A secret that could wreck their lives -- @LuckyStevens1 #Historical #LGBTQ #ReviewTuesday #Giveaway

Blurb

THE DUPLEX is a thrilling tale, set in 1950s L.A., of four gay friends who hatch a daring scheme to live life on their own terms, during a time of systemic governmental persecution.

Los Angeles, 1956. Shangri-La. Palm trees, swimming pools, movie stars. And if you’re gay—persecution. In a society that demands conformity and lockstep conventionality, gay people find out quickly and the hard way, how difficult, dangerous and downright terrifying it is to be different.

So, when the constant fear of arrests, evictions, job loss and ridicule become too much, four gay friends and lovers pull together to hatch an ingenious scheme designed to allow them to live freely, without harassment.

But their secret plan is not without its flaws. Internal struggles and personality conflicts conspire to make their situation harder and more life-altering than any of them could have predicted, leading to valuable and universal lessons about the high cost of blending in—or not.

Excerpt

I had just entered Eddie’s. I had been there many times before and everything seemed normal. I was there to meet my girlfriend, Dot. I like Eddie’s neighborhood feel. It kind of reminds me of back home, Brooklyn. It is a nice place since both men and women go there, giving you a little more protection, like if there seems to be a raid about to happen, they will belt out The Star-Spangled Banner over the hi-fi. When this happens, that is the signal for the men to partner up with the girls and visa-versa. Play a little Tarzan and Jane. Two times it has happened since I started going to Eddie’s and it honestly scared the hell out of me. I mean you feel like a little kid about to get a beating from your father.

Anyways, that is how come when I saw this character moving quickly toward me from the men’s room at Eddie’s that night, I did not pause but just grabbed his arm and let him lead me out. I knew this fella must be in trouble. Oh, I’ve been around, and I know about all the entrapments that go on with the boys. So anyways, this fella, nice-looking, takes my arm and I grab back right away while he tells me he needs my help. So he spins me on my heels and out the door we go, fast, but not too fast. I sneak one last look over my shoulder before we exit—nothing.

Once we are outside, we keep up the pace and he immediately takes off his jacket, bundles it up, and holds it to his gut with one arm. He takes his other arm and puts it around my waist and pulls me close.

“Say, you’re chilled to the bone. Like a big shrimp cocktail,” he says.

“Shrimp cocktails do not have bones.”

He smirked. “Yes, and you’re not in a fancy glass soaked in cocktail sauce, either. It’s what we society characters call a metaphor.”

As we walk, I look up at him since even with my heels he is still much taller than I am. He had a nice face. Then I do that thing I always do when I am around a man like him. I always wonder—I guess I can not help it—could I be with a fella like him if things were different?

“Thanks for helping me out,” he says, still looking straight ahead.

“S’okay, I know how it is. My name is Barbara.”

He looked at me for the first time and I could tell he was loosening up quickly; something I found appealing, I remember. “Beautiful name, Barbara. That’s my father’s name.”

That took me off guard and I snorted out a laugh. He smiled and told me his name was Cliff.

We should probably get off the streets I told him. “I live right around the corner.” He nodded and we disappeared off of Fountain, a right turn on Mansfield, a few apartments down and we were home.

When we entered, he scanned the room like he was looking for something. He noticed the phone and stepped toward it. “Do you mind?” he gestured.

I shook my head, no. He picked up the phone and dialed it as he looked at the back of a matchbook. “Hey, if you haven’t already started playing The National Anthem, queue it up, Sam. There’s a vice squad goon taking a nap on your men’s room floor. Poor guy must have slipped on a bar of soap or something.” Then he hung up.

Review by Lisabet Sarai

Cliff Lonigan is a fast-talking, good-looking, Devil-may-care guy who’s perfectly suited to his career in advertising. Jerry Ripley, a young lawyer just arrived from Kansas, is dazzled by the cosmopolitan variety of Los Angeles. An LA native, twenty three year old Dot Johnson teaches high school and lives with her mom. Barbara Penczecho, who hails from Brooklyn, has the distinction of being the only female lawyer in her firm. She’s tough as nails, detail-oriented, the sort of person who never runs away from a fight even if she senses she’s going to lose.

Fate throws these four together and they quickly develop strong bonds of friendship and more. Despite the difference in their personalities, they share a secret that could wreck their lives: all four are homosexual. In 1954, a man indulging in sexual activity with another male, of even the mildest sort, can easily end up in jail – or in the hospital after taking a beating from the cops. Lesbians have things a bit easier, but are still harassed and ostracized. It’s perfectly legal, and common, for employers to fire workers whom they suspect are not heterosexual. Women are even arrested for wearing men’s clothing - “masquerading” as the opposite sex.

Barbara and Dot are already a couple, hiding their relationship from their family and associates. Jerry finds himself falling for Cliff, despite their initial non-committal connection via anonymous sex in the back of a movie theater. Cliff doesn’t talk much about his feelings, but he’s pleased enough to have handsome, intelligent Jerry doting on him. The foursome goes out on “lavender dates”, pretending to be two heterosexual couples, but the fear of being unmasked makes this stressful and unsatisfying. Then Jerry has a brainstorm. He proposes that they rent a duplex – two houses that share a wall – and create a passage between the units. To the world, they’ll be two newlywed couples. Once safe inside their duplex, though, they can re-sort themselves to be with their true lovers.

The Duplex is a fantastic book that realistically captures the pain and difficulties of being gay in the fifties. The dialogue and descriptions are stellar. All four characters come alive on the page. The reader can’t help loving them – even ne’re- do-well Cliff, who turns out to be something of a cad.

At first, the clever ruse of the duplex succeeds brilliantly. The two couples have the freedom to live together and be themselves, something almost impossible to achieve in that period. Still, they can’t allow themselves to let down their guard. The neighbors are always watching. The four need to stay alert and keep their stories straight. Indeed, I felt the constant tension as the book unfolded, the fear that one of them would make a mistake and bring their home-sweet-home down around their ears like a house of cards.

In fact, it’s the psychic conflicts inherent in being queer in a mostly straight society that ultimately undermine the utopia of the duplex. The four are torn apart by the centrifugal forces of their own emotions. Still, their time together, the rare opportunity they have to experience a life they’ve chosen rather than one imposed by society, changes them all.

Looking back at that time, I can appreciate how far Western society has come. You can live openly with your same-sex partner, adopt children, in some places marry. Discrimination based on sexual orientation is prohibited, at least on paper. A larger fraction of the population has become comfortable with the notion that some people have unconventional attractions. It’s even trendy, in some places, to be gay.

There are still more than a few countries, though, where you can be imprisoned, even executed, for homosexual behavior. And in so-called enlightened countries, queer men and women are still being reviled, physically assaulted and murdered because of they’re perceived as different, sinful, “other”.

The Duplex makes this threat feel very real. Barbara, Dot, Jerry and Cliff are just trying to live their lives, to find sexual satisfaction, companionship and love. Everyone wants those things. In this novel, even when the foursome is flying high and savoring their freedom, you’re always aware of the lurking danger. They are breaking the rules; at any time, someone could discover this and make them pay the price.

This awareness helps makes The Duplex a dramatic and moving read. I recommend it highly.

About the Author

 

Lucky Stevens lives, works and plays in exotic North America. He has written three novels. He was also a finalist in a nationwide screenplay writing contest. He was inspired to write The Duplex because he wanted to tackle a subject that grappled with universal themes in a creative and exciting way.

He can be contacted in the following ways:

luckystevenswriter at gmail dot com

https://twitter.com/LuckyStevens1

https://www.facebook.com/luckystevens.writer/

https://bublish.com/author/luckystevens

Amazon Buy LInk

https://www.amazon.com/Duplex-They-Fool-Whole-City-ebook/dp/B086VTVKZT/

Amazon #1 New Release in LGBT Historical Fiction

The book is 99 cents during the tour. 

Lucky Stevens will be awarding $40 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via Rafflecopter during the tour.

 

 

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Stirring tale of the Gold Rush era -- #HistoricalRomance #Giveaway #GoldRush @ggrossenbacher

Blurb

San Francisco,1849. Despite her objections, twenty-year-old Ah Toy and her servant Chen voyage from China to San Francisco with her husband who dies on board ship. With little cash and bound feet, how is she to find employment in the Gold Rush town? Since she is the only Chinese woman there, she opens a "Lookee Shop," catering to miners who pay in gold dust to see her exotic beauty. As her notoriety grows, so does her attraction to the devoted policeman, John Clark. Yet should she put her faith in one man? Will their love survive despite her frightening encounter with Sydney Ducks, threats from rival madam Li Fan, and a tempting offer from Henry Conrad who promises her wealth and security? Armed with her mystical beliefs of the inner dragon and Goddess Mazu, Ah Toy faces much more than the journey from the ancient ways in China to the new world in America. In fact, she must find the true source of courage in a life or death struggle for her own fate, justice, and dignity. Based on page-turning accounts about the life of Ah Toy, one of San Francisco's most legendary madams.

Excerpt

After she swallowed what seemed like a rock, she found her voice. “If you knew this Mr. Painter, why did you not contact us in Guangdong?” If only her dragon would reach out its fangs to bite him.

“I tried, but even when I sent your husband the letter, I knew you would not receive it by the time you sailed. News came too late.” He twisted the brim of his cap.

“Now what do I do?” Those dragon fangs would tear off that hair on his face. Then she would feed it to the chickens.

He reached into his inner coat pocket, drew out an envelope, and held it out to her. “Here is money to get by for a month. Lodging, room and board.”

“Only a month?” She took the envelope, her hands trembling.

Painter’s patient tone grew curt. “I got you a room in Little Canton until you can get another ship’s passage home. You better leave on the next sail. Believe me, without a job you are a gone circumstance amidst all these varmints.”

“What are varmints?” she asked.

He tapped the badge clinging to his lapel. “Men with no good intent. You’ll see men who call themselves Hounds from New York who parade around town with fife and drum. Stay away from that lot. They prey on immigrants, such as your fellow Celestials and Mexicans. . . .

She took a half-step toward him. “I am strong. Willing to work.” Maybe if she said the words, they would come true. Was her dragon listening?

Review by Lisabet Sarai

An Asian woman on her own in the wild, unruly boom town of San Francisco, Ah Toy supports herself in the only manner feasible: by running a brothel. Assisted by her faithful servant and long-time friend, the eunuch Chen, she builds a prosperous new life in the young, vibrant California territory. She must use every bit of intelligence and persuasiveness she can muster to hold her own against the xenophobic white men and corrupt Chinese who control the city. Meanwhile, her deceased husband’s brother has vowed to bring her back to Guangzhou and make her his wife, even if that means kidnapping her. Ah Toy knows from dire experience that marriage is a prison for a Celestial woman. Still, when wealthy businessman Henry Conrad proposes, she’s tempted by the security such a union would offer – though her heart truly belongs to rough and ready policeman John Clark.

I live in Asia and I’m quite familiar with San Francisco, so I was eager to read Gini Grossenbacher’s historical romance, especially when I learned the main character is loosely based on an actual person. I love books that bring the past to life, letting me see, hear, smell and taste that vanished world. I want to understand how the people of the period felt, how they talked, what they believed.

Madam in Silk partially succeeds in fulfilling these desires. In some ways, Ah Toy felt very real. For the first time, I really understood how bound feet, the mark of a high-born Chinese woman, meant permanent disability. Ah Toy lives in near-constant pain. She’s forced to rely on a donkey-drawn wagon when she needs to travel any distance at all. And without slippers to cover her misshapen, broken feet, she can’t even stand.

Ah Toy’s enthusiasm for her independent life in her adopted country also rang true. With all the difficulties and uncertainty she faces as one of the only Chinese women in San Francisco, her position is far better than when she was the abused wife of a cruel Guangzhou tycoon. She is living by her wits, but is mistress of her own fate.

On the other hand, aside from the changeable weather (which definitely reminded me of my own sojourns in the city), I didn’t really get a strong sense of place from this book. I know the streets were muddy and unpaved, but I don’t know what the buildings looked like, whether there was traffic, what people wore. The ubiquitous hills of San Francisco are barely mentioned. There’s little description of Ah Toy’s “parlor house” brothel, aside from the fact that the girls met their clients downstairs then took them to bedrooms upstairs.

Indeed, the entire question of Ah Toy’s profession is treated with surprising brevity. I was rather astonished by the speed with which she agreed to purchase indentured young women to populate bawdy house, given her own experiences as her husband’s chattel. Of course, this could be plausible given the class and status differences. She might not have felt any sort of connection to the poverty stricken creatures. Once she has given the girls some instruction and set them up, we hear almost nothing about the operation of the brothel, except that it has been successful in enriching Ah Toy. I would have liked more period details – and I would have liked to know whether Ah Toy was really satisfied with her occupation as a madam.

I did appreciate the differences in attitude between Ah Toy herself and her American friends, the Daileys and the Larkins. The Western women view her profession as sinful and wicked; Ah Toy’s own perspective is much more pragmatic and distinctly Asian. This struck me as realistic and insightful. Furthermore, her exposure to Western culture has made her aware that others will view her life as shameful, even though she personally feels no shame.

Madam in Silk is not only a historical novel. It is also a romance. In this case, I felt the two genres did not meld very well. Although John Clark is appealing, even with his flaws, it was difficult for me to believe that Ah Toy would so willingly give up her independence just to be with him. I had many questions. Would she continue to operate her “parlor house”? Once she was Mrs. Clark, would her husband treat her as immoral and sullied, like her other American friends?

It’s clear that Gini Grossenbacher did extensive research for this novel, but I know from personal experience that it’s difficult to transform historical facts and events into a vibrant, compelling sense of daily life in the period of interest. I enjoyed Madam in Silk, but I also found it a disappointment in some respects. It was not exactly the all-consuming immersion in the past for which I was hoping.

About the Author

MADAM IN SILK is California teacher and editor Gini Grossenbacher’s second historical fiction novel. Her debut novel MADAM OF MY HEART garnered the 2018 IPPY silver medal for Historical Fiction; finalist in the 2018 American Fiction Awards for Historical Fiction;  honorable mention at the 2018 San Francisco Book Festival for General Fiction; and runner-up in the 2017 Hollywood Book Festival for Genre Fiction. She is also a copyeditor and leads an aspiring writers group called Elk Grove Writers and Artists, providing lessons in novel writing, memoir, poetry, and flash fiction. When she’s not writing, Gini can be found taking long walks, tending the roses in her garden, and barbecuing with her husband and beloved dog, Murphy Brown.

Amazon Buy Link

https://www.amazon.com/Madam-Silk-Gini-Grossenbacher-ebook/dp/B07VH5SXVN/

Social Media Links

www.ginigrossenbacher.com

https://www.facebook.com/ginigrossenbacherauthor/

https://twitter.com/ggrossenbacher

https://www.linkedin.com/in/ggrossenbacher/

https://www.pinterest.com/ggrossenbacher/

Gini Grossenbacher will be awarding a $10 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

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Real Vikings - #AthelingChronicles #HistoricalFiction #Review

Blurb

"The sons of Cnute are dead men." The dying words of his brother's assailant travel across the North Sea to the English Midlands.

Harald, the king's second son, receives the warning while rebuilding a hall where he hopes to farm and lead a peaceful life with Selia, his Frisian wife. But as the hall nears completion, they learn the family who lived there before them all perished in a single night of bloodshed. Could the grounds be cursed?

Now the threat of unknown enemies casts a long shadow. Should they distrust the brooding Saxon neighbor or the two weapon-bearers they hired for protection? Should they suspect either of the two women they have taken on with the other hirelings? Only their Jewish warrior friend, Ravya ben Naaman, seems above suspicion.

Excerpt

“But come, Harald.” Erral motioned to the open doors. He gave orders to a thrall to see to our horses.

Beornstan and Kipp dismounted and followed.

“May your hall be blessed,” I said, crossing the threshold. Open-shuttered windows along the two sides let in a goodly amount of light. Many folk inhabited the hall, standing, sitting, or preparing the meal. Children played, and a few elders sat watching. The robust aroma of roasting meat encouraged my stomach to rumble like thunder in the hills.

Conversation among the adults stopped at my entrance, leaving only the joyful cries of the children to fill the hall. I believe Erral must have given a meaningful and menacing look to his folk, for talk resumed as my host took me round to meet everyone. Though a few of the older men— uncles by blood or marriage— barely covered their hatred for all things Danish with the demands of hospitality, most were friendly and welcoming. Wihtlac, the brother-in-law, greeted me warmly and presented his motherless but well-fed young daughters. I met Erral’s sister and her husband, other in-laws, cousins, married and widowed aunts. The mood grew in spirit; I believe most were honored to receive a son of King Cnute— for whether loved, feared, or loathed, my father was still ruler over them— and I am sure more than one wondered if they were greeting a future king. And no one wondered more than me.

Erral ushered me toward an elder-woman who sat on a bench in a corner where there were no drafts. She wore a coarse woolen blanket like a shawl, green kirtle, and leggings. Her thin, white hair was braided and coiled tightly, crowning a wizened, tired face furrowed with creases and grooves that spoke of sun-baked toil and cold hardship. Her eyes revealed the clouded, milky-blue dullness I had beheld on others who could no longer see.

“Ealdemoder,” Erral said. His grandmother looked up at the sound of his voice. “I have brought a guest. This is Harald.”

“Your health, Ealdemoder,” I said.

“And yours, son of kings.”

I had expected her voice to be higher pitched and frayed, but she spoke in soft, measured tones, smooth like worn leather.

“Come closer.”

I dropped to one knee before her and leaned in. She reached out with a hand, found my shoulder, and followed it with her fingers until she reached my face. She felt the shape of my jaw and chin, cheekbones and brow before lowering her hand. Her touch was gentle, as if she reached across the gap between the dead and the living.

“Is it not frightful what the old and unsighted can get away with?” She laughed whole-heartedly and Erral with her.

When I realized that I had been made the brunt of a jest, I laughed as well. “I think you have a strong, pleasant face, Harald, son of Cnute. No scars yet?”

“Scars I have aplenty, Ealdemoder: I am missing a finger, there is a serpentine scar on my forearm, the mark of an arrow high on my chest, and a good-sized rent on my crown.”

“You have been busy.”

“No, my enemies have been busy.”

“Just so. Give us your hand— I’ve already had my way with your face.” The old woman’s lips formed a sly smile.

If I had not enjoyed her wit, I would have felt like fresh meat for the pot. I rested my left hand, the one with the missing finger, palm upward on her bony thigh. She explored the contours and calluses of my hand with care.

“A strong hand.” She turned it over, caressing the knuckles. “You have the love of a good woman, do you not?”

I had not expected such a turn. “My wyf, Selia— my treasure.”

“Refreshing to hear a man speak so of his wyf. Erral, too, loved his dear wyf.”

I sensed Erral’s discomfort as he shifted his stance.

“She was a fine, happy woman, my granddaughter. She died much too young, but many do. Have you met her beautiful children?” She released my hand.

“I have. They are indeed worthy of your pride.”

“Ealdemoder,” Erral said. “Supper is ready. It is time for food and drink.”

“Fine. Snatch the young man from my clutches. If he stays much longer, I’ll become wet in the loins, and that hasn’t happened in years.”

Erral and I laughed together at the old woman’s brazen humor.

“Enjoy the meal, Mother,” I said.

“And you, Harald, son of kings.”

As Erral and I made to leave, I heard her add, “Keep her safe.”

“What was that? I asked, turning.

“Your wyf,” the old woman said, her gaze set at nothing, “they will kill her, too.”

Review by Lisabet Sarai

Vikings are popular figures in the romance genre. They’re typically portrayed as the ultimate alpha males: bossy, quarrelsome, fearless, a bit gruff, with few civilized graces. More often than not, they overcome the resistance of the heroines with their sheer physicality, seasoned perhaps with some rough charm and (not infrequently) a spanking.

Although I understand the appeal of these “Viking” heroes, they’re basically indistinguishable from the billionaires, the rock stars or the Navy SEALS that populate other romance sub-genres. They’re pure fantasy, wearing a not-very-convincing historical mask.

Garth Pettersen’s Vikings, in contrast, are the real thing – and they break a lot of stereotypes. For instance, there’s the popular notion that the Vikings swept down in vicious hordes to conquer foreign lands, raping and pillaging their way across the country. In contrast, Pettersen shows us the canny alliances and necessary compromises made by Cnute, the Danish king of Engla-lond during the 11^th century. Certainly there were battles, but Cnute cemented his power by marrying the former queen of the country and promising to put her offspring on the throne.

Then there’s the supposed power differential between dominant males and subservient females in Viking romance. In the The Cold Hearth, many of the women characters have an encouraging degree of agency. They advise their sons and husbands, engage in political intrigue, even make war. In this period, women are free to choose their partners. Rape is not unknown but the law requires compensatory payments by the rapist if he is apprehended.

Harald “Harefoot”, King Cnute’s second son and the hero of The Cold Hearth, is courageous and skilled in the military arts. However, he shows none of the arrogance, ambition or volatility we’ve come to expect from the Vikings of romance. Instead, he demonstrates the qualities of a true leader: patience, fairness, generosity and a tendency to think before he acts. His most powerful motivation is his love for his wife Selia. He deplores the weaknesses of his brothers who crave the throne, but his own aspirations are more modest and reasonable – a comfortable and prosperous homestead, a beloved companion, children and peace. Alas, when you’re the son of a king, peace is difficult to come by.

Garth Pettersen manages to bring medieval England to vivid life. I don’t know much about this period. I was surprised and delighted by some of the unexpected aspects of this fascinating novel: the openness about sexual matters; the relatively egalitarian relationship between men and women; the mostly unspoken but ever-present tension between Christianity and the old gods; the degree to which society was governed by explicit laws as well as implicit customs; the multi-cultural nature of the population, which included Danes, Saxons, Normans, Jews and probably many other groups. We don’t tend to think about the language our heroes speak. When Harald and Queen Emma travel to France to confront his treacherous step-brothers, Harald can barely understand them because of linguistic differences. I thought this was brilliantly realistic.

One other aspect of the setting made a deep impression. The Cold Hearth shows us a sparsely populated world of natural abundance. Harald’s England is green and forested. Wild game is plentiful. The land is fertile and with hard work yields its bounties. Life was difficult in the early middle ages, but humans lived in harmony with the earth.

This book clearly involved extensive research. The author’s introductory notes do an excellent job placing the characters in a historical context. The Old English and Old Danish terms scattered through the text provide a sense of authenticity without being confusing. They never felt gratuitous, especially since the author provides a glossary at the start of the book.

Overall, I found reading this book a joy. I suspect that there will be a fourth book in the Atheling Chronicles, in which a reluctant Harald will briefly assume the throne. I’m putting myself on Mr. Pettersen’s mailing list so I don’t miss it.

About the Author

Garth Pettersen is a Canadian writer living in the Fraser Valley near Vancouver, BC. When he's not writing, he is riding horses or working with young disabled riders. Garth's short stories have appeared in a number of anthologies and in journals such as Blank Spaces, The Spadina Literary Review, and The Opening Line Literary 'Zine. His story River's Rising was awarded an Honourable Mention for the Short Story America 2017 Prize, and his fantasy novella River Born, was one of two runners-up for the Windsor Editions (UK) Short Fiction Prize. Garth Pettersen's historical fiction series, The Atheling Chronicles is published by Tirgearr Publishing. All three books available at most online outlets (The Swan's Road, The Dane Law, and The Cold Hearth).

Buy Links

http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Pettersen_Garth/the-cold-hearth.htm

https://www.amazon.com/Cold-Hearth-Atheling-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B084PZR3WW/

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-cold-hearth-garth-pettersen/1136409269

Social Media

Website: https://www.garthpettersen.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/writeandride/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/garpet011

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Another Face, Another Name - #HistoricalFiction #WWI #Anzacs @JanSelbourne

Image by Bruce Mewett from Pixabay

By Jan Selbourne (Guest Blogger)

In 1915, my grandfather and his brother enlisted with the Australian Imperial Forces and set sail for what so many believed would be the adventure of a lifetime. Teach the Germans a lesson and be home by Christmas. For the next three years they were involved in horrific battles on the Western Front - Amiens, Fromelles and Villiers Bretonneux to name a few. Both came home but were never the same men again.

In 2015 I joined an “Anzacs on the Western Front” tour, visiting those battlefields where my grandfather and his brother fought. Looking at the lovely towns and villages with their soft green fields, it was hard to imagine the horrors of that war until our guide held up enlarged photos of blackened, treeless wastelands torn apart by shelling and littered with bodies of men and horses. Visiting the immaculate Commonwealth War Graves and memorials, cared for by the people in the nearest towns, was humbling. Thousands of graves of young men who never came home. Particularly sad was the inscription on so many headstones - "Known Only to God". I could only assume their bodies were unrecognisable and their identity discs destroyed or buried in the mud or blown elsewhere. When our guide told us the huge numbers of deaths in each battle, it brought home the utter waste of that war and how awful the task would have been identifying and recording deaths and injuries on their service records.

After the tour ended, I got to wondering if it was possible for a soldier to swap identity discs with another who had been killed in battle. In those days, war service records were hand-written with a basic description of the soldier - name, address, marital status, religion, date of birth, place of birth, nationality, height, weight and colouring. Curiosity grew to a real need to know because I was sure it would have happened - a soldier suffering shock and wanting to escape or desperate to make a new life somewhere else. As a historical fiction author, I believe we must research the era of our story to provide an authentic as possible background. We can’t throw our characters head first into history and hope for the best. So, I contacted London's Imperial War Museum and the Australian War Memorial in Canberra asking that question - were discs stolen or swapped.  Both replied that it was possible, but the chance of discovery was very real and the penalties very harsh. Neither would confirm it did happen but that was good enough for me to begin my third book, The Proposition.

Blurb

They met on the eve of battle. One enlisted to avoid prison, the other enlisted to avoid the money lenders. On the bloodied fields of France, Harry Connelly collapses beside the corpse of Andrew Conroy. It’s a risk, a hanging offence, it’s his only hope for a future. Harry swaps identity discs.  Now Andrew, he's just another face in post war London until a letter arrives with a proposition, plunging him into a nightmare of murder, family jealousy and greed. To survive he must live this lie without a mistake, until he falls in love with Lacey. To keep her he must tell the truth and face the consequences.

Excerpt

Hundreds of coal braziers spread an eerie glow over the camps and the thousands of men stood waiting. The order to stand-to had come at 3.30 am and now they fidgeted, vomited, prayed and gripped their rifles with sweating hands, waiting for the officers and NCOs carrying the precious gallon jugs of rum.

The quarter gill of eighty per cent proof rum burned into Harry’s stomach and spread through his body, filling him with warmth, strength and courage. At 4.05am came the “fifteen minutes”. At 4.15 am came the “five minutes”. When the synchronised watches along the seventeen-mile front touched 4.20 am, seven hundred artillery guns began their creeping barrage in front of seventy-five thousand British, Australian, Canadian and allied troops. 
 

Their solid lines advanced steadily over the terrain laid bare from years of shelling, gassing and fire. Rawlinson had set a target of an eight-mile advance on Day One and they had the advantage of early morning fog to disguise their tactics. The heavy tanks were now travelling one hundred metres every three minutes and their relentless pounding, the fire power of the infantry and the complete surprise of the attack had the Germans scrambling. 
 

Entering the hilly sector which the tanks found difficult to negotiate, the resistance became fierce. The pounding and smoke intensified as they fought with rifles and bayonets. Screaming, shouting, a tangle of men, booming cannons and rising mounds of earth and they continued to push forward. 
 

By 9.00 am they were approaching their first objective when all hell broke loose with deafening explosions. The air was sucked out of their lungs as huge walls of scorching earth reared up, throwing them into a black burning hell.

Harry screamed as excruciating pain tore through his ears, then something slammed into him. He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t move. He was dead and the Man he didn’t believe in had despatched him to sinners’ hell. His throat convulsed and gagged on the dirt stuffed in his gaping mouth. Oh Christ, he was buried alive by the huge weight pressing down on him. His heart thumped with terror. Don’t move, don’t swallow, but his throat gagged again, and instinctively he coughed and spat. Frantic, he gasped and coughed again and felt cloth brushing against his face. He was lying on his outstretched arms. Hot tears filled his eyes. Very soon this little pocket of air would be gone, and he’ll die a slow death. No, think, think, push your hands forward. What if he was lying upside down? 
 

The earth beneath him shuddered and soil fell onto his head. The weight above him was shifting, just like the underground coal mines before they collapsed. More soil fell on his arms and the blackness above him turned grey. Scrabbling like a crab, he wriggled upwards and howled in agony when a savage pain sliced through his leg. Gasping and terrified of falling back, he pushed up further into the light. He had no idea where he was.

Dragging the precious air into his lungs, Harry lifted his head to a silent scene from hell. Black roots of trees pointed to the sky and thick smoke poured from huge craters gouged into the earth. Just like the books on the Apocalypse. It took many seconds before his eyes told his brain the craters were dark red and littered with dozens of bloodied, twisted bodies. Some stared up into nothing, some face down. Harry looked behind him and opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. 

He’d been pinned beneath bodies submerged in the crater still smoking from an exploded shell. The entrails of one body oozed into the bloodied soil and the other body, oh God. Harry’s stomach heaved, he was covered with blood and guts. Using his arms, he lurched forward, bit by bit over the churned earth towards the blackened tree stumps. The ground shook again making him cringe. In the distance, a thick pall of black smoke was covering the rows of men fighting furiously while shells pounded around them, but it was eerily silent. Like the films at the picture house without the words on the screen. 
 

Harry struggled to his knees and almost fainted from the pain in his leg. Closing his eyes, he fell onto his side, breathing deeply, then reached down to feel the blood oozing through his trouser leg. He rolled onto his stomach.

“Come on, move, move.” He dragged himself forward until he came to a mound, but his strength failed. “Give up,” his mind screamed, then his eyes settled on a water canteen half buried in the earth. Pulling it out, he unscrewed the cap and drank. Nectar. Spitting the dirt out of his mouth he gulped the water greedily, feeling it flowing through his body and clearing his mind.

“Oh, Jesus.” The mound was a pile of bloodied bodies with sightless eyes. He couldn’t crawl over them. He couldn’t do it. Crying and wheezing with the pain in his leg he inched around them and looked back. The crater was barely thirty feet behind him. He had to stop. Why crawl to the trees? Stay here. Rest.

The throbbing in his leg forced Harry’s eyes open. If he could crawl to the little rise ahead of him, he’d stop there. Using his elbows to propel him, he inched forward and without warning, the earth gave way. 

Tumbling down the small slope he fell against a solid lump. A lump in uniform whose blank eyes stared directly into his. Jerking back, he clutched his head as excruciating pain tore through his ears. Moaning, he rocked back and forth until it eased and when he opened his eyes bile ran into his mouth. Insects were taking up residence in the gaping, oozing chest cavity while the neck and chin, mouth and nose were strangely untouched. The scalp had gone. Harry turned away as his stomach heaved again. Move, move. Inching forward, his fingers touched a shiny object in the churned soil. He stared stupidly at the unscathed cigarette case.

“Oh no!” he turned back and leaned closer to read the name on the identity discs. Andrew Conroy, his service number and C E. The poor scared bastard with no family.

He wanted to move away but his feeble strength failed. He’d rest here for a while. Holding the cigarette case with both hands, he lay back against the crumbled mound. He was so damn tired. 
 

Voices, shouting. He forced his eyes open and everything tilted sideways. Blinking, he squinted at the hazy moving objects, oh yes, the Red Cross stretcher bearers and wagons were picking up the wounded before the ghastly task of removing the dead. Feeble, whimpering cries rose from the churned soil, arms outstretched from the wounded and barely alive pleading to be rescued from this bloodied, silent, wasteland.

Harry looked at the cigarette case in his hand and its owner lying next to him. It was a hanging offence. If he did, there would be no turning back. He had no strength and his fingers wouldn’t work. Do it, for Christ’s sake, do it. His chest wheezed and his weak hands fumbled with the effort of pulling Andrew Conroy’s discs over the gaping skull. His arms ached with the mammoth task of removing his. When it was done, he lay beside the body. He wanted to say something, beg him to understand, but he couldn’t find the words. 
 

A lump was in his throat. “Mate, you are in a better place.”

His tears dripped onto the soil beside the body before he crawled away and put up his arm.

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About the Author

Jan Selbourne grew up in Melbourne, Australia. Her love of literature and history began as soon as she could hold a pen. Her career started in the dusty world of ledgers and accounting then a working holiday in the UK brought the history to life. Now retired, Jan can indulge her love of writing and travel. She has two children and lives near Maitland, New South Wales.

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