A Frightening Encounter-from my upcoming release, by Diane Scott Lewis

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In my novel, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, due out in August, I explore a forbidden love that happens to the despair of my heroine, who doesn't need any more complications in her life.

Stranded in France after the Germans attack in 1940, Norah must maneuver her new situation. Will her cousin's husband demand she leave as the food supply wanes? But she has nowhere to go. What about the German commandant? Does he suspect she is a spy because she's English? Or are his increasing intentions of a different sort altogether? 

Why does she find herself suddenly drawn to him? He has secrets that will undermine Hitler's intent to capture all of Europe. Is he a decent man under that dreaded uniform?

Norah's first confrontation with the commandant:

Norah flinched and swung around. A baby-faced soldier in Nazi greenish-gray scowled at her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in heavily accented, terrible French, two of his teeth jagged like a weasel.

She straightened, chin high, the pad pressed to her stomach. Inside, she trembled. “I live nearby. I was enjoying a walk. I draw birds.” Her French was passable after the year entrenched with her cousin, and her schoolgirl lessons from a decade ago. Her arrival happened only five weeks before the Germans invaded France. A desperate year because of that and for anguished, personal reasons.

The young man pointed at her book and bag, then shouted over his shoulder in German.

Was he alerting his superior? “Please, I’ve done nothing wrong.” She had no desire to come face to face with the Commandant. “You can search me…if you want.” She cringed at that idea.

“I have no choice but to report you.” The soldier shouted again. The officer’s heavy footsteps thudded closer.

He burst through the bushes, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression stern. The two Germans spoke in their guttural language.

Norah wanted to collapse to the ground but refused to show intimidation. Her spine nearly crackled as she held it firm.

The Commandant confronted her, his blue eyes penetrating. “What is your purpose out here at the shore?” He had distinct cheekbones, a handsome face, his lips full; a man of about forty. An iron cross hung at his high collar. “You don’t care to take instruction from we Philistines. Civilians are restricted.”

“I apologize,” she tried to keep the revulsion from her tone, though his near-teasing words —or perhaps a taunt—put her off-balance even more, “I was out for a walk and…I used to walk by the shore. Before—” Before you damned Germans arrived.

“What is in that book and bag? Give the pad to me, so I may inspect what you’re doing.” He reached out his gloved hand, his French excellent.

She hesitated, then handed the book over. “I like to sketch birds. I have a friend who is an ornithologist. We study them. Rather he studies them, I just draw.”

She opened the bag at his order, and the young soldier plowed through it. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t crack my pencils.”

“Show me your Identification Card. What is your name, prowler of the coast?” the officer asked in his clipped, almost raspy voice. He opened and paged through her drawings. “It is only birds, nothing more?”

“I’m Norah Cooper, and yes, it’s only birds.” She pulled out the card residents were now required to carry.

He snatched the card and read the words, perused her picture. Then he handed it back. “Ah, I detected an English accent in your French.”

His continued rough handling of the pages sent sparks along her shoulders. Would she be punished for being English, Germany’s worst enemy?

She reached for her book to mask her panic, the idea she could be interrogated or shot. Her knees wobbled. “Please…may I have—”

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Digging Deep into WWII, surprises and revelations, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

“A rich plot with building suspense, the writing is perfect and flows well. I loved this story.”   ~History and Women~

To purchase Ghost Point: Ghost Point

To purchase my novels and other BWL books: BWL

For my upcoming novel set during WWII, I decided on Brittany, France for the setting. I wanted to visit there, but Covid decided otherwise. So, research was key.

Two of my critique partners are Frenchwomen, one whose husband lived in France during the war. As a child he thought nothing of the invading troops of Germans. Out in the country, early in the war, the reprisals were minimal. The soldiers were kind to the children, giving them gifts; a different side than what you usually hear. 

My biggest obstacle in my story is how to make a Nazi commandant palpable to my audience. There were so many cruel officers, and of course, horrible actions.

I think I've managed to show a man caught in a war he never wanted, and he'll make a vital decision to sabotage what is happening in the region he's put in charge of.

My heroine, Englishwoman Norah, is trapped in France by the invasion, and to her chagrin, finds herself attracted to the commandant. She sees the decency in him. Her life will be turned upside down by her decisions.

She loves to paint, but will she be required to go beyond painting to help the growing Resistance? She'll be at direct odds with her lover, and must make a choice.

Now I have to figure out how to plant explosives on a submarine. The life of a writer!

German U-boat

If the FBI ever checked my computer 'searches' they'd think I was a poisoner, a knife wielder, and a bomb maker.

I wish my father were still alive. He'd have so much to tell me about the war, as he served as a young Radioman aboard navy ships. He was stationed at the notorious Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. In fact, he swears he gave it the nickname, Gitmo. 

Carl Dahlstrom, my father in the navy.

He also worked, of all places, in Rio de Janeiro, but he'd never talk about it.

Years later, after his death, I happened to read in the paper that a secret submarine refueling site in Rio had just been declassified. I had my answer, but it was too late to discuss it with him.

So many secrets yet to discover!

Diane lives with her husband and a very naughty dachshund in Western Pennsylvania.

To find out more about her and her books: http://www.dianescottlewis.org

A ghost on a military base? by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

During the Second World War, HMCS Cornwallis (later renamed CFB Cornwallis) was the largest naval training base in the British Commonwealth. Built on the southern shore of the Annapolis Basin in Nova Scotia and commissioned in 1942, the military training base closed in 1994.

In the late 1980s, my husband and I enjoyed a three-year posting at CFB Cornwallis. During that time, we attended many functions inside the Officers' Mess. It was a beautiful building (pic on the left), rich in history, and haunted by the ghost of a young woman. I was fascinated by the sad story of that young woman who allegedly hanged herself in one of the upstairs bedrooms after her lover, a sailor in the British Navy during World War II, abandoned her to go back to his wife.

The legend of her ghost was very much alive. While I didn’t know of anyone who had ever seen her, there were reports of strange activities inside the Mess, but was her ghost really roaming the Officers' Mess and only showing herself to unfaithful married men?

Despite all the research I did, I couldn’t find any evidence that a woman ever killed herself inside the Mess, but the basement of the Base Commander’s Residence did shelter grave markers. The dead no longer rest in the basement, their remains were moved to a different burial site, but two of the markers still stand side by side, each engraved with the names of two young children. The four siblings—Edward (1 month), Amelia (1 yr & 6 months), Gilbert (3 yrs), and W.C. (3 yrs)—died between 1850 and 1858.

The legend of the ghost and the grave markers inspired me to write Misguided Honor, my latest novel which was released last week.

In Misguided Honor, Becca Shea sneaks into Cornwallis and travels back in time to 1941 where she meets the young heart-broken woman in the days leading up to her tragic death.

To bring the story of the ghost to life, I took some liberties with history. Among other things, I gave Cornwallis a fictional past as a private shipyard, moved the buildings around, changed their layouts, and delayed the closure of the base. I wish I had unearthed the origin of the legend, and though I didn't, I'm convinced something dreadful happened a long time ago in the Officers' Mess—or else the legend wouldn't have been born.

Happy reading!

JS

 J. S. Marlo's Website

SHAKESPEARE ON THE PATIO

1967--Wearing Aunt Juliet's 1950's Dress which she sewed for an Ohio State dance

My mother’s parents had a beautiful backyard in the small Ohio town of Yellow Springs. Their house and backyard are the very first I remember. I was a war-time baby, and because of the housing shortage, my mother lived with her folks for some years while my father was serving over-seas. 

Grandpa had made his yard special by that time, but when they first came to town, in 1927, the “yard” was barren. The only tree was a young sugar maple which provided afternoon shade.   Grandpa Liddle was an English Professor, but he’d been raised on a farm, so he knew how to grow things. By the time I’d reached consciousness—say, 1947—his backyard had become a lovely place, now hidden from the neighbors by a living wall of cedars.

Inside this, twenty years on, was a flower garden, where colorful Dutch bulbs bloomed in spring—daffodils, tulips, anemones, narcissus—followed by all kinds of lilies and roses in summer, as well as Canterbury bells, bachelor buttons and a host of other familiar plants. There was also a pear tree, a stand of raspberries, a grape arbor and rhubarb. All the surplus was either turned into jelly or canned for winter use. In summer fresh fruit was always on the menu—my cornflakes always had raspberries; our lunches were accompanied by pears or grapes.

Celandine, brought from the NY family farm to Grandpa's Ohio yard, to mine 

In the shadiest part of the yard, by a small stable which sheltered the ponies that belonged to his daughters, he had a wildwood area. This contained a variety of ferns, trillium, phlox, wild violets, and bleeding heart. Dutchman’s Breeches, Jack-in-the-Pulpit and Dutchman’s Pipe were two of the oddest denizens of this garden.

Dutchman's Breeches

Under the big maple, on the brick patio, in good spring weather, he’d occasionally host a small senior literature class in Milton, Chaucer, or Shakespeare. This was not a problem for the students generally, as the house was only two blocks from the college and bicycles, in those days, were part of campus life. If I arrived in the middle of one of these classes, I knew to quietly head into the house. Here, I’d find Grandma in the kitchen, getting a proper English tea ready to serve. Of course, there was always some for me.  

Professor A.W. Liddle, a.k.a. "Grandpa"

Grandpa also had a little pond for goldfish. Nearby, he planted two sweet cherry trees, one for me and one for my cousin, Michael. Pies made from the fruit are another happily remembered treat, fresh ones in summer, followed by winter’s, made with Grandpa’s canned cherries. The pond was my favorite spot to sit, where I waited to glimpse furtive tail-flicks of orange.

Aunt Juliet & me. Hula skirt courtesy of a Vet on Leave from Pacific Front

I fed the fish whenever I visited. As soon as they spied me, peering down at them from my dimension of air, they would obligingly rise to the surface to take whatever I’d brought. ( I suppose, however, that, ordinarily, the resident mosquito larva was sufficient.) In the autumn, Grandpa would dip out the pond and put the fish into a tank on a side table in the sunlit breakfast room. Mostly, the goldies survived to return to the pond again in the spring. Some of these wintered-over fish grew quite large.

There were two weddings held in this garden, first that of my parents, and later, post-Korean war,  of my Aunt Juliet. I was the flower girl and my Cousin Michael, still in diapers, was the ring bearer. Later on, I nursed my first son sitting in that same utterly private backyard, while my grandparents told my husband and me stories about their 1927 arrival in this small middle-western town. 

Antioch College, Yellow Springs, OH

~~Juliet Waldron

http://www.julietwaldron.com
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Coming Soon: Fly Away Snow Goose, in the Canadian Historical Brides series

Researching Close to the Heart by Nancy M Bell

Lately I've been doing research for my contribution to Books We Love Canadian Pioneer Bride Series. My story is set in Ontario during World War 1. The story line very roughly parallels my grandparent's story. My grandfather and his brother came to Canada as young boys sent to work and live in Ontario by Doctor Barnardo's homes in London's east end. They were the sons of the youngest son of thirteen siblings. Why none of the aunts and uncles stepped forward and took them in I have no idea. But they ended up in Doctor Barnard's Foundling Home after their father died. They came separately but somehow ended up being placed close to each other near Renfrew and Eganville in eastern Ontario. 

The boy who would become my grandfather enlisted in the army and went to France where he was a Sapper. His older brother followed him a short time later. My grandmother knew both boys but had an 'understanding' with the older brother.

Unfortunately, the older brother was killed on August 8, 1918 near a small French town called Marcelcave. He was in the first wave of troops that came out of the 'jumping off trench' and was cut down by enemy fire. The morning had been heavy with fog and the companies that were supposed to provide cover for the first wave of the attack didn't arrive in time. At first he was listed as Missing in Action but eventually his remains were identified. My grandfather was listed as his next of kin, so while he himself was still fighting he received the news his brother was first missing and then confirmed Killed in Action. My grandfather to be wrote to my grandmother telling her the news. They began a long distance relationship based on their mutual love for the private killed in action. 

My grandfather was part of the engineers and was gassed and buried alive for three days with another man. Eventually he was rescued and sent to convalesce in England. When he was returned to Canada after the war he ended up in Vancouver where he found a job peeling logs for Fraser Mills. He sent my grandmother her engagement ring hidden in a box of chocolates and she eventually travelled to Vancouver where they were married in New Westminster. I have changed a more than a few things in my story because a) it is a work of fiction and b) I needed to change things to fit with my requirements for the plot. I didn't want to write what would effectively be a non-fiction story about my grandparents, but there were some very interesting twists and turns that work very well for what I wanted for my plot.

Below is an artist's rendition of Marcelcave

I can only imagine what life was like in the mud filled trenches living on top of each other filthy and infested with lice and fleas.

Although the battle of Amiens (which Marcelcave was part of) was a huge victory there were many Allied casualties and wounded.

I have found that as I delve deeper into my family's past that the great uncle I never knew becomes more alive and a part of me. No war is pleasant and all wars are bloody and cruel affairs. Modern warfare with the ability to separate ourselves from the reality by the use of electronics and drones give the combatants some distance, but there are still those on the front lines who look the enemy they wish to kill in the eye and it is very visceral and real, much like the boys in the trenches of World War 1. I can only be glad that there is no longer a cavalry and that horses and mules are no longer required to move guns and equipment. The number of horses and mules killed and wounded is huge, the beasts had no say in whether they went to the front or not and certainly a large percentage of them were terrified. The more I dig the more real these things become, I only hope I can do justice to the era in my writing.

Remembrance Day has just passed and while I have always taken time on that day to honour those who fought and fell and in particular those whose blood lines I carry, this year it was all the more poignant when I paused to remember them on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. When my sons were young I always read In Flanders Fields to them and told them stories about their great grandfather, his brother who fought in WWI, and their great uncle who fought in World War II and was captured by the Germans and spent time as a prisoner of war.

His Brother's Bride will release early in 2017, I hope you enjoy the story I have cobbled together from my own ancestor's story and my fertile imagination. Please look for His Brother's Bride and when you read it spare a moment to bless and remember those who fought and those who fell.

THE LONGEST DAY (June 6, 1944) by Shirley Martin

Amazon

It’s ironic that the first  person who coined the term, the longest day, was a German officer.  (Erwin Rommel,, The Desert Fox.)  Indeed, it must have seemed like the longest day to both Germans and Allies alike.

For a long time, Russia’s Stalin had urged the western Allies–the British and Americans–to open up a western front against Germany.  Russia had borne the brunt of the German onslaught for years, suffering horrific losses in desperate and cruel fighting.

Since 1943, the British and Americans had planned this second front, code-named Operation Overlord.  Now on the morning of June 6, 1944, all of that planning had come to fruition.  But it had been a long, tortuous  path that led to the operation.

Prior to June, ‘44, the Germans realized that the western Allies would  open up a second front.  Under Rommel’s stewardship, they had labored on the Atlantic Wall, a series of mines and obstacles meant to stop the Allies upon landing on the coast of France.  Yet much work remained to be done on the Atlantic Wall.

The narrowest distance across the English Channel between England and France is the Pas de Calais.  That would be the logical route the Allies would take and what the Germans would expect.  For that very reason, the Allies chose the Normandy coast on which to land.  The Allies launched an elaborate deception, code-named Fortitude, meant to fool the Germans into thinking that the landing would occur at the Pas de Calais.  A phony army with phony messages was created.

The English general Mongtomery devised a plan in which the British and Canadians would land on three Normandy beaches, and the Americans would land on two.  East to west, the British  beaches were Sword, Juno, and Gold.  The Americans would land on Omaha and Utah beaches.  As the head of SHAEF, (Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force) General Eisenhower approved  this plan.

As the planning for the invasion progressed, the southern English coast was alive with over 6,000 ships and 4,000 landing craft.  Operation Neptune, the naval plan, included a bombardment force of 7 battleships, 23 cruisers, and 104 destroyers.  Their role was to destroy the coastal batteries of the Atlantic Wall.

The Allies had overwhelming air superiority.   The German Luftwaffe was only a shadow of its former power.

For years, the French Underground  had waited for this moment and knew the part they were to play.

After all the months and years of planning every large and small detail, the success of Overlord hinged on one factor:  the weather.  Sea and sky turned stormy in the Channel at the end of the first week of June.  June 4 was the day Eisenhower and Montgomery had chosen to launch the invasion.  On that day, heavy winds and waves buffeted the Channel.  The invasion had to be cancelled for that day.  However, the meteorologist had good news.  There would be a window of better weather on the morning of June 6.

Operation  Overlord  began fifteen minutes after midnight on the morning of June 6.  At that moment, men of the 101st and 82nd airborne divisions stepped out of the planes into a moonlit night over Normandy.  Five minutes later and 50 miles away, men of the British 6th Airborne division plunged out of their planes.  These men were the pathfinders,, the men who were to light the dropping zones for the paratrooper infantry that was soon to follow.  German flak drove many of these planes far off-course, and many of these paratroopers landed miles from their DZ.  Some were dropped in the river, and weighed down with eighty pounds of supplies on their backs, simply drowned.

As paratroopers fought the enemy near the coast of Normandy, the greatest armada the world had ever known began to gather off these beaches, almost 5,000 ships carrying 200,100 soldiers, sailors, and coast guardsmen.  The sky thundered with the passage of aircraft, and coastlines began to disappear with smoke and dust as the airplanes dropped bombs.

During the bombardment, the British, Canadians, and Americans debarked from the landing craft and waded ashore while the Germans fired from their concrete fortifications.  The Allies picked their way between the shore obstacles , diving for cover from enemy fire, and struggling to reach the shelter of the cliffs.  Many men didn’t make it to shore, falling in a hail of German bullets.  Many others helped their wounded to the shore.

For much of the morning, the fate of the free world was held in the balance, Omaha beach faring the worst.

Had the invasion failed, Eisenhower had prepared a message to deliver in which he took full blame for the Allied defeat.   Instead, by 9 a.m. local time, he delivered this message:

“Peoples of western Europe.  A landing was made this morning on the coast of France by troops of the Allied Expeditionary Force.   This landing is part of the concerted Untied Nations plan for the liberation of Europe, made in conjunction with  our great Russian allies. . . .

This landing is but the opening phase of the campaign in Western Europe .  Great battles lie ahead.   I call upon all who love freedom to stand with us.  Keep your faith staunch –our arms are resolute.  Together we shall achieve victory.”

Please check out my website. www.shirleymartinauthor.com
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