior wants to finish off what his pappy started.

November 2002 to March 2003
Despite carrying out over 700 inspections in Iraq, the UN’s Monitoring, Verification and Inspection Commission fails to find weapons of mass destruction.

15 February 2003
As America continues to ramp up its warlike rhetoric, millions of people around the world conclude that America’s strategy is warlike, destabilising and completely unjustified. On 15 February hundreds of thousands of people – the organisers estimated almost two million – march through London to protest military action in Iraq and Tony Blair’s craven kowtowing to Bush. There are similar marches in Glasgow and Belfast, part of a worldwide weekend of protest. Loyd knows that, despite coming from a military family, his mother and sister go on the march.

25 February 2003
The US and the UK submit a draft resolution to the UN, stating that Iraq has missed its ‘final opportunity’ to disarm peacefully. To their great irritation the resolution is opposed not just by the usual obstructor, Russia, but by two NATO allies, France and Germany. In fact France emerged as the chief opponents of an invasion.

It was during this period that a joke line from the cartoon series The Simpsons, about the French being ‘cheese-eating surrender monkeys’ was revived in the American media, along with the widespread renaming of French fries as ‘freedom fries’.

March 2003
In face of opposition from France and Russia, the UK and US abandon attempts to secure a second UN resolution authorising force. US President George Bush gives Saddam and his sons 48 hours to leave Iraq or face war.

18 March 2003
Tony Blair wins House of Commons backing to send UK forces into war in Iraq, despite a major rebellion by Labour MPs.

19 March 2003
First air raids on Baghdad as part of the so-called ‘shock and awe’ campaign of aerial bombardment. 20 March ground forces invade. The invasion of Iraq lasted just over one month, led by combined force of troops from the US, UK, Australia and Poland. 9 April, 22 days after the invasion, coalition forces took Baghdad after the six-day-long Battle of Baghdad.

Loyd accompanies Northern Alliance forces through the fighting into Baghdad.

1 May 2003
Bush declared the ‘end of major combat operations’ in his Mission Accomplished speech, delivered on an aircraft carrier off the coast of California.

29 May 2003
A BBC report casts doubt on the government’s 2002 dossier stating that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction capable of being deployed within 45 minutes.

18 July 2003
Government weapons expert David Kelly is found dead after being exposed as the source of the BBC story about the dossier.

13 December 2003
Saddam Hussein is found by US troops hiding in a cellar south of Tikrit, his home town.

Late 2003 onwards
Insurgents in Iraq begin targeting US-backed forces and fighting erupts between rival militias.

14 July 2004
The Butler Review on military intelligence finds key information used to justify the war in Iraq was unreliable. MI6 did not check its sources well enough and sometimes relied on third-hand reports. The 2002 dossier should not have included the claim that Iraq could use weapons of mass destruction within 45 minutes without further explanation.

In other words, Tony Blair’s government leant on British Intelligence to distort the information and lie in order to back a course of action he had already decided on, which was knee-jerk solidarity with George W. Bush’s America.

Structure of the book

The text consists of a prologue and 17 chapters. The paperback edition I have consists of 302 large format pages.

Prologue: Iraq, winter 2004

Like ‘My War Gone By, I Miss It So’ the text starts with a scene from the very end of the period being covered, in this case standing with an American NCO named Carlisle at the end of a firefight in a village on the edge of the al Anbar which has become the epicentre of the insurgent opposition to the American occupation, in which one of his soldiers has been killed and is even now being choppered back to the base where his body will be tidied up ready for the long journey home to the States.

Loyd describes the course of this one particular American ‘patrol’ and introduces a recurring leitmotif when he describes Carlisle as ‘a tall, rangy man with an aquiline nose, pale Celtic eyes and a straight mouth that hinted of something mean’ (p.3).

But the main purpose of the prologue is to establish the author as someone who has knocked around war zones for over a decade, knows that all battlefields are haunted, knows there is no rhyme or reason in who will survive and who will die, is haunted by his own cast of characters (naming people we will meet in successive chapters of the book).

The prologue then reverts to Loyd’s experience in Operation Desert Storm back in 1991, when, a fresh-faced 24 and nearing the end of a 5-year contract in the British Army, he volunteered to join a Scots regiment in order to be part of the British military contingent in the huge US-led coalition which kicked Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait in February 1991. But he was bitterly disappointed to see no fighting, just trenches of demoralised conscript Iraqis eagerly surrendering. The war was over in just 100 hours. A few weeks later he was flown back to Britain and officially left the army, with the itch for action, the urge to test his mettle and live up to the challenge of his warrior ancestors unappeased.

And then briefly refers to the scene 13 years later, in post-invasion, occupied Iraq.

  1. Kosovo, February 1999 – Loyd describes his base at the hotel and bar of Beba, ‘a Serb gangland daddy’ (p.16) in Pristina, capital of Kosovo, from which he and other correspondents drive out to the countryside to see the evidence of the latest Serb atrocity. Description of the shootout between KLA and Serb forces which triggered the war. Introduces Kurt, his hero, with the anecdote of the time they took on sound bouncer-like Serb paramilitaries who beat them up.
  2. More Kosovo: introduction to Sami, an amateurish KLA fighter then onto a gripping analysis of the political and military situation, the aims of the three parties: the KLA, the Serbs and NATO. Graphic, sickening descriptions of Serb massacres carried out in revenge for a KLA one. Both sides massacre defenceless civilians, while the Western press was obsessing about whether Bill Clinton had sex with Monica Lewinsky. Loyd celebrates his 32nd birthday among colleagues, a psychological profile of his fellow war correspondents and then the family background which brought him to war.
  3. London, September 1998 – Back in London for R&R and an extended description of his heroin addiction with a full description and psychology of the addict, his family’s response, the CORE rehab centre. ‘War for work, heroin for holidays’ (p.56).
  4. Kosovo, February 1999 – Back in Kosovo the situation has deteriorated with the Serbs carrying out more massacres confident that NATO lack the resolve to punish them. The psychology of the war correspondent. ‘It was our profession but it was also our delight.’ (p.75) More stories about his hero Kurt, coming under fire reporting on a bombed bridge. With the collapse of the Rambouillet talks, NATO monitors are withdrawn, NATO goes to battle stations, and the Serbs hugely accelerated their campaign of murder and massacre. Loyd sees the, decapitated, mutilated bodies. The smell of fresh meat. At a stroke Western correspondents become potential spies or hostages, so their hurried, fraught, dicey escape from Kosovo into Macedonia.
  5. Albania, spring 1999 – Now based in a scuzzy hotel in Bajaram Curri in north Albania, they undertake trips across the border into Kosovo to see and interview KLA forces, for example ‘the Fighting Emir’. Description of the Albanian version of vendetta, kanun (p.100) and how local officials (the town’s chief of police) are involved in it. Commentary on the NATO bombing campaign i.e. deeply disappointing and only encouraged the Serbs into ferocious action. The only thing that would stop it would be NATO committing ground troops which it was mortally afraid to do.
  6. England, summer 1999 – extended description of his lovely grandmother and the rural cottage she lived in which has Loyd’s retreat as a boy. Memories of catching his first trout, and the odd characters who lived locally. A tribute to his mum’s hard working, tough but calm character.
  7. Kosovo, June 1999 – The grim end-game of the conflict, with the KLA finally in the ascendant and Serb forces withdrawn from Kosovo, Loyd testifies to the Kosovars’ vengeance on any Serbs they can get their hands on, the usual rural massacres, fields of bodies etc, the utter unpreparedness of the occupying NATO forces for the level of hatred and vengeance they encounter, and their pathetic inability to stop revenge attacks on Serb civilians.
  8. Ethiopia, May 2000 – Loyd is in Ethiopia when the office call to inform him of Kurt’s death in a roadside ambush in Sierra Leone. He flies to Paris where, with other friends, he meets the body, then onto America to meet the family and attend the funeral. Part of him dies. Back in London he goes on a bender with an old mate, Jago, who is both a crack head and a smack addict.
  9. Sierra Leone, May 2001 – A year after Kurt’s death Loyd embarks on a personal quest to track down the RUF unit responsible for his death. I can see it meant a lot to him, but what struck me was his description of hot humid West Africa, the disgusting atrocities carried out by the RUF, and the terrifying volatility and unpredictability of the warlords he meets on his quest. Poro initiation ceremonies which involve scarring and magic and can stretch to cutting the heart out of a living victim and eating it raw (p.155). Politically, Sierra Leone is important because the UN’s entire role as a peacekeeping force was being called into question by the rebel successes. During a ceasefire he is invited by Nigerian peacekeepers to an RUF party given to celebrate 20 years since Bob Marley’s death (p.157).
  10. Sierra Leone – Loyd’s efforts to reconstruct the events leading up to Kurt’s killing in the ambush, going deep into rebel territory to interview RUF officers, and visiting the scene and actually getting into the rusting wreckage of the Mercedes Kurt was travelling in. On one journey the very bad driver he’s been lumbered with crashes the car after a tyre blows.
  11. Sierra Leone – vivid description of aftermath of the crash (the car spun over and lost its roof) and his attempts to save the life of his translator, Allieu, who dies anyway. Locals call the nearest Nigerian UN forces. He is helicoptered back to town. Still recovering from bad cuts and grazes Loyd soldiers on with his quest for Kurt’s killers…
  12. France, summer 2001 – Loyd’s step-father owned a converted stable in rural France. When he sold it Loyd bought it and it became a refuge and sanctuary (p.187). He invokes boyhood memories of fishing. He has barbecues with local mates. 10 September 2001 his manager in London phones to tell him Ahmed Shah Masood has been assassinated, which leads into anecdotes about meeting Masood a few years previously, interviewing him, following him round the front line. Masood was leader of the Northern Alliance of mujahedin who are in a civil war with the Taliban. Back in the present, next day his mum phones to tell him about the 9/11 attacks.
  13. Afghanistan, September 2001 – Profile of Afghanistan, ruined, impoverished land of endless war, from the Soviet invasion of 1979 onwards. With a good friend and colleague, Shay, he shares a bone-rattling ride north from Kabul to the front line. Lots of insightful explanations of Afghanistan’s history, wars, ruined economy, national character, the overwhelming role of Islam, the ubiquity of strong hashish (p.208). When, according to their values of hospitality and honour (p.204) the Taliban refuse to give up their guest, Osama bin Laden, after the 9/11 attacks, the American government decides to overthrow them. Loyd arrives just as the American campaign is girding its loins and finds the Northern Alliance upset at the death of their leader (Masood) but confident of American support. Complete scepticism about the bullshit spouted by Western military experts crapping on about precision strikes and drone warfare and other bullshit (p.207). In a bizarre digression, on their journey Loyd and Shay are invited to join the crowd witnessing the circumcision of a 7-year-old boy (p.211).
  14. Afghanistan – Being shown round the dusty front line by Sher Agah. A night time firefight. Description of the Hazara as a distinct ethnic group. A visit to Bagram airport. Extensive description of the Afghan ability to switch sides with ease, really interesting insight into the base level survival tactics of most impoverished, beaten down Afghans.
  15. Afghanistan – When some American special forces arrive Shay and Loyd are kicked out of their crib and find another place to stay in a derelict hotel without electricity or toilet in Golbahar. Their perilous consumption of the local moonshine. The stomach-turning story of Karimullah, a 26-year-old who fights against the Taliban, is captured, has his foot and hand surgically removed in the football stadium (p.244). His luxury was visits to an amateur hamam or Turkish bath. Explanation of the exchange value of enemy prisoners or corpses. A telling evening hosted by local businessman and warlord Fahrid Ahmad Shafaq, who can see that Afghanistan needs development but worries that the Americans might be waging a war against Islam? Are they, he asks Loyd.
  16. Afghanistan – After months of hanging round, Loyd describes the Northern Alliance assault on the Taliban lines, break through and advance on Kabul which is captured on 13 November 2001. Firefights, the newly dead and the bleeding-to-death. Some journalist friends are murdered by bandits. But once he’s in the city he realises he’s tired, exhausted, demoralised. Taliban leaders and Osama bin Laden escaped into the Tora Bora mountains, to the Americans’ dismay. After a shave at a newly liberated barbers’ (with some sociology about the importance of the beard in fundamentalist Islam) he takes a ludicrously derelict chopper flight to neighbouring Tajikistan, and so home.
  17. Iraq, March 2003 – 16 months later he is in northern Iraq. The Allies have assembled a huge force in Kuwait and are on the brink of invading to overthrow Saddam. Most reporters have based themselves there, ’embedded with the troops’. Loyd takes the conscious decision to go to the north of the country, entering Kurdish-held territory from Iran and hoping to catch a lift with the American forces which will come down through Turkey, into Kurdistan and sweep on to Baghdad. He is uneasily aware that his mother and sister, scions of a military family, both went on the million-people march against the war in Iraq. He doesn’t touch on the farce of the UN searches for weapons of mass destruction, but instead on his own personal farce. He has come back to Iraq 13 years after taking part in Operation Desert Storm and leaving frustrated that he saw no fighting, hoping for closure and completion, hoping that after over ten years of chasing wars he will experience some kind of revelation. But the Turkish government blocks the Americans from sending any men or equipment through Turkey and the northern offensive is delayed while in the south the Allied forces storm through the Iraqis. In the end, with the help of a small force of Green Berets calling down air attacks, the peshmerga (Kurdish militias) break through successive Iraqi lines and fight their way south, taking the talismanic city of Kirkuk. Baghdad has fallen and he missed it. He experiences no closure after all, and takes a taxi back into Iran, then a plane back to London, in the ‘identical’ state of frustration as when he first left Iraq, back in ’91.

Epilogue: Baghdad, spring 2004

A year or so after the setting of the final chapter, Loyd is now back in Baghdad, in a hotel bedroom. The insurgency is bedded in, the Americans have withdrawn to a heavily fortified compound, and Loyd is finally here, where he fantasised of being all those years ago during Desert Storm. Big deal.

In fact the epilogue turns out to be entirely about his beloved mother’s diagnosis with a brain tumour, loss of sight in one eye leading her to wear a piratical eye patch, her stoic strength of spirit described in Loyd’s best hero worshiping style and clichés come tumbling out:

Defeat was not an option as we geared ourselves for the coming treatment, but my heart was afflicted by naked dread masked by desperate resolve… (p.300)

He was covering the trial of Slobodan Milošević when his sister rang him to say his mother had collapsed and been rushed to hospital. By his mother’s hospital bed he is awed when she asks to be taken home to die, despite being told that such a move will hasten her demise. Here, a chastened Loyd realises, is the bravery he had spent his life seeking: not on some foreign battlefield but in the heart of his indomitable mother. She dies as Loyd and his sister hold her hand. She is buried on a beautiful winter’s day with the whole village turning out to see her off.

You can read this as either a really beautiful and moving tribute or a pack of high-minded clichés or, as I do, both at the same time, the one inhabiting the other.

Clichés

It’s tempting to analyse Loyd’s style at length. It can be very florid and purple, hyper-real Sunday supplement prose, burnishing every situation, every thought with gloss and sheen.

He is hyper-aware of the risk of cliché in writing about a) war, b) heroin addiction, c) his unhappy family – all subjects which have been done to death for generations.

Regarding war, as early as page 5 Loyd describes how the American marines nervously patrolling the backstreets of al Anbar, expecting an ambush at any moment, invoke folk memories of the Vietnam War and scenes from Apocalypse Now, a war that was over and a movie that was released before they were even born. The point is they all feel like they’re experiencing the war through the filter of someone else’s tropes and patterns.

Some barely out of college and experiencing their first foreign country, many of the younger American soldiers in Iraq were living in their own war films, life and art enmeshing in a freakish coupling to a contemporary soundtrack of thrash metal and gangsta rap… (p.5)

So it’s hard to avoid cliché when you and the people you’re reporting on all feel as if they’re living in a huge cliché, when reality itself seems to be made up of well-worn tropes. Loyd repeatedly raises the issue. When analysing his general unhappiness, he says:

Even the rages that sprang forward so easily from memories of my father seemed too trite, too convenient, too clichéd, to weave into a noose from which to hang heroin. (p.63)

A sentence which is also an example of his use of florid and elaborate metaphor. A little later he is writing about the motivation of war correspondents and says:

‘Death wish’ is a tired old cliché – simplistic, absolute and inept in describing our motivations. (p.75)

But it’s a risky strategy to highlight your aversion to clichés unless you can be quite certain that you will avoid them and, in the kind of stereotyped situations in which he finds himself, and much-described battlezone feelings he finds himself experiencing, this is very difficult.

Starting out in London, talking of his fellow drug addicts at the West London rehab centre, he writes:

A few had been crushed by such cruel hands of fate that I wondered how they had any alternative… (p.55)

‘Cruel hands of fate’? On the same page he talks about his gang of London friends:

Hardcore libertines, we thought we were cool and beautiful and turned on. (p.55)

Not so much a cliché of phrasing as of thinking. Sunday supplement thinking. When he describes his little cohort of friends they are all tall and beautiful and successful. You can virtually see the Sunday supplement photos.

Elsewhere, you consistently come across phrases describing stereotypes which boost the text, make it seem more hyper-real, idealised, airbrushed to a kind of generic perfection.

My sister Natasha, younger than me by four years, a woman of flint-like resolve beneath a gentle exterior… (p.58)

Later, in Kosovo, when NATO commences its bombing campaign, Loyd and all his fellow correspondents immediately become liable for arrest or worse:

From that moment on, our fate hung above the cauldron of harm on the frayed thread of the night’s few sleepless hours and Beba’s word. (p.91)

OK, that’s not a cliché as such, but it is a typical example of his purple prose. ‘Our fate hung above the cauldron of harm…’ Loyd’s prose, in other words, is very much not Hemingway minimalist, it’s the opposite; full of florid metaphors and similes, which, along with the clichés and stereotypes give the whole thing a super-real vividness. There’s a kind of continual psychological over-writing at work. When an American army chaplain shares his disillusion, Loyd remarks:

Once, I may have privately sneered at his predicament, for the crushing of another’s hope can be cruel sport to behold from the pedestal of nihilist certainty. (p.5)

Is this too purple and engorged? For frugal tastes, maybe. Then again, considering the extremes of experience which he is describing, maybe it’s a perfectly valid approach.

The few phrases I’ve picked out are fragments of Loyd’s overall strategy, which is to push language into baroque shapes and see what happens, to create a new idiolect. It’s easy to pick holes in, but the overall impression is of tremendous readability and enjoyability. He risks using odd words or words in odd combinations to capture moments and perceptions and often achieves brilliant effects. No risk, no reward.

Almost every conversation seemed to snag on this issue of money, a moment always marked by a pause, that tilting second of challenged pride or grace… (p.235)

In the buildup to the mujahedin attack on the Taliban lines, the fighters go about their preparations, loading up lorries, fuelling tanks and so on with no attempt at concealment.

As this readiness for war progressed with the same flagrant labour of a medieval siege… (p.255)

And leads him to deploy obscure, recherché terms. In a vivid account of battle of running through a minefield towards the Taliban lines, he writes:

Gunfire crackled. More shouts. More mujahedin piling into cover, wild-eyed, revved up, faces contorted, fervorous. (p.261)

Like a stone dropped in the pond of your mind. Nice. Reflecting on what he’d hoped to find back in 1991, during Operation Desert Storm, he writes:

Epiphany? It is an arrogant word of claim, suggesting more completion than the human state is capable of. (p.11)

‘An arrogant word of claim’, what an odd but evocative phrase.

Late in the book I noticed a particular mannerism which contributes to his creation of idiolect, which is omitting particles i.e ‘a’ and ‘the’. At one point he mentions the poet W.H. Auden and this omitting articles was one of the tricks of Auden’s early poetry. It creates an ominous sense of uncertainty, an uncertainty whether we’re dealing with a specific or general noun.

I had once asked Kurt what made him weep, supposing perhaps that his self-possession would have held him back from such release. (p.220)

I’d expect ‘such a release’ there, wouldn’t you? The choice of ‘weep’ instead of the more everyday ‘cry’ is already lending the sentence that super-real, idealised, airbrushed glamour I’ve described.

Yet loss had often rewarded me with some surprise and unexpected gift. (p.221)

‘Unexpected gift’ sounds like Auden to me. ‘Unexpected gifts‘ would be far more mundane. ‘Unexpected gift’ makes it sound mythical, like something from the age of legends. Describing the intensification of American air attacks on Taliban lines:

No longer the coy hit-and-run affairs of night, now attack jets and bombers appeared by day, in flagrant and riveting spectacle that had the locals gathered in audience on their flat rooftops.’ (p.222)

You’d expect it to be ‘in a flagrant and riveting spectacle’. See how removing that article (‘a’) makes it more archaical and momentous. Same with ‘gathered in audience’, an unusual way of phrasing it. Talking of Kosavar cigarettes:

A dollar for twenty, they were the best local tobacco available, their acrid, woody smoke affording great sense of luxury. (p.241)

Where’s the ‘a’? Interviewing local Afghan warlord, Fahrid Ahmad Shafaq:

After admiring the three herons wandering through his garden – as well as flowers, ornamental birds are a source of endless fascination to Afghans – we sat on the baked mud floor to enjoy a lengthy feast of chicken, rice and watermelon and debated the war in lively exchange. (p.25)

Another missing ‘a’ lends the phrase a strange archaic quality, matching the archaic medieval feel of so much of Afghan society.

I hope these examples demonstrate the way Loyd develops a prose style which adds a kind of pregnant meaning to so much of what he sees or feels, lending everything a legendary grandeur. This isn’t a criticism. I’m trying to understand the elements of his style which enable 1) the searing content of many of his descriptions and 2) his extremely acute insights into the geopolitical situations of the wars he’s covering, and which make the book such an enjoyable and sumptuous read.


Credit

Another Bloody Love Letter by Anthony Loyd was published by Headline Review in 2007. All references are to the 2007 paperback edition.

Related reviews

A Savage War of Peace by Alistair Horne (1977)

The Algerian War was the long brutal conflict between the National Liberation Front (the Front de Libération Nationale or F.L.N.) fighting for Algerian independence from the French Empire, and the French Army tasked with repressing it.

The war lasted from 1954 to 1962. It brought down six French governments, led to the collapse of the French Fourth Republic and eventually forced General de Gaulle out of retirement to become President in 1958, solely in order to sort out a peace deal. As the violence committed by both the FLN and the army increased, as international opinion turned against the French, and as the Soviet bloc became friendlier with the Algerian revolutionaries, de Gaulle found himself reluctantly pushed towards the only logical solution – that France withdrew and granted Algeria its independence.

This was so unpopular among the 500,000 or so troops which France had by this time deployed to Algeria, and who had been fighting and dying in often inhospitable environments (the arid desert, the freezing mountains) that it prompted a military coup by the generals in Algeria. This collapsed in just four days, but the rebellion helped bring together a number of mid-ranking soldiers and psychopaths into an anti-de Gaulle, anti-independence paramilitary which called itself the Organisation armée secrète or O.A.S.

These (and other freelancers) planned and attempted some thirty (!) assassination attempts against de Gaulle as well as an escalating campaign of murder and terrorist outrages against liberal French in Algeria, against writers and thinkers in Paris (they bombed Jean-Paul Sartre’s flat and the homes of newspaper editors) as well as attacking Muslim bars, shops, schools, colleges and so on. IN February 1962 they killed over 550 people. The F.L.N. responded with their own tit-for-tat terrorist outrages. In March F.L.N. activists broke into the home of a pied noir nightwatchman, disembowelled his wife and smashed the heads of his two children, aged 5 and 6, against the wall (p.526). This book is packed with stories like that. Every day in Algiers was marked by the sound of explosions and gunfire.

Meanwhile, in the spring of 1962 secret talks began between de Gaulle’s emissaries and F.L.N. representatives at a secret location in the Swiss border. Horne’s book – brilliant in every aspect – shows how right down to the wire the F.L.N. representatives refused to budge on the purity of their demands for complete independence and control of all Algeria’s territory (shrugging aside attempts by France to hang on to her naval bases or the vast areas of the Sahara to the south of the Atlas mountains where, ironically, in the last few years of French rule vast reserves of oil and even more of natural gas had been discovered). A peace treaty granting Algeria independence was signed in March 1962.

Brutality

Official French figures tally up to about 300,000 Algerians who lost their lives in the fighting, but even more in the terrorism and as victims of the extensive intra-Muslim fighting and vendettas. The Algerian state settled on the round number of one million Muslims and sticks to it to this day.

The F.L.N. used terrorist tactics, planting bombs, using drive-by shootings and chucking hand grenades into European cafes, bars etc, but mostly they set themselves to murder Algerians who had sold out to the French authorities e.g. native village constables and local caids, cutting off noses or lips as a first warning, slitting the throats of any ‘traitors’ who remained loyal to the French regime. The French efforts became steadily more indiscriminate, arresting all political suspects in the towns, bombing entire villages and, at the scenes of brutal murders of Europeans, running wild and shooting every Muslim in sight. All of which, of course, helped recruitment to the rebels.

Both sides used torture although the F.L.N. routinely used barbaric bloodthirstiness: on August 20, 1955 about 80 guerrillas descended on the town of Philippeville and went from house to house massacring all Europeans. Mothers were found with their throats slit and their bellies cut open by bill-hooks, babies had their brains beaten out against the walls. One women had her belly cut open and the corpse of her young baby – cut to ribbons by knives – stuffed back inside her (p.121). When French paratroopers arrived on the scene some hours later they went mad and machine gunned every Muslim in sight.

In this respect F.L.N. tactics worked: the native population was terrorised into abandoning the French and giving the guerrillas help; the atrocities sparked the French into harsh reprisals which further alienated both peasant and educated opinion. The F.L.N. strategy was to militarise the conflict and the whole country, and it worked.

The advent of the O.A.S. in the final period of the war raised the levels of wanton brutality to revolting new heights, as French fanatical right-wingers launched attacks in mainland France and in Paris. The French Secret Service attempts to penetrate the O.A.S. were eventually successful in rounding up the O.A.S. leaders but, ironically, this only increased the level of murder and terrorism because the psychopathic ordinary members were now headless and unchecked.

In another level of irony (and what is history except irony written in blood), Horne shows how the O.A.S. – fighting to keep Algeria French – probably did more than any other group to ensure Algeria became independent.

Their aim was to create such chaos that it would lead to the overthrow of de Gaulle the traitor and then… and then… something good would happen (like the coup plotters, they had no grasp of politics). But their way to achieve this chaos was through random outrages, mostly against moderate and educated Muslims – and this had the effect, in the final year of the conflict, of driving a huge wedge between the communities. And this had toe effect of destroying forever any hope that the pieds noirs would be able to live side-by-side in harmony with their Muslim neighbours.

Divisions on both sides

War suggests two monolithic sides, but in fact both ‘sides’ were deeply divided and riven by factions. Ever since the French Revolution back in the 1790s, the French political nation has been bitterly divided between a revolutionary Left and an authoritarian Catholic Right, with all kinds of ineffective liberals ranged in between. After the Second World War, France also had to contend with a large and powerful Stalinist Communist Party. This contributed to the chronic problem with French politics – its instability: there were no fewer than 21 different governments between 1945 and 1958! It was, thus, very difficult for ‘the French’ to formulate and stick to one policy.

On the other side, Horne explains the political situation at the start of the war among the Algerians: there was a communist party, a Muslim fundamentalist party, and a Liberal party representing the so-called évolués i.e. educated Algerians who were progressing along the state-approved path towards full ‘French-hood’.

All of these found themselves outflanked and outmoded by the violence and determination of the F.L.N. But there were also big divisions ethnically and culturally among the Algerians, and within the F.L.N. itself. For a start there were gulfs between the minority of urban, educated, literate Algerians and the majority of the nine million population which were illiterate peasants. Also between ethnic groups in Algeria, for a large percentage of the population were (and are) Kabyle, descended from the original Berber tribal occupants of the country who had their own language, culture and traditions and not all of whom were Muslim. Horne shows how the Kabyle-Arab divide was a permanent problem of the F.L.N. leadership and on the ground led to some appalling massacres perpetrated by each side.

A glaring example was the Massacre of Melouza, in late May early June, 1957, when FLN rebels massacred 300 Muslim inhabitants of the Melouza village because they supported the rival rebel group M.N.A. To be precise the F.L.N. rounded up every male over the age of fifteen, herded them into houses and the mosque and slaughtered them like animals with rifles, pick axes and knives (p.221).

There was also a long-burning division between the ‘insiders’, who stayed in the country to lead the armed struggle, and a cohort of ‘outsiders’ who a) acted as ambassadors, seeking political and financial support from other Arab states – especially Nasser’s nationalist Egypt and b) worked tirelessly at the United Nations in New York to lobby the Cold War blocs and the rising non-aligned movement to support the struggle.

As in every other aspect of this masterful book, Horne gives a thorough and insightful account of the changing personnel, changing relationships and evolving success of each of these factions.

Obstacles to a settlement

The successive French governments had a dual prong strategy: to completely suppress the armed revolt through military means, while simultaneously implementing ‘reforms’ to try and win over the majority of the population. These were stymied for a number of reasons.

  1. Too little, too late The government sent Liberal Jacques Soustelle as Governor-General of Algeria in 1955 to devise a reform package. He introduced the concept of ‘integration’, not altogether easy to distinguish from the previous policy of ‘assimilation’. He aimed to improve the crushing poverty and unemployment in which most rural Algerians lived. He declared he would make Arabic an obligatory language in Muslim schools, train peasants in modern agriculture, eliminate inequities in education alongside the creation of other public works. But the rebellion had already started and, as atrocity followed atrocity, Soustelle found his rational, sensible plans becoming irrelevant in the sea of blood.
  2. The pieds noirs Pieds noirs is French for ‘black feet’. It’s a slang expression the metropolitan (or mainland) French invented for the French who had settled in Algeria. In actual fact, a large proportion of the European settlers in Algeria were from Italy, Spain and other countries. But they all thought of themselves as 100% French and were led by some powerful men who owned huge businesses, rich from shipping, agriculture, vineyards, housing and so on. There were nearly a million pieds noirs and they dominated the Algerian Assembly. In theory Muslims could be elected to this, but in practice, through a system of double elections designed to prevent Muslims being elected, only a small number of Algerians were representatives, despite the natives outnumbering the settlers by about 9 to 1. Anyway, unlike the French government and Liberal opinion, pieds noirs sentiment was solid and consistent: it was anti any kind of further power or representation for Algerians, it wanted the war pursued with maximum aggression, it was against independence in any shape or form. Early on it held riots against ministers sent over from France and realised that it, too, could mobilise the street and threaten violence to foil any attempts at concession.
  3. Algeria was French The strangest element, the most fateful, tragic aspect of the whole bloody tragedy, was that the French government of 1848 made the fateful declaration that Algeria was an integral part of France, as much a part as Brittany or the Dordogne. At least Morocco and Tunisia to the west and east of it had only been French protectorates and so they could, relatively easily, be given their independence – both in 1956. (An unintended consequence was that F.L.N. fighters could use both countries as refuges and arms bases.) But French politicians were lumbered with the fateful situation that Algeria was legally – and all the pieds noirs took this absolutely literally – part of France and so could not be given independence because it was not legally or culturally perceived as a separate entity.

Thus for the French it was not a question of granting a colony independence: it was a case of losing part of France itself. This, to any outsider, is quite obviously insane and part of the experience of reading this long book is to be soaked in the ongoing insanity of the entire French political class. Looked at in this way, the F.L.N. struggle can be seen as the brutal attempt to make the French realise and admit that Algeria was a nation in its own right.

Indo-China and Algeria – one long war

If the year 1954 rings a bell it’s because that was the year the French Army lost the Battle of Dien Bien Phu and, as a result, began to withdraw from Vietnam (see my reviews of two classics on the subject, The Last Valley by Martin Windrow  and Embers of War by Frederik Logevall). The massive French base at Dien Bien Phu was overrun in May 1954 and the rebellion in Algeria began in November 1954. In fact Horne shows that the founding meeting of the umbrella group of revolutionary parties that formed the F.L.N. actually took place on the very day that news of Dien Bien Phu reached Algeria. Many of the same military units who had just been repatriated from Vietnam found themselves being sent on to North Africa to fight another insurgency.

Thus, although on opposite sides of the globe, the wars in Indochina and in Algeria can be seen as aspects of the same struggle of native peoples to free themselves from French rule. Taken together they meant that France was engaged in serious colonial wars from 1945 to 1962. Long time, isn’t it? A long time that it could have been devoting its money and energy to rebuilding its war-torn society back home. And, if it had agreed negotiated independence for both countries, how many lives would have been saved, and what a good reputation France would have enjoyed within those countries and around the world. It makes Britain’s withdrawal from India and Pakistan, though flawed, look like the wisdom of Solomon.

The French military record

In the 1950s the French Army had to look back 150 years, to the heyday of Napoleon, to be really sure of major military victories which they won by themselves.

Napoleon’s army had been finally, definitively, defeated at Waterloo in 1815. The conquest of Third World Algeria began promisingly in 1830, but the French faced stiffer opposition than they expected and the conquest dragged on for over 15 years. It’s true the French won the Crimean War (1853-56) but only  in alliance with the British, only just, and only after establishing a reputation for caution and delay and after losing huge numbers of troops to illness. A few years later the military suffered a humiliation when their attempt to install a Francophone Emperor in Mexico failed and the puppet Emperor was executed in 1867.

But none of this compared with the seismically crushing military defeat in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. After the Prussians had finished occupying and looting Paris, the city descended into a super-violent civil war as leftists declared a Commune and the French Army was sent in to defeat and annihilate them. The military defeat of the war and the deployment of Frenchmen to kill Frenchmen left a poisonous legacy which lasted a generation.

A generation later the French Army was the epicentre of the Dreyfus Affair which from 1894 to 1906 tore the country (again) into violently opposing factions either supporting or reviling a certain Captain Dreyfus, who was (wrongly) alleged to have sold military secrets to the Prussians. When he was, finally, exonerated, almost the entire army hierarchy looked like frauds and incompetents.

The French would have lost the Great War if the British Expeditionary Force had not helped to hold the line on the Marne in 1914. After three years of butchery, in 1917 the French Army was dishonoured to suffer widespread mutinies (the British didn’t).

Between the wars France was so divided that many thought the street riots which erupted across Paris in 1934 were the beginning of a civil war. The profound divisions between left, right and liberals encouraged the spirit of wholesale defeatism which led to the speedy French capitulation against invading Nazi Germany in 1940 (‘better the Germans than the reds’, was the cry of conservatives across the country).

France was finally liberated in 1945, with a large contribution from the British but mainly from the overwhelming might of the Americans, scores of thousands of whom died to liberate la patrie. Immediately, the French roared back into arrogant World Power mode and, in Indo-China, instead of taking Vietnamese nationalists seriously, spurned all talks and decided to beat them militarily (the tragic story so brilliantly told in Frederick Logevall’s Embers of War) to restore France’s gloire and grandeur and prestige around the world (it is telling that even in English, we use French words for these ideas).

The eight-year struggle to hang on to Indo-China climaxed in the international humiliation of defeat at Dien Bien Phu, when the French army’s heavily-defended citadel was crushed by the third world army of General Giap, leading the French Army and civilian administration to pack up and leave Vietnam.

(Some of the many, many soldiers, statesmen, civilians and eye witnesses quoted in this long book start the long track of France’s humiliations earlier, with the massive failure of the Seven Years War back in the 1760s, in which King Louis XV’s lack of financial and military commitment led the French to lose both Canada and India to the British Empire. Reflecting on this during the days it took to read this book, a simpler theory came to mind: in the Seven Years War Louis sacrificed the foreign colonies because his main focus was on maintaining France as the pre-eminent military power on the Continent, as his father had and as Napoleon would do. If we take this as the central aim of French foreign policy – to maintain French pre-eminence on the continent – then it was doomed to failure when it met the unstoppable rise of Prussia and Germany from the 1850s onwards. It took three bitter wars between the nations – in 1870, 1914 and 1940 – to prove beyond any doubt that Germany was (and remains) the top power in Europe. So a) France had wasted all those years, men and money in a project which turned out to be futile – while b) all the time their bitter rivals the British were by and large ignoring continental squabbles to focus on expanding their vast maritime empire).

Thus, at their elite academies (e.g. the famous École spéciale militaire de Saint-Cyr) each new generation of French officers was brought up on an unremitting diet of gloire and grandeur but had, embarrassingly, to look all the way back to the great battles of Napoleon 150 years earlier, to find the last real military victories, the last time the French had really won anything. The French were very aware that in the Great War (arguably) and in the Second War (definitely) its success was on the coat tails of the British and the Americans.

This long history of defeat and humiliation helps to explain the special bitterness and acrimoniousness of France’s relations with her colonies post-1945. She didn’t want to be humiliated yet again. According to the French historian, Raymond Aron:

that deep ingrained sense of past humiliations had to be exorcised. (p.331)

And yet, with bleak irony, it was the very doggedness with which she hung on in Indo-China and in Algeria that ended up guaranteeing the political and military humiliations she was striving so hard to avoid.

It’s important to grasp this sense of inferiority and grievance and bloody determination because it helps to explain the fundamental irrationality of the French military ending up declaring war on their own government, trying to assassinate the French head of state, taking France to the brink of civil war, and why a hard core of ‘ultras’ formed the O.A.S. which set out on a policy of murdering their fellow Frenchmen.

Suez

Horne pithily calls the Suez invasion ‘the shortest war in history and possibly the silliest’. (p.163). I hadn’t previously understood its connection with Algeria. The French were convinced that Nasser (leader of Egypt) was supplying the F.L.N. with arms and munitions (they and everyone else were given that impression by the fiery pan-Arab messages coming over on Radio Cairo). In fact, Nasser and the other Arabs were notably unhelpful in the early part of the war, refusing to supply the rebels anything – but the French didn’t know that. Thus when Nasser nationalised the Suez Canal in 1956 – two years into the Algerian crisis – the French seized the opportunity to strike a blow against the (supposed) supplier of their enemy in Algeria. The Israelis already wanted to strike a blow against the strongest Arab state and both countries leaned on the British to get involved.

The Suez Crisis is remembered because only a day or so into the joint Israeli-French-British assault on the canal zone the Russians began to make loud warning noises and President Eisenhower threatened to ruin the British economy by selling the U.S. government’s sterling bonds unless the Brits desisted. British forces were stopped in their tracks and British political leaders, the army, informed public opinion, all realised – with a never-to-be-forgotten jolt – that it marked the end of Britain’s role as a Global Power.

Growing up in the 1970s and 80s my generation accepted all of this as a given and now, 60 years later, it seems like ancient history. But it is just one more of the many insights this wonderful book throws up, to revisit it from the Algerian perspective.

Scale

The Algerian War is important in its own right, as the largest and bloodiest of all decolonising wars. You occasionally read about:

  • Britain’s heavy-handed response to the Mau Mau rebellion in Kenya, but that eight-year conflict resulted in some 12,000 Kenyan dead (mostly killed by fellow Kenyans) and only 200 settlers dead.
  • The Malayan Emergency, when Chinese communists led an insurgency against British imperial forces over a 12-year period from 1948 to 1960, led to a total of about 2,000 Malay and British police and army killed, and some 6,000 communist insurgents dead.
  • The crisis in British-held Cyprus in the later 1950s which resulted in some 600 dead.

Together with other small conflicts, these ’emergencies’ and insurgencies routinely appeared on the front pages British newspapers during the 1950s, but they are quoted here to compare and contrast with the awesome scale and enormous casualties and the huge political turmoil of the Algerian War. It was a completely different order of magnitude and the sheer number of bombings and atrocities is impossible to imagine. In some months there were over 1,000 incidents, over thirty every day. At the peak of O.A.S. activities they would set off 20 or 30 plastic explosive devices every day. In all, the French authorities recorded some 42,090 acts of terrorism.

Horne’s book is long and immaculately detailed, giving a riveting military history of the entire conflict, peppered with accounts of just enough of the atrocities to make you feel continually sick, and tense at the scale of what was at stake. It is like one of the most gripping novels ever written.

Long-term

The Algerian War turned out to be a testing ground for the kind of urban terrorism which has become so common in the 21st century, a pioneer of the strategy of attacking ‘soft’ civilian targets – nightclubs and pop concerts – in order to militarise and polarise society: the worse the atrocity, the greater the success in creating the battle lines.

The only response to this kind of terrorism-to-divide is not to rise to the bait and not to let society become polarised. But the best way to prevent it is not to allow injustice and grievance to build up to such a pitch in the first place, by giving all parts of society a voice, a say, and by having mechanisms through which to confront and solve grievances.

The war was also a template for the kind of asymmetric warfare in a Muslim country between a Western-style army and irregular militia and terrorist units, which has also become common in the 21st century – Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria. The cover has a blurb from Thomas E. Ricks, author of Fiasco – the damning account of America’s 2003 invasion of Iraq – which says this book has become compulsory reading for all U.S. military officers and counterinsurgency specialists, and Horne himself draws direct parallels with the Iraq invasion in his preface to the 2006 edition.

The war was such a long and convoluted conflict, with so many aspects, that it also contains examples of a whole range of political problems. In fact, it could almost be read as a sort of compendium of classic problems of statecraft.

  • How not to colonise a country and how not to ruinously hang on to it long after the time to go has come.
  • How not to stage a military coup, something the generals in fact attempted twice, failing both times.
  • How to return to a divided nation as a saviour, how to be all things to all men, and then how to steer a perilous course through violently opposing factions – as de Gaulle did.
  • How not to try and assassinate a head of state.
  • How to penetrate urban guerrilla organisations – Horne’s account of how the French penetrated the undercover F.L.N. network during the Battle of Algiers is brilliant.
  • Just as insightful, and impressive, is the account of how General Maurice Challe in 1959 instituted a whole new method to tackle attacks by smallish groups in remote desert areas – by using radio to call in helicopters carrying reinforcements to surround the armed bands, and by not giving up the chase or hunt until each one had been exterminated. Challe’s approach was showing real results, clearing entire areas of nationalists and reducing attacks, when his operation was overtaken by political developments and he was replaced by a general who never completed the process.
  • Building a wall. Like the Israelis were later to do, and Donald Trump threatens to do in our time, the French built a wall against their enemies. In their case it was an electrified fence stretching along 320 kilometres of Algeria’s border with Tunisia, the so-called Morice Line, because Tunisia in particular was a major bolthole for F.L.N. operatives, guns and money. The Morice Line formed a barbed-wire barrier lined with minefields and a sophisticated alarm system which alerted rapid response units to attempts to breach it, and who could be quickly helicoptered to the breach to intercept and kill F.L.N. fighters.
  • Urban uprisings. Both the pieds noirs and the Muslims staged mass uprisings in Algiers. The French one, starting in January 1960, was called ‘the week of barricades. Horne even-handedly shows how the pieds noirs students and activists organised it, and how the authorities tried to handle it.

There is just a whole host of war-related conflict and public order disturbances throughout the book. Not only Western armies but police forces could probably learn something about managing civil disturbance, disobedience and violent crowds.

Mass migration

The peace was signed with little agreement about the future of the pieds noirs. Seeing themselves as sold down the river, abandoned by their fatherland, and terrified of the reprisals in store once an F.L.N. government took over, the result was panic and a mass movement of people on a scale not seen since the end of the Second World War.

Over a million pieds noirs fled Algeria in a matter of weeks! There were many heart-breaking and panic-stricken scenes which Horne describes. Because of the demand on ships and planes, the pieds noirs were only allowed to take two suitcases of belongings with them. So they made bonfires of all their other goods, mementoes and belongings, then left their homes, which had often been the homes to families for many generations, abandoned to their new Arab owners. The refugees arrived in a France which was completely unprepared for them and which struggled to find homes and schools and jobs for them for many years to come.

Much worse, though, was the fate of the harkis, the native Muslims who had collaborated with the French Army and administration. Up to a quarter of a million Algerians worked with the French army, the ones who came under actual army discipline being called harkis. One of the (just) grievances of senior army figures was that the fate of the harkis wasn’t even addressed in the peace negotiations. Only about 15,000 managed to escape to France. The rest, over 200,000, were, in effect, left to the mercies of the F.L.N. which means that very many of thyem were tortured and murdered.

No-one knows for sure how many of these collaborators were murdered in the months that followed the French withdrawal in July 1962, but Horne quotes a few of the horror stories which later emerged. Hundreds were used to clear the minefields along the Morice Line by being forced to walk through them and get blown up. Many were tortured before being killed.

Army veterans were made to dig their own tombs, then swallow their decorations before being killed; they were burned alive, or castrated, or dragged behind trucks, or cut top pieces their flesh fed to the dogs. Many were out to death with their entire families, including young children. (p.537)

In some barracks French officers were ordered to take away the harki‘s weapons, promising them replacements, but then departing the next day, leaving the harkis completely unarmed and defenceless. Some French soldiers were ordered to stand impassively by while harkis were killed in front of them. As you’d expect, many French officers disobeyed orders and smuggled their Muslim comrades abroad, but nowhere near enough.

This book is absolutely packed with situations like this, cruel ironies of war and defeat, atrocities, torture and murder. 600 pages of horror – but reading it gives you an important – a vital – insight into contemporary France, into contemporary Algeria, and into contemporary conflicts between the West and Islam.

A Savage War of Peace

Sir Alistair Horne’s account was first published in 1977 and has long held the field as the definitive account, in English, of this awful conflict – although new studies have appeared throughout that period.

At 600 pages it is long, thorough and beautifully written. I’d read criticisms that it doesn’t give a proper account of the Algerian side, but there is page after page devoted to portraying and analysing the lead characters in the F.L.N. and to disentangling the hugely complex machinations both among the F.L.N. leadership, and between the F.L.N. and the other Muslim groups.

Horne quotes extensively from interviews he himself held with as many of the surviving F.L.N. leaders as he could track down. He explains in forensic detail the social, cultural, economic and political barriers put in the way of Algerians under French colonialism and the multiple unfairnesses of the French system, which led to so much poverty and grievance. When the violence gets going Horne is scrupulous in abominating the results of the terrorist attacks by all sides, and the execution of ‘traitors’ within the F.L.N. or to the civil war between Arab and Kabyle. But he accompanies these with clear-headed explanations of why each side adopted strategies of atrocity. It struck me as perfectly balanced.

Horne was a journalist in the lead-up to the war (working for the Daily Telegraph) and was in Paris researching his first book when the war broke out. He gives examples of the impact de Gaulle’s rousing speeches had on him and fellow journalists as they heard them. He was there. This gives him the invaluable advantage of being able to really convey the atmosphere and the mood, the psychology, the milieu, the feel of what is now a long-distant period.

As mentioned, Horne carried out extensive interviews with all the key players he could track down including – fascinatingly – surviving leaders of the F.L.N. and of the O.A.S. and the French coup leaders. He interviewed no fewer than five of the ex-premiers of France who governed during this stormy period. The text is littered with quotes from key players which shed invaluable light on the complex and long, long course of events. It also means he is able to give in-depth accounts by the main players of vital political and military decisions taken throughout the period.

Horne was himself a soldier who served during World War Two, and so manages to get inside the peculiar mindset of the soldiers in this war, from the foot soldiers on both sides to the higher ranks, the colonels and generals. He doesn’t view the conflict as an academic would (or as I would) as an abattoir, an unrelenting list of brutal murders and tortures – but rather as killings carried out in the name of understandable (if reprehensible) military and political strategies.

Speaking as a non-military man, as much more the liberal humanities student, from one angle the entire text – like the war – is a kind of exploration of the strange twisted notions of ‘honour’ which led men to throw hand grenades into dance halls, to assassinate schoolmasters, to slit the throats of gendarmes, to eviscerate pregnant women. You could make a list of the people – the generals and colonels – who pompously spout on about ‘honour’ and then correlate the massacres and murders committed by their troops. Something similar could maybe done to the F.L.N. who spoke about human dignity and smashed children’s heads against walls or slit open pregnant women.

I circled every mention of ‘honour’ and ‘glory’ I saw. So often they came just before or just after the description of yet more killing, bombing and knifing. Eventually I wished, as the narrator of Hemingway’s novel A Farewell To Arms does, that those old words – glory, honour, pride, dignity – could all be abolished, scrapped forever, thrown into the depths of the sea.

Horne’s style

I’m an English graduate. Words always interest me. Horne was very posh. The son of Sir Allan Horne, he was born in 1925 and sent to a series of public schools before serving in the RAF and the Coldstream Guards during the war. All things considered, it’s impressive that his prose isn’t more old-fashioned. It happily belongs to that post-war style of posh, correct English, grammatically correct but loosened up by the egalitarianism and the Americanism of the post-war years. His prose is a pleasure to read and to read aloud. As a tiny detail of this masterpiece of historical research & writing, I enjoyed the way he confidently uses rare and flavoursome words:

meridional Relating to or characteristic of the inhabitants of southern Europe, especially the South of France, in practice meaning hot-tempered

Says Jouhaud proudly [his disguise] gave him the air of ‘an austere professor, whom candidates would dread at exam time’, though, in fact, photographs reveal something resembling more the coarse features of a meridional peasant. (p.481)

contumelious – (of behaviour) scornful and insulting; insolent

[In the French National Assembly] one of Abbas’s fellow deputies had declared: ‘You showed us the way, you gave us the taste of liberty, and now when we say that we wish to be free, to be men – no more and no less – you deny us the right to take over your own formulas. You are Frenchmen, and yet you are surprised that some of us should seek independence.’ After this eloquent plea, he had been brought to order by the President of the Chamber in this contumelious fashion: ‘Monsieur Saadane, I have already reminded you that you are at the French tribune. I now invite you to speak in French there…’ (p.73)

Objurgation A harsh rebuke:

Through being in charge of the Cinquieme Bureau, with its potent functions of propaganda and psychological warfare [Colonel Jean] Gardes had a powerful weapon and he now used it unhesitatingly to further the cause of francisation – regardless of the objurgations of [Delegate-General] Delouvrier. (p.354)

The Islamic world

Horne has some blunt and simple things to say about the Islamic world. Writing in 2006 he says:

In many ways the horrors suffered in Algeria’s own civil war do read like a paradigm, a microcosm of present-day Islam’s frustrated inadequacy to meet the challenges of the modern world, the anger generated thereby finding itself directed into lashing out against the rich, successful West. (p.18)

This has not got any less true with the eruption in 2011 of the Arab Spring revolts which, in most cases, led to brutal suppression (as in Egypt) or the kind of chaotic civil war to be seen in contemporary Libya or Syria. If you include the under-reported civil war in Yemen, itself a proxy war between Saudi Arabia and Iran, and the recent ostracism of Qatar by the other Gulf states, it’s not difficult to see the entire Arab world as racked by conflicts and crises which its own political and cultural traditions don’t seem equipped to handle.

European nations themselves are fragile – until a generation ago half of Europe was part of the Soviet empire; in my lifetime Spain, Portugal and Greece were run by military dictatorships. And as Horne’s book brings out, just as I was born (in 1961) France nearly experienced a full-blown military coup which could have plunged the country into civil war. Democracy is extremely fragile, requires deep roots, requires the ability to disagree with your opponent without wanting to cut their throat.

Neo-Malthusianism

My son (19 and studying philosophy) calls me a neo-Malthusian. He means that whenever we discuss current affairs I always come back to the sheer scale of human population (and the related destruction of the natural environment). When France invaded, the population of Algeria was 1 million. When the insurrection broke out in 1954 it was 9 million. When Horne wrote his book in the mid-1970s it was 16 million. Today (2017) it is 41 million. The country is lucky enough to float on a vast reserve of natural gas which should underpin its budget for generations to come. But all across the Muslim world from Morocco to Pakistan, huge population increases have put pressure on governments to supply jobs to young men, while at the same time all those countries are reaching the limits of their agricultural and natural resources (of water, in particular).

I don’t think a ‘clash of civilisations’ is inevitable; but I do think an ever-expanding population will provide the motor for unending conflict, and this conflict will be channelled into well-worn channels of racial and religious conflict, invoking the well-worn vocabulary of grievance, victimhood and justification (this doesn’t mean just anti-western violence: the conflict between Sunni and Shia will just get worse and worse, the proxy wars between Shia Iran and Sunni Saudi will get worse; the plight of communities caught in the middle – the Kurds or the Egyptian Copts – will continue to deteriorate).

And various groups or individuals will accept the by-now traditional discourse that ‘It’s all the West’s fault’, that ‘There are no civilians; everyone is a warrior in the war against the infidel’, and so will be able to justify to themselves setting off bombs at pop concerts, driving a truck into a crowd of pedestrians, machine gunning sunbathers on a holiday beach, or storming into a popular market to stab everyone in sight.

All of these things happened during the Algerian War. And all of them are happening again. There are now five million Algerians living in France out of a total population of 67 million. Many of them descendants of the harkis who managed to flee in 1962, many are temporary migrant workers, and many are refugees from Algeria’s bloody civil war in the 1990s.

Many millions are crammed into squalid banlieus, suburbs of cheaply built high-rises and equally high unemployment, where periodic riots break out – the subject of Mathieu Kassovitz’s terrifying film, La Haine. France has been living under a state of emergency since the Bataclan attacks in November 2015. A massive deployment of troops and police was called up for the recent French elections. I shouldn’t be surprised if it becomes a permanent state of emergency. Angry Muslims are here to stay.

The Algerian War has effectively crossed the Mediterranean to France… (p.17)


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