The stories in Wilfred F. Voss’ “Cemetery Polka and other dark stories from New England” evolve around the small town of Grand Fenwick in Massachusetts. Don’t waste your time trying to find Grand Fenwick on the map. The town of Grand Fenwick, Massachusetts, its residents, and events are a product of the author’s vivid imagination. Grand Fenwick represents every small town or village in New England that managed to escape the gravity of the larger, liberal, and vibrant cities. Unavoidably, due to lack of inspirational stimulation, the people of Grand Fenwick have developed their unique social responses.

The list of short stories, besides the main title, include Don’t Bury My Heart In Grand Fenwick, Gay Pride Festival, The Meaning Of Life, Bad Liver And A Broken Heart, Life In A Soviet-Communist-Amish Society, Bonfire Of The Vanities In The House Of God, Disturbing Email From A Friend, Warm Beer And Cold Women, and more.

Cemetery Polka and other dark stories from New England is available at the Amazon Kindle Store.

For more information on Wilfried F. Voss and his work, see his website at http://wilfriedvoss.com.

Excerpt:

Cemetery Polka

Is it impossible to experience one’s death objectively and still carry a tune? – Modified; originally by Woody Allen

The eighteen feet long 1972 Winnebago Brave motor home came to a screeching hold at the traffic light on Flatbush Avenue. Pawel Jarecki set the directional light for a right turn into Kings Highway and, while waiting for the light to turn to green, he nervously checked the engine’s cooling water temperature gauge. He had spent the entire weekend to get the engine fit for today’s trip, but had been unable to stop the leak in the radiator. Replacing the radiator was simply out of the question. That would eat up more than half of his monthly social security check.

A man’s gotta eat, he thought, wiping off the sweat from his forehead.

Instead, he relied on a battery of twenty gallon-sized plastic milk containers neatly stored in the back of the Winnebago, all thoroughly cleaned and filled with a mixture of engine coolant and water. He had hoped for some colder weather, but it appeared that nature was not on his side. After all, it was November 1^st, All-Saints Day, which should be a guarantee for uncomfortable temperatures mixed with rain, but the sun had been shining all day, and it felt like springtime.

An angry driver behind him honked the horn, pulling him out of his thoughts. Pawel noticed the green light and slowly, much to the distress of the cars behind him, made the right turn.

He waved into the rear view mirror. “I am freakin’ seventy-eight years old,” he murmured to himself. “You guys just gotta suck it up.”

It was another two miles to their meeting place, the bus stop adjacent to the Casa Kielbasa. Everybody in town, especially those of Polish descent, knew “the Casa” as they called it. Good Polish food and excellent service. Lousy beer, though. Pawel didn’t care for American light beer in bottles.

Much to the relief of a growing number of drivers, he pulled the Winnebago over to the right into the bus stop where a large group of people seemed to be waiting for the next pick up. He stopped and looked around until he saw his old friend Josef Dabrowski waving, picking up his duffel bag and making his way toward the motor home.

“Hey there, Pawel,” Josef called out to him as he opened the passenger side door. He threw the duffel bag onto the bench in the kitchen area and then, very carefully, laid his leather clarinet case next to it.

“Where are Klaudia and Jakub?” Pawel growled, concerned that something unforeseen might have happened.

“Oh, they’re at the grocery store down the road to get some sandwiches and soda.”

Pawel grunted. He didn’t like any unannounced changes.

We’re doing this for six years now, he thought angrily. We’re doing this every freaking All-Saints Day, and, by God, they had enough time to think about food and drinks.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled into the road, cutting off a white BMW. He looked into the rear view mirror to check for an extended middle finger, and he grinned. Sure enough, there it was.

Another mile down the road he pulled into the large parking lot of the local supermarket. They looked for their friends, Klaudia Malinowska and Jakub Chmielik, but couldn’t make them out and decided to wait.

Pawel popped the motor hood and stepped out of the Winnebago, carrying a gallon of coolant water under his arm. He used some old boxer shorts, stained with oil and grease, to cover the radiator cap, and slowly started to turn it, careful not to get burned by the hot steam emerging from the top of the radiator.

“Do we have a problem?” came a voice behind him, and when he turned around he saw Klaudia watching him curiously.

“No,” he answered. “She’s just getting old, just like us. And she needs some special care, just like us. And she needs a lot to drink…”

“Just like us,” Klaudia finished his sentence, laughing.

She held up a couple of plastic bags. “I got us some coolant, too,” she grinned. “Mainly coke and sprite.”

She winked, “And there’s some special for later in the night.”

“We’re all set then,” Pawel said, carefully pouring the coolant into the radiator. He screwed the cap back on and used the rag to wipe off the liquid he had spilled on the radiator and the rest of the engine. Then he followed Klaudia and Jakub, who were still busy storing their luggage and their instruments, an accordion and a saxophone.

“All aboard,” he yelled and looked in the mirror to check his passengers who took their seats at the small kitchen table, ready to play some cards.

Pawel finally relaxed. They were on their way now. He had his ham and cheese sandwich and a cold soda. Who could ask for more?

They had another twenty miles to go, and it took another two refills of coolant before they arrived at Saint Stanislaus Cemetery. The sun had already begun to set. They left the Winnebago in the front parking lot, carrying only their instruments and some plastic bags containing a few essentials for tonight’s event. Driving into the cemetery didn’t make sense. They would spend the night in the Winnebago, and they would not take any chances by driving home during dark, not to mention the inevitable consumption of good Polish vodka.

“Where exactly is Szymon’s grave?” Pawel asked, confused. Szymon Babka had died just a few months after their last visit, and on the day of the funeral Pawel had been in the hospital after a mild heart attack.

“You should know,” Klaudia looked at him disapprovingly. “He’s buried with his wife.”

Pawel felt foolish. Of course, he had seen Szymon’s wife’s grave every year during the past six years. Actually, seven years, he thought.

They had met, just by chance, on All-Saints Day seven years ago. They all had tucked their small red lanterns in front of the gravestones and lit a tea light inside, all this to honor their deceased spouses. Over a cup of coffee in the nearby family restaurant, they had agreed to meet again each year. Everything fell into place that afternoon. Szymon pitched the idea, and Pawel offered to use his Winnebago, and, as they say, the rest is history.

Ironically, it was also Szymon, just months before his demise, who came up with the idea of playing polka music.

“I don’t know about you guys,” he explained the concept, “but when I become one of the permanent residents here, I wouldn’t want to look at the long faces every time you come by.”

He grinned. “What do they say? Don’t mourn a death. Celebrate a life. I, for my part, would like some good polka music during my funeral.”

In the end, he didn’t get his wish fulfilled. A funeral is for the living, and most of them were appalled by the thought of joyful music during a funeral.

With Szymon now dead, this year was different from the previous ones. The old friends proceeded to his grave first, planted the lantern, lit the light, and said a prayer. Then they went their own ways to visit their respective spouses, place the lantern, light the tea light, talk to the spouse, say a prayer, and wipe their eyes.

They assembled again, one by one emerging from the dark, at the small gazebo surrounded by the lawn in the center of the cemetery. Pawel had brought his camping gas lantern, which he put on the floor in the center of the gazebo. Not a word was spoken, and Klaudia produced the bottle of vodka and passed out shot glasses to everybody. Then she filled the glasses one by one, and when finished, they all saluted and gulped down the liquor.

Pawel sat down on the bench, watching the others unpacking their instruments, Josef his clarinet, Jakub his saxophone, and Klaudia strapped on her accordion. Pawel had never had the chance to learn an instrument, but that didn’t bother him in the least. After all, he could sing, maybe not good, but undeniably loud, and that was just good enough.

Advertisement

THE BLEEDING HILLS
A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. Finn is protected in his exile in the United States after having worked for the CIA. Consequently, British Intelligence has come up with a plan to lure Finn back into their jurisdiction, Northern Ireland, by revealing the identity of the man who is ultimately responsible for the killing of Finn’s wife, Shauna.

Here they hope not only to apprehend him, but also lead them to another conspirator, Martin Sheehan, who hides in the Northern provinces. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland.

The Bleeding Hills, Wilfried F. Voss’ newest novel, is skillfully divided into three time lines; they keep the reader glued to the story by providing some surprising twists and turns. The first time line describes the life of Finnean Whelan and his first contact with the Irish Republican Army in the late 1960s. The second line is set in the presence and it portrays Whelan’s journey to Northern Ireland where he intends to accomplish his final plot. The third time line is dedicated to the activities of British Intelligence Services, namely the MI5, attempting to apprehend Whelan and his co-conspirator, Martin Sheehan. All time lines come together in the end and they make for some intriguing twists.

Wilfried F. Voss has cleverly weaved real events of recent Irish history, namely the Irish Troubles, into the life story of Finnean Whelan. They are, just to name a few examples, the events of Bloody Sunday, and the murder of Captain Robert Nairac, an officer with the British Army. The historical facts have been thoroughly investigated, but the author also takes some liberties for interpretation; these interpretations are, nevertheless, based on his meticulous research.

One theory, for instance, is that Captain Robert Nairac was the victim of child abuse at Ampleforth College in England, which, consequently, caused Nairac’s violent behavior during the Irish Troubles. Another interesting theory is based on the claim that British Intelligence Services, even to the present day, are instrumental in a plot to disrupt the peace process in Northern Ireland. Whether or not these claims are true is of no consequence; The Bleeding Hills is not only entertaining, but it also effectively tickles the reader’s mind to learn more about recent Irish history.

Reviews

Using the yarns of the past and the present, violence and love, deceit and honesty, The Bleeding Hills is a tale woven like an Irish sweater. It is a well crafted page-turner that keeps the reader in suspense with unexpected twists throughout. This story is about more than just a the Irish Troubles and espionage; it is personalized through Finn exploring his triumphs and retrospective regrets. What is truly impressive is the author’s skill at exploring the larger issue of civil conflicts–how individuals become involved and how governments perpetuate–without being obvious or sacrificing any of the story at hand.
An outstanding story that is a must read. – Paul Dolan Iubito

Great novel! The story line is captivating and the characters are believable. The author incorporated events of recent Irish history, but he also addresses political issues such as the current MI5 involvement in Northern Ireland. His views may be pro-Irish, but they are nevertheless in favor of present day British policies. All this is skillfully mingled with a real-life story with all the right elements – love, romance, suspense, and humor. – L. Pierro-Pulsifer

Although the story here is fictional, I felt the historical research portrayed in The Bleeding Hills was very well done. Voss has achieved weaving the three time lines portrayed in the story together with interesting twists and turns (that I was not expecting) into a solid and, I think, fair rendition of the Irish Troubles from a personal point of view – that of Finnean Whelan. The story of Finnean Whelan and his love of Ireland is both exciting and touching – a good read for anyone interested in the Irish Troubles with a touch of excitement and mystery included. – Y. Campbell

More Background Information

The Boys of Barr Na Sraide
I first heard the song The Boys of Barr Na Sraide in Ireland on the small isle of Inishbofin off the coast of Galway. My wife’s grandmother was born here and she immigrated to the United States in the early 1920s. We had visitied Paddy Joe and Regina King, some distant cousins of my wife’s. Their son, Peadar (the Irish version of Peter), had shown me a CD by Colm O’Donnell, Farewell to Evening Dances, which he was very fond of and I share that feeling now. The title of Colm O’Donnell’s CD is taken from the song The Hill of Knacknashee, another sentimental and lyrical ballad on the CD. I shamelessly copied the idea and took a line out of The Boys of Barr Na Sraide, the line that goes “And when the hills were bleeding and rifles were aflame…”, to use it as the title for my book “The Bleeding Hills“. Read the author’s post.

March 7, 2009 – Terror Returns to Northern Ireland
Isn’t it ironic – The storyline of my novel-in-the-making “The Bleeding Hills” invokes the possibility of a plot to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland, an idea that could have been viewed as somewhat preposterous. Yesterday, March 7, 2009,  two British soldiers were killed and four others, among them two pizza delivery men, were wounded in what is the first major terrorist attack in the province for over a decade. The shootings occurred at the Massereene army base in Antrim, 16 miles north of Belfast, at 9.40pm. Nobody has yet claimed responsibility for the attack but security sources said the incident was undoubtedly the work of dissident organisations opposed to the peace settlement. In my novel I refer to the so-called Real IRA as the force behind the assassination plot. The Real Irish Republican Army was founded in October 1997 by former members of the Provisional IRA, who were dissatisfied with the direction of the Irish peace process, especially the position of Sinn Fein. Read the author’s post.

British Undercover Operations in Northern Ireland
Yet again the idea behind my book “The Bleeding Hills” has been strikingly confirmed by the the latest attack on British soldiers on March 7th. In my blog entry – and my book – I refer specifically to the operations of the so-called Real IRA and, ironically, the RIRA has claimed responsibility for the attacks. However, one comment in the first report of the attacks caught my attention, since my book also addresses British undercover operations in Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland’s chief constable, Sir Hugh Orde, had confirmed that undercover British army troops were on paramilitary surveillance duties in Northern Ireland. In my mind I had started another blog entry, complaining that British officials are inexplicably unable to learn from past mistakes, but I have been pre-empted (if I may say so) by somebody more competent to talk about such affairs. Read the author’s post.

Bloody Sunday – January 30, 1972
I have often criticized the lack of good literature explaining the events of Bloody Sunday untainted and comprehensible. I have been faced with the same dilemma, now that I am in the middle of writing chapter four of my novel “The Bleeding Hills“, where Bloody Sunday takes center stage. For the record, I am not looking down on those who were present at Bloody Sunday and wrote a book about it. An atrocity like this should be a part of a well recorded history, but I also believe that, in order to spark the interest of future generations, you need to start with the basics and these basics should, first of all, not be politically tainted; consequently they will lose credibility. In regards to comprehensiveness of recorded history, it does not help to confuse the newcomer to Irish history by frequently referring to Unionists, Republicans, Loyalists, MRF, SAS, MI5, MI6, Real IRA, Continuity IRA, RUC, Provisional IRA, INLA, NICRA, Saville, Widgery, MP, PM, etc., etc., without providing a comprehensible reference. The majority of books and web sites I found on the subject were written by experts for experts, having only their own indulgence in mind. What a waste of resources and what a waste to make it so difficult for our children to understand history! Read the author’s post.

The Bloody Sunday Inquiry
The story line behind my novel “The Bleeding Hills” would not be complete without a look into the two inquiries of Bloody Sunday, the Widgery Report of 1972 and the official Bloody Sunday Inquiry initiated in 1998. The Widgery Tribual was held in the immediate aftermath of the events of Bloody Sunday; it was set up to look into the events. This was conducted by Lord Chief Justice Widgery. The report was widely criticized as a whitewash. Even though the judges of the official Bloody Sunday Inquiry retired on November 23, 2004, there has been no measurable result to this day. Statements regarding a possible publication of the Inquiry’s Report have been modified from year to year. The current statement on the Wikipedia web site is that the publication “was expected at the end of 2007, or possibly early 2008.” – Note: This blog entry was written on March 22, 2009. Read the author’s post.

Robert Nairac – Hero, Butcher, Homosexual…?
During the research for my book “The Bleeding Hills” I stumbled upon the intriguing story of one charismatic character, British Captain Robert Nairac, an undercover agent active during the Irish troubles (For more references see the hyperlinks at the end of this article). While Irish republicans consider him a butcher, and the British Army calls him a war hero, they all share the view that “he was strange” – to use a mild expression. First of all, after studying various articles on the life and death of Robert Nairac, I have come to the conclusion that Nairac was driven by a death wish, a point that may not be disputed by many of those who knew him. My next conclusion may be, however, far more controversial. After applying a simple method of studying behavioral patterns and comparing it to recent as well as historical cases, I have come to the personal conclusion that Captain Robert Nairac was either gay and/or the victim of sexual abuse during his childhood. Read the author’s post.

For more author’s posts see http://www.frogenyozurt.com/my-novels/the-bleeding-hills/.

Books:

A History of Ireland
by Mike Cronin

Highly recommended! I like that it’s, compared to many other works on Ireland, actually readable and entertaining. If you need a relatively quick overview on the history of Ireland (the tile of the book doesn’t lie!) this is the one I recommend.

The Operators
by James Rennie

To put it in a nut-shell: I hope the author didn’t quit his day job over writing this book. What caught my attention was the sub-title “On the streets with Britain’s most secret service”. Little did I know how immature the writer deals with a serious topic like the Irish Troubles. The book starts with “Standby, standby. Zero, Oscar. I have Bravo 1 foxtrot from Alpha 2 towards Charlie 2″ and it doesn’t get much better from there. Reading this book was a huge waste of my time.

The Irish War
by Tony Geraghty

Here we go again: Another book with misleading title and misleading sub-title, “The hidden conflict between the IRA and British Intelligence”. I have to admit, I found some valuable information here, but I also could not muster to read the book to the end. I am an advocate for intriguing literature, even when it comes to serious issues like the Irish War. However, the writing style is mind-numbingly boring and there is absolutely no visible structure in the book. The author jumps from topic to topic without any visible connection. Until this day I have no clue what drove Mr. Garaghty to write this book.

Secret Hero: The life and mysterious death of Captain Robert Nairac
by John Parker

Yet another really bad book. The life and death of Captain Robert Nairac is one of the most compelling stories related to the Irish troubles, regardless of which side you’re on. That being said, it is a pity, that the author fails to live up to the vast potential of this particular topic, especially considering that he tried to glorify the memory of Captain Nairac – as the title implies.

The Ultras
by Eoin McNamee

This is a novel that is supposed to depict the life of Captain Robet Nairac. I made it to page 8 and gave up. Enough said.

Sorry, I hate to be that negative, but I really do enjoy reading a good book. It seems to me now that there aren’t too many good ones out there, and if they are, they are hard to find. After buying and reading too many bad books on the Irish War I gave up and concentrated on Online resources as listed below.

Online Resources:

14 Company

Bloody Sunday

Bloody Sunday Inquiry

British Army Satellite Equipment

Government of Ireland Act 1920

Inverness County

IRA Actions in 1970s

Irish History

MI5 & MI6

Misc.

Port of Belfast

Real IRA

Robert Bunting

Robert Nairac

SAS

Sean Mac Stiofain

Shannon Airport

St. Patrick Cemetary

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

Published by
Copperhill Media Corporation
158 Log Plain Road
Greenfield, MA 01301

USA

Copyright © 2009 by Copperhill Media Corporation, Greenfield, Massachusetts

Published by
Copperhill Media Corporation
158 Log Plain Road
Greenfield, MA 01301

USA

Copyright © 2009 by Copperhill Media Corporation, Greenfield, Massachusetts

The band had left the small stage in a hurry, not waiting for the applause to subside, tiptoeing through the jungle of cables, microphones, speakers, and instruments, rushing over to the bar at the far end of the pub, yearning for a beer during their well-deserved break. Then, unexpectedly, all remaining lights went out, leaving the room in utter darkness for a fleeting moment until a single beam of light emerged from the ceiling, focusing on the young man they had left behind. He sat in an antique, wooden chair in the center of the stage with his eyes closed and his head down as if meditating. His arms covered his instrument, the Uilleann pipe.

His long, brown hair was neatly parted and bound into a ponytail. The bright Red Sox T-shirt, a tribute to a local passion, was in piercing contrast to his otherwise plain clothing, the dark brown corduroy trousers and black shoes. The small set of bellows was wrapped between his waist and right arm. The three drones – tenor, baritone, and bass – lay across his right thigh. The presence of another set of three regulators, as any expert would notice, revealed the musician’s impressive talent.

Oblivious of his surroundings, the young man did not move, did not attempt to play or even respond to the presence of his audience. After a few calls from several tables, addressed to those in the audience still engaged in whispers and giggles, the room grew quiet and, slowly, the young man came to life, opened his eyes, straightened his posture, and used his right elbow to begin moving the bellows, pumping air into the pipe bag.

Finn had read about the young musician’s exceptional talent and, sitting in a dark corner alone with his drink, unnoticed by most of the patrons, had been waiting expectantly in anticipation of a performance that involved his favorite musical instrument with its sweet tone and the wide range of notes.

The first song was simple and light, yet enchanting, over the constant background of the drones accompanying the tune of the chanter, as is characteristic of the national bagpipe of Ireland.

Finn relaxed, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander, preparing himself for a journey back into time, to a place he had not seen in nearly three decades. Shortly thereafter he saw himself, a boy of fourteen, sitting on the top of a grassy knoll on a bright and warm Sunday morning, the wind swirling his hair, looking down on the Whelan farm in the far distance, so far away that all the sheep appeared like little white dots on a large, colorful painting. The dark blue ocean was quiet, and from where he was sitting, he could even see the beautiful beaches of Inch.

Sunday was his only day off from farm work, and he would spend his time reading, sitting on a rock, or lying in the grass until the daylight faded. Being aware that he might spend hours without food, Mother Whelan would not let him leave without a basket full of homemade brown bread, butter, and milk.

As on every Sunday morning he had been to church, and after Mass, he would spend an hour or two in the priest’s library, where he was offered tea while reading newspapers with passionate intensity, keenly absorbing every little detail. At times the study was supplemented by lessons on Irish history or the current status of the Irish Republic in cases where the young man lacked the background information on the topic about which he was reading.

When he had finished his readings, he had a choice of one book from the library’s extensive selection, which was to be returned the following Sunday. These were usually works by Jonathan Swift, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, William Butler Yeats, or, on occasion, even English literature such as Winston Churchill’s “The River War.”

“You need to know the enemy’s thinking,” Father Connelly, a stern Republican, assured him on more than one occasion. “The enemy’s greatest mistake is their view – based on downright ignorance, I might say – that the Republican movement is nonexistent.”

Father Connelly was famous for his colorful Sunday night speeches at the local pub where an exclusive group of local farmers, Brendan Whelan being one of them, gathered in the back room to discuss the Irish situation, especially that of Northern Ireland.

The general sense of the discussions was that the violence in Northern Ireland was committed against Republicans, and not, as it should be, by Republicans.

“The Republican movement has no real policies,” Father Connelly once announced during one of his speeches. “We are talking a great deal about fighting for the freedom of Ireland, but we do not succeed. What will it take, what disaster must happen? How many lives will it take before we officially prove our position?”

Finn was only an innocent bystander in those discussions, torn between listening to the heated arguments and the Sunday night sessions at the pub in front. He remembered one night where the party went to a nearby barn, where they inspected a new shipment of Thompson submachine guns, stored in their wooden boxes, oiled and ready for use.

It was the first time in his young life that he had seen such weapons, and at the time he was unable to grasp their use. Ironically, only a few years later he would be an expert with any weaponry, including the legendary AK-47, and there would be no doubt about his understanding of their use and the reasons behind it.

His thoughts were quickly drawn in a different direction as the music turned to another piece in a faster tempo as the musician’s fingers went flying rapidly over the chanter, producing an occasional staccato by working the chanter’s bottom hole with his knee. He was now accompanied by another band member sitting on a white plastic chair to his left, a glass of Guinness positioned on the floor in front of him, lifting the music with his bodhrán, the traditional Irish drum, and creating surprisingly intricate rhythms.

Finn let his mind flow wherever it wanted to take him and after only a few seconds he was a young man of seventeen entering Durty McCarthy’s, a pub near the town of Cahersiveen in the county of Kerry, only a few miles away from the house where his mother had lived. It was late afternoon on a Friday. The pub was packed and filled with smoke, and a session was about to start.

Durty McCarthy’s provided him with reasonable accommodations after a long day’s journey from home. He had learned of his true heritage only a few days before, and he needed to reflect as well as learn more. The events of the preceding days had profoundly changed his life, and little did he know that it was only the beginning. Before that day his life held no print or plan, but that was about to change.

He distinctly remembered the first time he noticed the publican’s daughter Shauna staring at him. She was a beautiful girl with brown hair and green eyes, dressed in a kitchen apron, wearing rubber gloves and rubber boots. Even then, just like it had so many years earlier, his heart raced. The love he felt for Shauna began right then and it had never died.

He remembered her face as a mixture of surprise and immense joy when he asked her to marry him and follow him to live in the Northern provinces, where he would use his skills to fight for the Irish cause. Only a few months later they were married in the large garden behind the McCarthy’s house in the same niche that was now the place of her grave.

Suddenly the musicians turned to a piece of greater complexity and darkness, emphasized by an enigmatic beating of the bodhrán, requiring the highest level of skill and concentration. The young man playing the Uilleann pipe had closed his eyes. His body moved in the rhythm of the music, and his wrists frantically worked the drones and regulators.

Finn began to have visions of bloody bodies leaving bloody traces on the ground as they were drawn away from the view of the shooters, screaming all around him, left and right, from the injured as well as those who tried to help them. He saw people carrying the dead body of a young boy, a priest walking in front of them, waving a white, bloodstained handkerchief at the soldiers with the red berets who, without mercy, kept shooting at them.

Finn squinted his eyes and struggled to fight off the negative images. This was neither the time nor the place for such dark memories. His attempt was defeated by similar images full of screaming and yelling and the deafening sound of continuous shooting. He saw Shauna’s bloody body on the floor. He could not handle the expression of disbelief on her beautiful face while he was struck with shock, trying to find a way to get her out of harm’s way. Still, after all these years, he could clearly feel the intense pain of leaving her and being dragged away from her unconscious body.

He was surprised by the energy it took to fight off the images and force his mind to turn to more pleasant memories.

He finally found himself amid a cold autumn thunderstorm, rolling thunder and lightning in the distance, riding on the pony he had taken from his foster father’s stable in the early morning. There was no money to afford a saddle or reins; he would merely rely on his physical strength and skill. He knew Brendan Whelan would be angry with him, but he also knew the man’s great heart. He would understand and forgive him.

Horse and rider went striding down the hill, eventually reaching the beaches of Inch, where he steered the horse into the shallow waters. He kicked his bare feet into the horse’s flanks and together they went flying over the water. He felt the freezing rain hitting his face and his clothes turning soaking wet, but he didn’t care. He enjoyed the flight through the darkness, the lightning, and the noise.

He clung closer to the horse’s neck, desperately holding on to the mane with both hands.

“C’mon, laddy,” he yelled into the pony’s ear. “You can go faster than that!”

He could feel the animal’s body stretch under him, lengthening the strides.

“Yee-haw!” he screeched, stretching out his left arm with a closed fist high into the dark skies. His exaltation grew with every stride.

He had hoped to make it to the other side of the bay, but all of a sudden he felt his body slip, and his heart started racing. Trying to slow the horse, he adjusted his body into an upright position, and while he tried to use both hands to pull on the mane, he was caught in a massive gust. He felt like he had hit a roadblock. His upper body pushed off the horse, his feet high in the air, both arms stretched wide, he tumbled through the air, and after a less than perfect somersault, landed flat on his back, slumping into the cold and salty water.

There he lay for a few moments, stunned, trying to comprehend what had just happened, and then he burst out into thunderous, unrestrained laughter. He stood up slowly, stiff, pushing one arm into his back, water mixed with sand running from his hair and clothes, and then he limped toward the horse patiently waiting in the distance.

The music ended with the sole voice of the bass drone, gently and gradually subsiding into silence, followed by a thunder of applause. Finn slowly opened his eyes, a smile of satisfaction grew on his face, and in his mind he thanked the young man for bringing back memories of the one true love, Ireland.

He knew he would be back soon. There had been rumors, whispers, and signals that he could not ignore. He did not know when, but it would be soon. He did not know how, but he was willing to comply and finish his course.

The Bleeding Hills
By Wilfried F. Voss

Published by
Copperhill Media Corporation
158 Log Plain Road
Greenfield, MA 01301

USA

Copyright © 2009 by Copperhill Media Corporation, Greenfield, Massachusetts

Chapter 1

The Place I Grew A Man

The man who entered my house shortly before midnight last night was remarkably particular about the information he was to share with me, what was acceptable to write, and, most importantly, what was not.

“It is of paramount importance that you change names and locations,” he told me. “It must be beyond a doubt that your story is based solely on your imagination. Any name, location, or event must be fictional and must not depict any living person or real event in the past or present. There are people dear to me, and I do not want to cause them any harm.”

On the sensitive yet unavoidable subject of the IRA, the Irish Republican Army, he said, “I cannot and will not comment on the operations of the IRA, nor will I admit any affiliation with them. I understand the presence of the IRA plays an essential part in the line of events, but references to them and their activities, as well as those of the British Intelligence services, must be entirely based on your own research.”

“Take some liberties,” he added.

In the same spirit, he had outlined the terms and conditions of this late night meeting in meticulous detail.

“Did you get the tea?” were his first words the moment he entered the kitchen. One of the conditions was the supply of good Irish tea, preferably Barry’s.

“Yes,” I answered. “Everything is in place as requested.”

The kettle stood steaming on top of the gas stove. On the counter beside it, the tin teapot my wife and I had bought in Ireland during our honeymoon was filled with boiling water. There was also a box of loose tea and a spoon. It is important to my Irish-American wife to keep an endless supply of Barry’s tea in the house. According to her Irish-born grandmother, while there is tea, there is hope, and we honor her motto on a daily basis.

“A bottle of Jameson’s,” I said while pointing to the setup on the kitchen table, which included two teacups and a sifter covering one of them.

“Milk and sandwiches, also as requested.”

He was visibly pleased.

“Well, I’ve come to the right place then,” he said with a satisfied smile on his face. “I don’t mean to rush, but let’s not waste valuable time. Put away your notebook and let’s get going. There is a lot to tell and hardly enough time to do it.”

Another condition of our agreement was there would be no written record of this meeting.

“I pray you have a good memory,” he had told me, and I had assured him he could count on it.

The water kettle started whistling.

“May I?” he asked, pointing to the tea, boiling water, and tin-pot.

“Please, be at home.”

He continued with the necessary and familiar procedure of preparing the tea, emptying the hot water from the teapot into the sink, carefully scooping four spoons of tea from the box, one after the other, dropping them into the teapot, and then pouring the boiling water.

There was an awkward but short period of stalled conversation while we waited for the tea to brew for the appropriate two minutes.

Then he finally broke the silence.

“I do apologize for this Interview with the Vampire atmosphere,” he said in a serious manner, “but I swear to the mighty Lord that I am a regular human being with a tight schedule and I have no intentions to bite you…”

“My wife, my kids, and I appreciate that.”

“…though some people in British Intelligence might think I have the supernatural power to disappear one instant and show up the next moment someplace else.”

He took the teapot and the sifter and carefully filled both cups on the kitchen table. I watched curiously as a cautious gush of milk made it into his cup, followed by a generous shot of Jameson.

He looked at me. “Just my version of Irish tea. I hate coffee. How do you like yours?”

“Just plain, please. No additions,” I answered.

“I’m a purist,” I couldn’t help to add. I grinned, but he didn’t seem to notice.

With the teacup in his hand, taking an occasional, cautious sip, he walked back and forth in our small kitchen, deep in thought about how to begin the story he was about to share with me. It also provided me a chance to watch him for a few moments. After all, the memories of our first meeting were a bit blurred.

He was roughly six feet tall. The blond haircut, neatly trimmed to a quarter-inch length, gave him a defined military appearance. The muscular, lean body added to that impression.

Yet, the faint smell of an expensive aftershave and the clean-shaven face emphasized his distinctly gentleman-like features. His clothing was well suited for the cold nights of the New England fall. He wore a vintage chambray shirt under a dark green wool sweater and dark charcoal corduroys. All in all, he would have easily passed as a model for an L.L. Bean catalog.

I guessed his age to be somewhere in the mid-fifties, and even though his hair showed the first signs of gray around the temples, his face had a remarkably boyish look. One could easily imagine what he had looked like in his early twenties. The most striking feature, though, were his pale green eyes.

His voice was clear, and he spoke with a slight Irish accent. His choice of words seemed sometimes Americanized, suggesting to me that he had spent a considerable portion of his life on the American continent. I also had the feeling that he could drop the accent in an instant when the circumstances required it.

I had first met him in the Boston region less than two weeks ago. Initially I thought we had met just by chance. In retrospect, I am not so sure anymore if our first encounter was pure coincidence, or, more likely, that he was specifically looking for someone like me.

I had won fifth place in a short story writing contest. The prize did not include any money, just a lousy book on marketing a novel plus free access to a writers’ conference in Westborough, just outside of Boston. The trip to Boston was not a tremendous thrill since we lived in Dublin, New Hampshire, only two hours away by car.

Before we bought our house we had looked at a much larger property in Vermont for almost the same price, but my wife could not resist the temptation of living in Dublin.

At the conference I had the opportunity to meet other writers and, more importantly, publishers. Writing short stories doesn’t make a living, and I was on the search for material to write a novel of some sort. At that time, I was officially enduring a writer’s block.

The question of how exactly a publisher would be of any help in such a hopeless situation must remain unanswered. They are not interested in mere talent or brilliant ideas and the odds are discouraging, even if you are able to present a written work. The fellow authors I met, including the wannabes, were just full of themselves, and I began to question their view of real life on planet Earth. By the end of the day, I wasn’t one iota closer to a book deal than I was when I arrived.

It was time to drown my disappointment in a few beers. Fortunately the Marriott, where my wife had made reservations for me, had an Irish pub by the name of “Fitzwilliam’s.” It was a crowded place, but I conquered one of the few empty stools at the bar, discovered they had Smithwick’s on tap, and ordered Bangers ‘n Mash from the menu. Bob the bartender was very able. He was of Asian descent and he had a nametag attached to his black vest. I never had to endure an empty glass, which gradually improved not only my mood, but even invoked a rarely encountered eagerness to mingle in a place far away from home and family.

The memories of that night remain vague. After drinking more beers than I can usually handle, I don’t exactly recall the details of how I got into the conversation with an Irish lad. I remember telling him about the day’s misery and he turned out to be a devoted listener. When we parted, he mentioned he might have a true story for me and that he would call me, but the next morning I was convinced that it was all part of an alcohol-induced dream mixed with wishful thinking.

A few days later when he called, I realized it had not been a dream. We talked for about half an hour during which he laid out his terms and conditions. I agreed willingly because he had aroused my curiosity. After all, drunk or not, I never give away my home address or phone number to strangers.

I was cautious and thought about sending my wife and kids to my in-laws the day we would meet again. As if reading my mind, he insisted, “I’d prefer this to be a private meeting, just you and I.”

Several days later I received another, much shorter phone call to set up the exact meeting date and time. A female voice, with what was most probably an Irish accent, told me there was fresh lobster for sale at the Boston Harbor fish market tomorrow night.

“The best time for pick-up is between 23:30 hours and midnight,” she said. There was no time to respond or ask questions. She hung up immediately after she had delivered the message. No good-bye. Nothing.

I am not sure if a venue like the Boston Harbor fish market in fact exists. It very well may, but for the purpose of setting up the meeting it didn’t matter.

Nevertheless, there I was, alone with my mysterious friend who had suddenly stopped the pacing and spoke without looking at me.

“My name is Finnean Michael Whelan. I was born in the Republic of Ireland on a farm near Annascaul on the Dingle Peninsula in the year of The Lord 1952. For nearly forty years, I was involved in what some people call an unnecessary war. Respectfully, I disagree.”

Then he turned toward me. “But I am not here to make political statements. I have fought my fight, and I have finished my course. I leave it to the politicians to finish what began a long time ago, and I am not one of them. I am here to make a final statement, in memory of the lads who laughed with me, to sing of their deeds and praise them while I can.”

He noticed my confusion. “Bear with me,” he said.

“I am also the direct product of a conflict that has lasted for several hundreds of years,” he continued. “My mother was raped by a constable of the RUC when she was visiting her parents in Derry, in Northern Island. You know about the RUC?”

I nodded, “Yes.”

The Royal Ulster Constabulary, the official police force in Northern Ireland between 1922 and 2001, has repeatedly been accused of following a shoot-to-kill policy. Suspects were deliberately killed without intent or attempt to arrest them. The list of accusations is long, including one-sided policing and discrimination directed against the Catholic minority.

Although the RUC was officially dissolved in 2001, the only real transformation was a name change to Police Service of Northern Ireland, as if a different name could ever clear their responsibility for past wrongdoing.

“As I said, the rape and thus my birth made me a direct result of the conflict,” he continued. “While my mother was dark-haired, I was born with a full set of blond hair, which explains my first name. Finnean is Gaelic and it means fair-haired.”

He took yet another sip from the cup and started pacing again while he resumed his monologue.

“My actions in a younger life, during the period known as ‘The Troubles’, have caused the deaths of many people, most of them Protestants, some of them Catholic, and the Catholics I killed were traitors. They deserved to die for their treason, and I pray they burn in hell where I may join them. There it will be my pleasure to increase their pain. However, still, I do hope, when the time comes, I will meet St. Peter at heaven’s gate, and he will say, ‘Hey, Finn, what took you so long?’”

Again, he stopped and looked at me, “Well, you know the saying about the Irish coming to heaven?”

It took me only a second to think about the answer. “May you arrive in heaven five minutes before the devil knows you’re dead?”

“Yes, that’s the one. So, St. Peter would tell me, ‘The devil – you knew her as Margaret Thatcher – has sent her most ruthless servant, Ian Paisley, to come after you. Do I feel a draft here? You’d best come in quickly and let’s close the gate.’ ”

He turned toward the kitchen door and yelled, “Sorry, Ian! It was getting just a bit chilly here and with today’s energy costs, you know… Have a nice death!”

For a moment, it seemed like he wanted to spit at the door. Then realized where he was, and, remembering his polite manners, showed respect to his host’s courtesy.

I couldn’t help but comment. “But Ian Paisley was the First Minister of Northern Island.”

He looked straight at me with a mirthless smile. “And Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister of Great Britain. A great man, whose name escapes me at this very moment, once said that freedom is the right to be wrong, but not to do wrong. Both have committed a great deal of wrongdoing in the name of freedom.”

He shook his head. “Nevertheless, enough about politics. As I said, politics are not my strong suit. I leave that to people like Gerry Adams and Martin McGuiness. Not that I agree with either one of them, but it looks as if talking counts more than fighting these days.”

He noticed our empty cups, and he went for the teapot, filled both cups carefully, and added milk and Jameson for himself.

“Well, back to my story,” he said. He picked up his cup, wrapped his hands around it, and resumed his pacing.

“The place I grew a man was the farm of Brendan and Mary Whelan. My mother spent most of her pregnancy at their place. The rest of her family was told that she was taking care of a distant cousin who was sick. After she gave birth to me, she went back home to her family in Cahersiveen, in the county of Kerry.

“I was officially declared an orphan, and the Whelans were assigned as my foster parents. They were good people, and they treated me well. My mother’s husband had provided the financial means to help them raise me properly.

“He also left strict instructions that they were not allowed to reveal my true identity and they had to maintain that my parents had died in a car accident. They kept their side of the deal until their very deaths, and even after I was confronted with the truth, I never told them I knew.”

It seemed he had sunken into memories of his childhood days as he closed his eyes for a few moments, and then he just stood there with his head slightly bent downward.

I sat at the kitchen table enjoying a delicious cup of tea and listening to my new friend. I had to admit that the man taking his strides back and forth in my kitchen had already managed to fascinate me a great deal. At that very moment, slowly and surely, I began to realize with delight that I was only at the beginning of an adventure tour into another time and dimension, and I already enjoyed the ride.

I also had questions on my mind, and I deemed this was the right time to throw in the most burning of them.

“Did you ever meet your mother?” I asked him.

It appeared I had interrupted his thoughts, and he didn’t answer immediately. He shook his head.

“No,” he answered very calmly. “She was already dead when I found out. I have only a photo of her, which is now in a safe place. I don’t carry it with me. It was given to me by someone special to me.”

“Who was that?” I asked.

“My brother,” he said.

The band had left the small stage in a hurry, not waiting for the applause to subside, tiptoeing through the jungle of cables, microphones, speakers, and instruments, rushing over to the bar at the far end of the pub, yearning for a beer during their well-deserved break. Then, unexpectedly, all remaining lights went out, leaving the room in utter darkness for a fleeting moment until a single beam of light emerged from the ceiling, focusing on the young man they had left behind. He sat in an antique, wooden chair in the center of the stage with his eyes closed and his head down as if meditating. His arms covered his instrument, the Uilleann pipe.

His long, brown hair was neatly parted and bound into a ponytail. The bright Red Sox T-shirt, a tribute to a local passion, was in piercing contrast to his otherwise plain clothing, the dark brown corduroy trousers and black shoes. The small set of bellows was wrapped between his waist and right arm. The three drones – tenor, baritone, and bass – lay across his right thigh. The presence of another set of three regulators, as any expert would notice, revealed the musician’s impressive talent.

Oblivious of his surroundings, the young man did not move, did not attempt to play or even respond to the presence of his audience. After a few calls from several tables, addressed to those in the audience still engaged in whispers and giggles, the room grew quiet and, slowly, the young man came to life, opened his eyes, straightened his posture, and used his right elbow to begin moving the bellows, pumping air into the pipe bag.

Finn had read about the young musician’s exceptional talent and, sitting in a dark corner alone with his drink, unnoticed by most of the patrons, had been waiting expectantly in anticipation of a performance that involved his favorite musical instrument with its sweet tone and the wide range of notes.

The first song was simple and light, yet enchanting, over the constant background of the drones accompanying the tune of the chanter, as is characteristic of the national bagpipe of Ireland.

Finn relaxed, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander, preparing himself for a journey back into time, to a place he had not seen in nearly three decades. Shortly thereafter he saw himself, a boy of fourteen, sitting on the top of a grassy knoll on a bright and warm Sunday morning, the wind swirling his hair, looking down on the Whelan farm in the far distance, so far away that all the sheep appeared like little white dots on a large, colorful painting. The dark blue ocean was quiet, and from where he was sitting, he could even see the beautiful beaches of Inch.

Sunday was his only day off from farm work, and he would spend his time reading, sitting on a rock, or lying in the grass until the daylight faded. Being aware that he might spend hours without food, Mother Whelan would not let him leave without a basket full of homemade brown bread, butter, and milk.

As on every Sunday morning he had been to church, and after Mass, he would spend an hour or two in the priest’s library, where he was offered tea while reading newspapers with passionate intensity, keenly absorbing every little detail. At times the study was supplemented by lessons on Irish history or the current status of the Irish Republic in cases where the young man lacked the background information on the topic about which he was reading.

When he had finished his readings, he had a choice of one book from the library’s extensive selection, which was to be returned the following Sunday. These were usually works by Jonathan Swift, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, William Butler Yeats, or, on occasion, even English literature such as Winston Churchill’s “The River War.”

“You need to know the enemy’s thinking,” Father Connelly, a stern Republican, assured him on more than one occasion. “The enemy’s greatest mistake is their view – based on downright ignorance, I might say – that the Republican movement is nonexistent.”

Father Connelly was famous for his colorful Sunday night speeches at the local pub where an exclusive group of local farmers, Brendan Whelan being one of them, gathered in the back room to discuss the Irish situation, especially that of Northern Ireland.

The general sense of the discussions was that the violence in Northern Ireland was committed against Republicans, and not, as it should be, by Republicans.

“The Republican movement has no real policies,” Father Connelly once announced during one of his speeches. “We are talking a great deal about fighting for the freedom of Ireland, but we do not succeed. What will it take, what disaster must happen? How many lives will it take before we officially prove our position?”

Finn was only an innocent bystander in those discussions, torn between listening to the heated arguments and the Sunday night sessions at the pub in front. He remembered one night where the party went to a nearby barn, where they inspected a new shipment of Thompson submachine guns, stored in their wooden boxes, oiled and ready for use.

It was the first time in his young life that he had seen such weapons, and at the time he was unable to grasp their use. Ironically, only a few years later he would be an expert with any weaponry, including the legendary AK-47, and there would be no doubt about his understanding of their use and the reasons behind it.

His thoughts were quickly drawn in a different direction as the music turned to another piece in a faster tempo as the musician’s fingers went flying rapidly over the chanter, producing an occasional staccato by working the chanter’s bottom hole with his knee. He was now accompanied by another band member sitting on a white plastic chair to his left, a glass of Guinness positioned on the floor in front of him, lifting the music with his bodhrán, the traditional Irish drum, and creating surprisingly intricate rhythms.

Finn let his mind flow wherever it wanted to take him and after only a few seconds he was a young man of seventeen entering Durty McCarthy’s, a pub near the town of Cahersiveen in the county of Kerry, only a few miles away from the house where his mother had lived. It was late afternoon on a Friday. The pub was packed and filled with smoke, and a session was about to start.

Durty McCarthy’s provided him with reasonable accommodations after a long day’s journey from home. He had learned of his true heritage only a few days before, and he needed to reflect as well as learn more. The events of the preceding days had profoundly changed his life, and little did he know that it was only the beginning. Before that day his life held no print or plan, but that was about to change.

He distinctly remembered the first time he noticed the publican’s daughter Shauna staring at him. She was a beautiful girl with brown hair and green eyes, dressed in a kitchen apron, wearing rubber gloves and rubber boots. Even then, just like it had so many years earlier, his heart raced. The love he felt for Shauna began right then and it had never died.

He remembered her face as a mixture of surprise and immense joy when he asked her to marry him and follow him to live in the Northern provinces, where he would use his skills to fight for the Irish cause. Only a few months later they were married in the large garden behind the McCarthy’s house in the same niche that was now the place of her grave.

Suddenly the musicians turned to a piece of greater complexity and darkness, emphasized by an enigmatic beating of the bodhrán, requiring the highest level of skill and concentration. The young man playing the Uilleann pipe had closed his eyes. His body moved in the rhythm of the music, and his wrists frantically worked the drones and regulators.

Finn began to have visions of bloody bodies leaving bloody traces on the ground as they were drawn away from the view of the shooters, screaming all around him, left and right, from the injured as well as those who tried to help them. He saw people carrying the dead body of a young boy, a priest walking in front of them, waving a white, bloodstained handkerchief at the soldiers with the red berets who, without mercy, kept shooting at them.

Finn squinted his eyes and struggled to fight off the negative images. This was neither the time nor the place for such dark memories. His attempt was defeated by similar images full of screaming and yelling and the deafening sound of continuous shooting. He saw Shauna’s bloody body on the floor. He could not handle the expression of disbelief on her beautiful face while he was struck with shock, trying to find a way to get her out of harm’s way. Still, after all these years, he could clearly feel the intense pain of leaving her and being dragged away from her unconscious body.

He was surprised by the energy it took to fight off the images and force his mind to turn to more pleasant memories.

He finally found himself amid a cold autumn thunderstorm, rolling thunder and lightning in the distance, riding on the pony he had taken from his foster father’s stable in the early morning. There was no money to afford a saddle or reins. He would merely rely on his physical strength and skill. He knew Brendan Whelan would be angry with him, but he also knew the man’s great heart. He would understand and forgive him.

Horse and rider went striding down the hill, eventually reaching the beaches of Inch, where he steered the horse into the shallow waters. He kicked his bare feet into the horse’s flanks and together they went flying over the water. He felt the freezing rain hitting his face and his clothes turning soaking wet, but he didn’t care. He enjoyed the flight through the darkness, the lightning, and the noise.

He clung closer to the horse’s neck, desperately holding on to the mane with both hands.

“C’mon, laddy,” he yelled into the pony’s ear. “You can go faster than that!”

He could feel the animal’s body stretch under him, lengthening the strides.

“Yee-haw!” he screeched, stretching out his left arm with a closed fist high into the dark skies. His exaltation grew with every stride.

He had hoped to make it to the other side of the bay, but suddenly he felt his body slip, and his heart started racing. Trying to slow the horse, he adjusted his body into an upright position, and while he tried to use both hands to pull on the mane, he was caught in a massive gust. His upper body pushed off the horse, his feet high in the air, both arms stretched wide, he tumbled through the air, and after a less than perfect somersault, landed flat on his back, slumping into the cold and salty water.

There he lay for a few moments, stunned, trying to comprehend what had just happened, and then he burst out into thunderous, unrestrained laughter. He stood up slowly, stiff, pushing one arm into his back, water mixed with sand running from his hair and clothes, and then he limped toward the horse patiently waiting in the distance.

The music ended with the sole voice of the bass drone, gently and gradually subsiding into silence, followed by a thunder of applause. Finn slowly opened his eyes, a smile of satisfaction grew on his face, and in his mind he thanked the young man for bringing back memories of the one true love, Ireland.

He knew he would be back soon. There had been rumors, whispers, and signals that he could not ignore. He did not know when, but it would be soon. He did not know how, but he was willing to comply and finish his course.

———————————–

Download the PDF file and feel free to distribute it to friends and family.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Sigerson Clifford was an Irish poet and playwright. I took a line from his poem The Boys of Barr Na Sraide, the line that goes “And when the hills were bleeding and rifles were aflame…”, to use it as the title for my book “The Bleeding Hills“. The research for my also revealed that there is not a lot of information available that would describe the person Sigerson Clifford in more detail, and that is the reason I created a web site in the hope that people all over the world find it and possibly add more data.

Sigerson Clifford (1913 – 1985)

Clifford was born at #11 Dean St, Cork City, and was christened Edward Bernard Clifford. His parents, Michael Clifford and Mary Anne Sigerson, were from County Kerry, and they returned there in the following year, to Cahersiveen, where he was raised on the Ring of Kerry. He attended the Christian Brothers school in that town.

At the age of six, he went to live with his paternal grandfather, Ned Clifford, on the Old Road in the town. Ned was a gifted storyteller, and his influence encouraged Eddie to write poems and stories while at school. As a writer, he adopted the first name Sigerson in honour of his maternal family, although he continued to be known as “Eddie” to family and friends. At nineteen, after finishing secondary school, he joined the Civil Service, and worked for several years in unemployment exchanges in Cork and Kerry. In 1943 he moved to Dublin.

In 1945 he married Marie Eady from Cork. Clifford continued to write, but he did not leave work, and retired from the Civil Service in 1973.

Sigerson Clifford died in Glenageary, County Dublin on 1 January 1985, aged 71, and was interred in Kilnavarnogue Cemetery in his native Cahersiveen, with a graveside oration by his fellow Kerry author and playwright, John B Keane. A monument in memory of Sigerson Clifford is located in Cahersiveen.

Clifford wrote a number of poems and plays, including The Great Pacificator, which was staged at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, in 1947. Clifford is best remembered for his poem, The Boys of Barr na Sráide, which was named after a street in Cahersiveen. The poem recalls the life of his boyhood friends starting from when they were young children through to the Black and Tan period, and up to the civil war. The poem speaks of the Irish tradition of “hunting for the wran” (wren), a small bird, on St. Stephen’s Day, 26 December. Later set to music, the song has been recorded by numerous traditional and folk singers including Christy Moore and Tim Dennehy.

Contribute to the Sigerson Clifford web site

If you can contribute any information on the life and work of Sigerson Clifford please have a look at the web site I created to honor his life and work. Unfortunately, there is not a great deal of information on Sigerson Clifford, and I would love to show photos and a more detailed biography.

The web site is located at SigersonClifford.com.

]]> http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/11/sigerson-clifford-1913-1985/feed/ 0 http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/10/a-writers-lament/ http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/10/a-writers-lament/#comments Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:25:38 +0000 Editor http://www.frogenyozurt.com/?p=837 Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.
- Soren Kierkegaard

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

As a writer you cannot only expect praise for your work, but also criticism. That is just human nature. I have learned to live with criticism, and, knowing that I am not the ultimate source of all wisdom, I am willing to listen and learn as long as the criticism is constructive. The situation becomes very difficult, however, when your writing hurts the feeling of a person, and that person accuses you of false reflection of a certain event or person through means of superficial research.

That is exactly what happened to me a few days ago. Two of my entries on my blog got the attention of Natalie, who apparently lives in the United Kingdom. She responded to my blog entry Robert Nairac – Hero, Butcher, Homosexual…? as follows:

“I would be very interested in talking to you! You seem to have a cavalier approach to researching for your book and make extremely tenuous links.

I can state quite catagorically that Julian ‘Tony’ Ball was not psychotic and did not take drugs. Though he did bite his nails, this is a family trait.

Robert came from a very loving middle-class family who would be mortified to read you diatribe. He was not gay and if he was he would have been able to face it in the same way as he faced his life and death, with style and dignity.”

You can see her comment and my answer at the bottom of the entry. She left another, similar remark at the entry  Robert Nairac – Supplement to previous entry. We also initiated a brief communication through Facebook (see my Facebook reference to the right hand side of the screen), and I found out that Julian Ball was her father. After a few exchanges we decided that we both had made our points and to leave it at that.

Even though I felt sure that the research for my novel was meticulous, it leaves a bitter aftertaste when you hurt the feelings of somebody with something you wrote, and, naturally, doubt arises. As a result, I spent all of yesterday and this morning – starting at 5:30 am – with further research on the subject of Julian Ball and Robert Nairac. Without going into details – it doesn’t make sense to drag this matter on and on – I was relieved to find that my research was not flawed. Let me also state that my references to Julian Ball and Robert Nairac in my novel add only one small aspect to the Irish troubles as it takes place in my novel.

I will follow Natalie’s advice and I will read ‘Big Boy’s Rules‘ by Mark L. Urban, a book exploring covert operations against the IRA from the mid-1970s to the Loughgall shooting in 1987. I did, however, take the liberty of adding a highly controversial book to my reading list, ‘War Without Honour: True Story of Military Intelligence in Northern Ireland‘ by Fred Holroyd and Nick Burbridge.

Interesting enough, but both books were hard to come by and seem to be out of print. I managed to buy used copies through Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk. I will follow up on my readings by writing reviews on this blog.

]]> http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/10/a-writers-lament/feed/ 0 http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/09/its-scarybut-were-finally-publishing/ http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/09/its-scarybut-were-finally-publishing/#comments Sun, 06 Sep 2009 13:40:54 +0000 Editor http://www.frogenyozurt.com/?p=500

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

As of today I have finished the last revision of my novel, The Bleeding Hills. The document is converted into a PDF, as is the cover. We’re ready to upload the files to LightningSource.com, an Ingram Books service. Monday is Labor Day, but they will work on the files by Tuesday, and I might receive the proof copy by the end of the week or early the week after. It really goes that fast. As soon as I approve, it will take only a few days for the Amazon.com listing. Amazon is usually faster than other Online sellers, but these other sellers – including Barnes & Noble – will follow soon. It’s time to get my well-prepared marketing plan into work.

I had my last draft reviewed by a professional Online editing service (http://www.firstediting.com), which did cost me a little over $600. Naturally, I had to go through their changes and check for consistency. I cannot stress enough the importance of having your work revised by a professional editing service, but I also have to say that I was a bit disappointed by the end result. The person, who revised my draft, did a great job in most instances to improve the readability, but she also made some changes to improve sentence structures that conflicted with my story line.

What I learned during this process, is to listen to the expert, but to make the final decision myself. In some cases the expert made changes that made me realize that a change was indeed necessary, but, ultimately, I changed it differently to preserve the consistency of my story line.

There were also “bad” changes, but they were usually based on lack of knowledge of the topic I wrote about. For instance, I referred to the Uilleann pipe as “the national bagpipe of Ireland”, and that statement is indisputable, unless you are not familiar with the topic. The editor changed it to “the bagpipe, the national instrument of Ireland”, which is not correct. The Uilleann pipe is a special type of bagpipe, but it is also so very different than a bagpipe.

Another good change to the better was to use italic fonts to differentiate between speech and thought. However, the editor was not consistent enough to change all thought sentences into italic font. Not a biggy, but it shows that the final responsibility lies with the author.

So, after revising all changes – and approving 99% of them – I revised it twice again and actually found some minor, self-inflicted inconsistencies in the story line. They are corrected now, and I have to say, I am quite pleased with the result. Being my worst critic, that means something.

I am, nevertheless, paranoid. I will read the proof copy carefully and I am not afraid to delay publication in the unlikely case I should find any minor flaw. I was looking forward to publishing the novel, but it’s also scary and somewhat saddening. Scary, because of being paranoid, and saddened, because I have been separated from my “baby”.

It’s time to concentrate on my next novel. As I wrote before, I have more ideas for books – the next two novels are already “brewing” in my brain – but I don’t want to follow the example of a John Grisham or Stephen King and being tied to a single genre of fiction writing. The next novel, The Fellow Utopian, is on a totally different topic – Immigration – and I will keep it that way. However, the thought of writing a sequel to The Bleeding Hills is very tempting, and I may change my mind…

Supplement, September 22, 2009:

As of today, The Bleeding Hills is listed on Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Well, as of today I have submitted my first novel to a professional editing service. My last entry was on July 10, 2009 at which time I was sure I was shortly before publishing. However, I decided to run yet another editing process, and I believe it was well worth the efforts. Since my first draft I had added roughly 10,000 words and another run was necessary. I like the result and, believe me, I am my worst critic. I am counting on the professional editing service to add a little cream on top of the pie.

The editing process will take between 10 to 14 days which will put us into mid of September. The cover design is done and the next step will be going through the changes made by the editor. The submitting and approval process with LightningSource (our printer/distributor) will take another week. My hope is that, provided there are no major problems, the book will be available for sale by end of September.

As of today I also felt some kind of emptiness, that there was nothing more to do about my first novel. However, as every aspiring author should know: The real work begins as soon as you have finished the writing. As soon as the book is actually published I need to promote the hell out of it. My marketing strategy is mainly based on press releases; some of them are free, others I will need to pay for. I will also place Online ads in some selected places. Without going into more details, but there is work to be done.

The other task is to start my next novel, which is actually my first one. I had the idea before The Bleeding Hills, but – as I wrote in my very first blog entry – I wrote The Bleeding Hills mainly to gain experience in the novel writing process and I can say with the utmost confidence that I have learned a lot. However, this statement should not undermine the importance of The Bleeding Hills to me. Yes, this was supposed a mere test project, but I can now say  that I thoroughly enjoyed working on it, and that I am very proud of the result.

I will continue writing about my projects on this blog, i.e. my next novel. I have already outlined roughly 90% of the story line, and I am looking forward to dive into another writing adventure.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I am very close to publishing my first novel, The Bleeding Hills. The actual writing is done, and we are currently going through the consistency test, before we pass the novel to a professional editor. In the meantime I feel compelled to share some experiences I made during the writing process.

I found the above quote in the last issue of “Poets & Writers”; it was part of the first article in this magazine that I actually read in full. It is an unfortunate fact that most writers’ magazines, and especially web sites, are filled with a mind-boggling large amount of superficial information and self-indulgence. The persona of Jonathan Galassi, however, made reading this particular article a joyful experience.

Mr. Galassi possesses a passion for writers and their works that should be an example for every agent, editor, and publisher, especially those who, as part of their business policy, strictly reject author submissions that don’t follow their submission guidelines (i.e. applying the proper font, etc.). I am thinking of those impassive people who turned down first-time authors like – just to name one extraordinary example – Stephenie Meyer and her “Twilight” novel.

In addition, Mr. Galassi, while melancholically favoring the traditional publishing system, realizes the potential of modern-day publishing technologies. All those writers’ magazines, web sites, blogs, and forums I read merely concentrate on the traditional process (Looking for an agent, finding a publisher), that will take a promising author years before his/her work reaches the potential reader. Well, this last statement is not quite correct; most writers’ magazines and web sites do promote self-publishing, but they also shamelessly provide a ton of ad space for all those sharks who will gladly take your money (Several thousands of Dollars is not an unusual amount) for a very remote chance for sales success.

Another misconception, promoted by the traditional system and their disciples, is that, once you are published, you are a member of a very exclusive club. Accomplished authors obtain the right to look down on all wannabes, and if they feel the urge for charity, they offer their advice on writers’ Online forums. One of the experiences I made during writing my first novel was to stay away from Online forums. I did my share by posting comments that – quite coincidently – included references to my blog, but I quickly learned they have no impact on “building a platform”. “Building a platform”, i.e. increasing the awareness of your persona, is widely recommended to increase your chances for publication and increase your sales numbers once you are published. The harsh reality is, considering the vast amount of forums and blogs these days, blog/forum entries have a tremendously small impact on your success as a writer.

Actually, the process is reversed. I deem the existence of an author’s blog as mandatory, but the only way to drive traffic to your blog is to write and publish a good book. I see my blog frogenyozurt.com as a supplement to my writings, right now for my first novel The Bleeding Hills, and later, of course, for everything that follows. The intention is to add value by describing the writing process, and sharing all discoveries.

When I started posting entries on a particular writers’ forum I even received a bashing from accomplished authors regarding my approach. First, there is my cocky attitude, that I refuse to waste years of waiting for approval of my novel, and thus decided to self-publish (Actually, I am a business man and I run my own micro-publishing business). This probably felt like a slap in the face of everybody who went through the process the traditional way. Secondly, and this is another lesson I learned, I should not bother publishing my novel unless I am sure it sells at least 10,000 copies. This has to do with yet another aspect of writing a novel, and it really does not apply to me: You write to become famous… well, rich and famous, but famous also means you become a member of this exclusive club…

I rather refer to Groucho Marx who once said, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.” Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to become rich just like the other guy, and I will be grateful for every copy of my novel I can sell, but my motivation is not fame or  a vast sales success. On the other hand I do not write for not being published, and I do have the means to publish, so why not use them.

My main motivation is the actual writing, and the new discoveries that come with the research of the topic. The Bleeding Hills was created, because I was curious about the events of Bloody Sunday, and, while I do not consider myself an expert on the Irish Troubles, I have learned a great deal about them. It is also fascinating to watch the development of a story. As a writer you start with a scaffold before building the walls, followed by careful, time-consuming interior design. It is fascinating to watch all the unexpected little twists and turns that your mind creates while you work on the details. Basically, writing a novel is the kind of experience I thoroughly enjoy.

In the same sense, considerations like sales success or fame do not play any role when I select the topics of my writings. My first novel, The Bleeding Hills, gained relevance due to recent terrorist attacks in Northern Ireland, but that was pure coincidence – a strike of luck if you want. My next novel – which is actually the first, since I started writing it before The Bleeding Hills – will refer to US immigration, a topic with which I have some personal experiences, but it also comes up as a political topic every so many years.

In the before-mentioned Online forums I read the entries of a vast number of primarily very young writers who try to follow the mainstream by writing vampire novels a la “Twilight” by Stephenie Meyer. A similar development could be seen after the publication of Dan Brown’s “The Da Vinci Code” when a great number of authors discovered the opportunity to squeeze more money out of a popular theme. I try to be a bit more original, but I am still tempted to write “The Monty Python Code”.

Well, it’s done! As of today I have finished my first novel… But wait! In all truth, the real work starts now. This first draft – and that’s all it is – is roughly 48,000 words long. The bare minimum is 60,000. Also, according to the size I will use (5.5″ x 8.5″) the book would only be 153 pages thick. I had envisioned around 300 pages to make it worth-while for the reader. It is time to add more substance.

My Favorite Short Story

Let me explain the process by referring to my favorite, yet unwritten, short story titled “The Duel”.

The German Version

First, there is what I call the German version, short, precise and to the point:

He saw him.
He shot him.
He left.

Not very satisfying, is it?

The English Non-Fiction Version

After reading a bunch of worthless books on the Irish Troubles, written by English journalists full of themselves, I have come up with the English non-fiction version:

It has been stipulated, the person, we will refer to as “A”, besides his detestable reflection, had demonstrated some abominable behavioral patterns prior to the confrontation with the subject we will refer to as “B”. One is reminded of the MKRF report – the findings of that report have  also been adopted by the RTAK, an organization whose services have on occasion exploited by the British Defense Ministry, in 1999 – recognising spectacular similarities to the event in question. While bloodshed was not a preferred choice of reconciliation, it was nevertheless the most effective – as was substantiated by research activities at the UKIMA, the United Kingdom Institute for Military Absurdity in 2002. The elimination of “B” is widely considered a logical consequence of the conflict and it was accomplished in full accordance to the 1875 Treaty of Thurtherthon, Wales, which specifically outlaws coercive exercise during tea time.

If you are into this kind of style – without the humor, though – you may enjoy the following two excellent examples:

The Irish War: The Hidden Conflict between the IRA and British Intelligence by Tony Geraghty
Secret Hero: The Life and Mysterious Death of Captain Robert Nairac by John Parker

I consider reading – and consequently the writing – of either one of these books a terrible waste of time.

The American “Crime Noir” Version

Giordano Mozzarella took shelter from the falling rain at the corner of 5th and 6th Street. Once under his shelter he watched the New York rush hour traffic crawling by, waiting for his target to arrive. Mozzarella was not a handsome man. In fact, he had a face that only a mother could love. Unfortunate for Mozzarella, his mother didn’t love him. In an erratic decision earlier in her life she had refused to have more children who might turn out like him. He had tried hard to please her, but she still couldn’t find it in her heart to love him and he wondered why. Suddenly he recognized the man in a long trench coat walking towards his position next to “Yakov’s Butchery”. Mozzarella quickly took care of his running nose by pressing his finger on his left nostril, and forcefully pushing the gunk through the other into the falling rain. He checked his wrist watch, assuring it was past tea time. The Brits would have no reason to complain about his timing. Mozzarella was not a man of many words, maybe because he was mute, and when the man in the trench coat walked by him, he simply raised the 90 mm Glock and pulled the trigger. “Gotcha,” he thought. For several minutes he just stood there, watching the man die, then he checked his watch again and decided it was time to go home. Maybe this time his mother would be proud of him, now that he had killed the man from the Internal Revenue Service.

Needless to say that neither of these versions will be applied to my novel…

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I had written in my very first entry on this blog that I had chosen an “easy” topic for my first novel, just to get a feel of the whole writing process. Well, the topic wasn’t easy at all and the quote “The best way to become acquainted with a subject is to write a book about it”  became reality. At this time I know much more about Bloody Sunday than ever before and continue to find more information.

I did, nevertheless, get a good feel of the writing process, even in several dimensions. First of all, I believe that my writing style has continually improved since chapter one – I am still not where I want to be, though. Through some extensive research on the writing process I have learned how important the use of a professional editing service is. I had sent my first chapter to one of these services and they worked on the first three pages without charge, just to give me a sample of their work. The result was amazing. They didn’t alter my style or the story line, but they improved the readability a great deal with only a few modifications.

I also learned that a novel should have in the neighborhood of 60,000 words (roughly 300 pages). Naturally, more than 60,000 words are allowed as well. My word count – now that I have finished chapter four – is roughly 38,000, which means that I am well on target.

The first part of chapter four was the most difficult period during the writing process and it took the longest time as well. This part involves the events of Bloody Sunday in the view of the main character, Finnean Whelan. The remaining two thirds of chapter four took only three days to write, but I have only roughly four hours per writing day available (The rest is occupied by a 23 month old boy…). Unfortunately, I have to maintain a daytime job and can only dedicate one day per week for writing.

The rest of the story line is pretty much in my head, even including dialogs, and I am hopeful to have the first draft finished by the end of May 2009. From there on I will spend more time to flesh the story line out where necessary and revise my earlier writing. I have set end of June as a target for this step. The final review by the professional editing service will take ten to fifteen days and after that I need to revise/accept their changes. All in all I am targeting end of July 2009 as the release date of my novel, The Bleeding Hills.

Supplement 07/20/2009:

Well, it is already July 2009, and we are close to publishing, however, by far not as close as originally projected. Again, we are going through a learning process.

As of today, we have the first draft (56,000+ words as of today), and I am working on adding more. The first draft has undergone the consistency editing, and I was about to pass it on to the final editing. However, in the meantime I had found a really great web site (http://www.essayrater.com). It is a paid service, and it allows you to copy and paste your text, and have it checked for a myriad of parameters. We are not talking about a simple spell/grammar check, but a very intelligent test of my writing. The first runs of the program pointed to some “problem” areas, and I decided to work on these areas before we pass the text to the final editing service. I just think, that the final result will be much better.

As of today, we are targeting end of September as the publishing date.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Last week, just out of curiosity, I signed up at a writers’ Online forum and like everybody who is new to the forum I posted an entry in the “Welcome” section. I briefly explained my current writing project, The Bleeding Hills, and received numerous responses wishing me well. All responses included links to the respondents’ individual web sites, since they all are working to extend their “awareness platform” (I still fail to understand where writing about writing improves your chances for a book deal). One entry, while written in the best of intentions, rubbed me the wrong way.

The person, who apparently won several first prizes in short story contests, wrote “Writing a novel is hard work.” I couldn’t help to – respectfully – object to this view, but was promptly corrected by another forum member. The same happened when I posted another entry in the “Tips & Advice” section, which seems to be the domain of two elderly accomplished authors – Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong about age; what I can’t stand are old ideas and those two “mentors” were full of them. Well, I received my bashing for intruding on their turf and decided I didn’t belong here. I just feel sorry for the thousands of lost souls who dream of having their novel published, but will never make it, because they get advice from people who went through the same process too many years ago. A great deal has changed in the publishing world, but today’s added resources for being published are not welcome on this particular forum.

Anyways, let me come back to “Writing a novel is hard work.” First of all, the socialist portion of my soul tells me there is much to say about hard work, and writing a novel doesn’t come to mind. I think of the many people in this world who work hard for a living, not out of choice, but the mere instinct for survival. Writing a novel is nothing else but a privilege. Writing a novel can be time consuming, but that should not be taken as hard work. James M. Barrie’s quote really gets it down the point. If you consider writing a novel as hard work, maybe you shouldn’t be writing. It is never hard work when you love what you’re doing.

I am still working chapter 4 of my novel and this chapter has been particularly difficult, since it involves the events of Bloody Sunday on January 30, 1972. Even though this is the most difficult chapter of all, I never considered writing it as hard work. The emotions during writing can be intense and I believe, I received some concerned looks the last time I sat at my table at Panera Bread – The consumption of three large cappuccinos somehow did not help to calm me down. Every time I stop writing and drive home – merely because a wife and kid are waiting for me – I feel … elevated (Sorry, there is no better word for that feeling). Writing a novel transports you into another dimension, another time, another place, while the world around you doesn’t matter anymore. That is why writing is exciting and far away from hard work.

Mr Tony Blair MP, The Prime Minister
Statement to the House of Commons
29 January 1998

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

The story line behind my novel “The Bleeding Hills” would not be complete without a look into the two inquiries of Bloody Sunday, the Widgery Report of 1972 and the official Bloody Sunday Inquiry initiated in 1998.

The Widgery Tribual was held in the immediate aftermath of the events of Bloody Sunday; it was conducted by Lord Chief Justice Widgery. The Widgery Report which was produced 11 weeks after the day, but it was widely criticized as a whitewash.

The conclusion was:

• That shots had been fired at the soldiers before they started the firing that led to the casualties;
• That, for the most part, the soldiers acted as they did because they thought their standing orders justified it;
• And that although there was no proof that any of the deceased had been shot while handling a firearm or bomb, there was a strong suspicion that some had been firing weapons or handling bombs in the course of the afternoon.

Click here to read the full Widgery Report.

In his 29 January 1998 statement, the then Prime Minister, Tony Blair, said the following:

“The time scale within which Lord Widgery produced his report meant that he was not able to consider all the evidence that might have been available. For example, he did not receive any evidence from the wounded who were still in hospital, and he did not consider individually substantial numbers of eye-witness accounts provided to his inquiry in the early part of March 1972. Since the report was published, much new material has come to light about the events of that day. That material includes new eye-witness accounts, new interpretation of ballistic material and new medical evidence.
:
I have been strongly advised, and I believe, that there are indeed grounds for such a further inquiry. We believe that the weight of material now available is such that the events require re-examination. We believe that the only course that will lead to public confidence in the results of any further investigation is to set up a full-scale judicial inquiry into Bloody Sunday.”

Click here to read the full statement.

Even though the judges retired on November 23, 2004, there has been no measurable result to this day. Statements regarding a possible publication of the Inquiry’s Report have been modified from year to year. The current statement on the Wikipedia web site is that the publication “was expected at the end of 2007, or possibly early 2008.” – Note: This blog entry was written on March 22, 2009.

Supplement – March 23, 2010

Here we go again. A year after my last entry on the topic of the Bloody Sunday Inquiry there is still no report on the events of Bloody Sunday. See the following references:

Bloody Sunday families angry at Saville delay

There is growing anger amongst the Bloody Sunday families that they may not see the report into the killings until after the general election. On Monday, Secretary of State Shaun Woodward said the document would remain with Lord Saville if Parliament is dissolved before it has been checked. Government advisers are reviewing it to ensure it does not endanger anyone or breach national security. Read more…

SEE ALSO

March 19, 2010 - Bloody Sunday report plan changed

February 23, 2010 - Sunday families want report date

September 23, 2009 - New delay to Bloody Sunday report

Banner and Crosses carried by the families of the Bloody Sunday victims on the annual commemoration march.

I have often criticized the lack of good literature explaining the events of Bloody Sunday untainted and comprehensible. I have been faced with the same dilemma, now that I am in the middle of writing chapter four of my novel “The Bleeding Hills“, where Bloody Sunday takes center stage.

For the record, I am not looking down on those who were present at Bloody Sunday and wrote a book about it. An atrocity like this should be a part of a well recorded history, but I also believe that, in order to spark the interest of future generations, you need to start with the basics and these basics should, first of all, not be politically tainted; consequently they will lose credibility. In regards to comprehensiveness of recorded history, it does not help to confuse the newcomer to Irish history by frequently referring to Unionists, Republicans, Loyalists, MRF, SAS, MI5, MI6, Real IRA, Continuity IRA, RUC, Provisional IRA, INLA, NICRA, Saville, Widgery, MP, PM, etc., etc., without providing a comprehensible reference. The majority of books and web sites I found on the subject were written by experts for experts, having only their own indulgence in mind. What a waste of resources and what a waste to make it so difficult for our children to understand history!

As I wrote, I have been faced with the same dilemma of describing the background of Bloody Sunday in a way that it would seamlessly fit into my story line without boring or overwhelming the reader. In my novel, the main character, Finn Whelan, is an eye-witness of the events and I needed to explain the history that led to Bloody Sunday.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Here is my draft version:
The British occupation of the Irish island began as early as the late twelfth century and the history of English rule is filled with attempts to annihilate the Irish identity, which bear striking characteristics of Hitler’s henchmen trying to eliminate the Jewish population in Germany, however, not quite as methodical.

History is also filled with constant acts of Irish resistance and no ruling king or parliament was ever able to solve the problem. It is said that the nineteenth century Prime Minister William Eward Gladstone tried to deal with the Irish question, but never found the answer, as the Irish continued to change the question.

December 1921 saw the signing of the ‘Articles of Agreement for a Treaty between Great Britain and Ireland’, which established a free Irish state with jurisdiction over twenty-six of the thirty-two counties. It also created the separate province of Northern Ireland which remained under British control. It consists of the six northeastern counties of the predominantly Protestant Ulster region.

The deal, as negotiated by the founder of the IRA, Michael Collins, did not find the approval of the entire Irish population and, even though the Republic of Ireland was officially established, the fight for an Irish reunification began. The importance of the IRA, though, endured a slow, but continuous decline until the late 1960s, which saw increased confrontations between the Civil Rights movement in Northern Ireland and British officials, especially the Royal Ulster Constabulary, the official police force in Northern Ireland.

The Civil Rights movement’s demand was, just to name one single issue, for equal voting rights. The current system allowed only house owners to vote in local elections and they were predominantly Protestants supporting British rule in Northern Ireland. The Protestant majority defended their superiority by engaging their own militias against Catholics, supported by the predominantly Protestant RUC. By the summer of 1969 these disputes reached the dimensions of an outright Civil War and in August of 1969 the British government deployed troops to Northern Ireland, with the intention to restore public order. The mission was called “Operation Banner” and was envisioned to last only a few months. As a matter of fact, Operation Banner lasted thirty-eight years; it ended at midnight on July 31, 2007 and it represents the longest deployment in the history of the British Army. More than 3500 people died and 763 soldiers were killed.

Initially, the Catholic population welcomed the presence of the army in the hope they would act as a neutral force and protect them against the RUC and loyalists. But their hopes were shattered in July 1970 during a British operation called “Falls Curfew”, which resulted in three days of rioting and battles between the British Army and Irish Republican paramilitaries. Five people were killed and three hundred were arrested. The British Army became a player in the conflict, not a referee.

This is the in-a-nutshell-history that led to the events of Bloody Sunday on January 30, 1972. There should be many more references included, but, as I wrote, I needed to be short and efficient in my novel.

According to the CAIN Web Service (see http://cain.ulst.ac.uk/events/bsunday/sum.htm):
‘Bloody Sunday’ refers to the events that took place in Derry on the afternoon of Sunday 30 January 1972. A Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association (NICRA) march had been organised to protest against the continuation of Internment without trial in Northern Ireland. Between ten and twenty thousand men, women and children took part in the march in a ‘carnival atmosphere’. The march was prevented from entering the city centre by members of the British Army. The main body of the march then moved to ‘Free Derry Corner’ to attend a rally but some young men began throwing stones at soldiers in William Street. Soldiers of the Parachute Regiment, an elite regiment of the British Army, moved into the Bogside in an arrest operation. During the next 30 minutes these soldiers shot dead 13 men (and shot and injured a further 13 people) mainly by single shots to the head and trunk.
The soldiers responsible for the deaths and injuries insisted that they had come under sustained gun and bomb attack by members of the Irish Republican Army (IRA) and only fired at people in possession of weapons. Those involved in the march, and those who witnessed the events, provided evidence that ran contrary to the evidence given by the soldiers. According to these civilian testimonies none of those killed or injured had any guns or bombs.

Advertisement

Queen of Misfortune

A Lady Jane Grey Novel by Peter Carroll

A Love Story of Almost Shakespearean Dimension!

Queen Of Misfortune is the fictional story of Lady Jane Grey as told by her beloved tutor, John Aylmer. At the time of her execution a stranger is recorded to have assisted her when, blind folded, she lost her way upon the scaffold. Was it the same ‘stranger’ who was also recorded to have visited her when she was imprisoned in the Tower? Little is known of this unfortunate girl who was beheaded for treason in the 16^th Century. She was only 16. She is omitted from the list of monarchs but was actually queen for nine days. Author Peter Carroll, in his novel, follows John Aylmer’s close relationship with Jane as her tutor and later, as she grows up, her lover. [More...]

Available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Noble, and any other good bookstore.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Yes, the storyline of my book “The Bleeding Hills” is being repeated by reality. Well, just a little bit…

At the beginning of this month (March 2009) I had just finished the third chapter of my novel and let me quote an unedited excerpt:
“The leader of the conspiray is a former member of the Provisional IRA, who, until recently, had never been identified. In recent years the subject initiated contacts with another Irish terrorist organization, the so-called Real IRA.”

On March 11, the Online version of the German Newspaper “Spiegel” (the German equivalent of Time magazine) published an interview with the former IRA commander Tommy McKearney. Asked about the recent violence in Northern Ireland he said (The article is in German and I am trying to translate to the best of my abilities): “I believe, that lately a handful of people with a deadly competence joined the IRA splinter groups. In this case we are not talking about newcomers, but about experienced fighters, who had remained inactive for many years.”

In my novel I write about Finn Whelan, a former fighter for the Provisional-IRA, who was inactive for the past twenty years and who, according to MI5 reports, recently has provided the Real IRA with monetary and logistics support.

It seems that the idea behind my storyline is compliant with the reality in Northern Ireland.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Yet again the idea behind my book “The Bleeding Hills” has been strikingly confirmed by the the latest attack on British soldiers on March 7th (See my blog entry March 7, 2009 – Terror Returns to Northern Ireland). In my blog entry – and my book – I refer specifically to the operations of the so-called Real IRA and, ironically, the RIRA has claimed responsibility for the attacks. Today’s Online version of The Guardian (http://www.guardian.co.uk) reports that “in a statement, the Real IRA made no apology for shooting the delivery men (Two civilians, who delivered pizza to the barracks, were wounded), accusing them of “collaborating” with the British army by delivering food to the base.”

However, one comment in the first report of the attacks caught my attention, since my book also addresses British undercover operations in Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland’s chief constable, Sir Hugh Orde, had confirmed that undercover British army troops were on paramilitary surveillance duties in Northern Ireland. In my mind I had started another blog entry, complaining that British officials are inexplicably unable to learn from past mistakes, but I have been pre-empted (if I may say so) by somebody more competent to talk about such affairs.

Sinn Fein’s Gerry Adams commented on Sir Orde’s statement today during an interview by BBC Radio 4, saying “The chief constable made a huge mistake bringing in undercover British army units. You don’t understand the history if you don’t appreciate that the involvement of these units in the past – totally unaccountable – has led to the same type of suffering as that that has unfortunately been endured at this time by the families of the two British soldiers who were killed.”

The history of British undercover operations, as Gerry Adams had remarked, did in many instances result in the killing of British soldiers and even, in some bizarre cases, the killing of civilians by British forces in order to discredit the IRA.

For instance, the MRF, the Mobile Reconnaissance Force, was responsible for undercover military surveillance in Northern Ireland until about 1972 when its operation was compromised. The MRF ran the Four Square laundry in Belfast, which accommodated a simple, but highly sophisticated undercover operation. It acted as a regular laundry and it used large green vans for delivery and pickups. The delivery staff would chat with locals, while two SAS soldiers, hidden inside the van, would photograph the houses, their occupants and vehicles of known Republicans. The laundry they collected was scientifically probed for traces of blood, gunpowder, and explosives. It took IRA intelligence months to uncover the operation. They detected two IRA double agents that the MRF had turned. They were interrogated and eventually spilled everything they knew about the undercover operation. On October 2^nd, 1972 at 11:15 am volunteers of a special intelligence unit of the IRA ambushed one of the green Morris vans as it drove through Juniper Park. Two soldiers inside the van were killed, as was the driver, Sapper Stuart, who was on loan from his parent regiment to the SAS.

There are also recurring allegations that British Intelligence, especially the 14 Intelligence Company, cooperated with the UVF, the Ulster Volunteer Force, an illegal paramilitary organization, to organize attacks and bombings in order to blame and discredit the IRA. The 14 Intelligence Company, also known as The Det, was established in 1973 as a response to the uncovering of the MRF. The 14 Company conducted undercover surveillance operations against suspected members of Irish Republican groups and, again, there are widespread allegations that they assisted in bombings and the shooting of innocent civilians.

One of the worst incidents is the killing of the Miami Showband on 31 July 1975. The Miami Showband, one of Ireland’s most popular cabaret bands of the 1970s, comprising both Catholic and Protestant members, were travelling home to Dublin after a gig in Northern Ireland. They were stopped at a roadblock after being flagged down by men in British Army uniforms, which was a common occurrence during the troubles. One of the soldiers, who was also a UVF member, attempted to plant and hide a bomb in the minibus. The plan was that the bomb would explode some time on the way to Dublin. The assumption would have been that the members of the band were supporters of the Republican movement and had been carrying a bomb in their van, apparently with the plan to commit an act of violence. However, the bomb exploded prematurely and killed two soldiers immediately. After the explosion, the remaining UVF members opened fire on the band members and three of the musicians were killed. There are persisting rumors that Captain Robert Nairac, a British army officer and member of the 14 Intelligence Company, had organized the attack in cooperation with the UVF. It is also said, that Nairac was present at the killings.

These are only two examples of British undercover operations that resulted in the unnecessary loss of lives and it is, yet again, incomprehensible that British officials are not capable to learn from experience. Then again, they share this flaw with all dissident organizations opposed to the peace settlement, such as the Real IRA, Continuity IRA, and Oglaigh na hEireann.

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Isn’t it ironic – The storyline of my novel-in-the-making “The Bleeding Hills” invokes the possibility of a plot to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland, an idea that could have been viewed as somewhat preposterous. As a matter of fact, since the Good Friday agreement of 1998, there has been a period of relative calm, not as violent as the previous 30 years.

Yesterday, March 7, 2009,  two British soldiers were killed and four others, among them two pizza delivery men, were wounded in what is the first major terrorist attack in the province for over a decade. The shootings occurred at the Massereene army base in Antrim, 16 miles north of Belfast, at 9.40pm. One of the injured is critical, two are serious and one is serious but stable, police said today, as a major manhunt for the gunmen continued. The two soldiers who were killed were both aged in their early twenties and were due to fly to Afghanistan on active service in the coming days.

Nobody has yet claimed responsibility for the attack but security sources said the incident was undoubtedly the work of dissident organizations opposed to the peace settlement. There are three dominant factions – the Real IRA, the Continuity IRA and Oglaigh na hEireann (Volunteers of Ireland). The latter group is now seen as the most dangerous in Northern Ireland, comprised of experienced former Provisional IRA activists although its strongholds are far from the scene of Saturday night’s double murder. The Real IRA has a presence in Belfast, just 16 miles from Antrim where the fatal shootings took place.

In my novel I refer to the so-called Real IRA as the force behind the assassination plot. The Real Irish Republican Army was founded in October 1997 by former members of the Provisional IRA, who were dissatisfied with the direction of the Irish peace process, especially the position of Sinn Fein, the – allegedly – political arm of the IRA.

In fact, the RIRA openly seeks to disrupt the peace process in Northern Ireland. They rejected the Mitchell Principles, six ground rules that were accepted by the Irish and British governments and political parties in Northern Ireland. They also dismissed the Good Friday Agreement of 1998, comparing it to the 1921 Government of Ireland Act, which resulted in the partition of Ireland.

The RIRA’s ultimate objective is a united Ireland and in their view the only viable means to reach this goal is violence against British occupation of Northern Ireland, which included the deadliest strike of the troubles, the Omagh bombing on August 15^th, 1998. Twenty-nine people were killed in the blast and 220 others injured. In my view, the RIRA lacks the sophistication to ever reach their own objective; the killing of innocent people is not suited to gain support from the Irish people.

As much as I sympathize with the thought of a reunited Ireland (After all, I come from a country that has seen reunification), I personally do not approve of such cowardly actions as they took place yesterday. The reunification in Germany was an accomplishment by the people for the people and I believe, Sinn Fein is working to find a similar solution. In the same sense let me quote former German chancellor Willy Brandt (This is a quote I remember, but couldn’t find in any recorded reference and I’m trying to translate it to the best of my abilities), who said: “What belongs together will be together in the end.” Brandt had more faith in this statement than the majority of the German population and in the end he was right.

Barr Na Sraide - Top Street

One song in particular, The Boys of Barr Na Sraide, caught my attention. The song, according to Irish singer Tim Dennehy’s web site, “captures beautifully the essence of Cahersiveen nestled as it is between the mountain and sea”. Cahersiveen is an Irish town located at the Ring of Kerry. The song is based on a poem by Sigerson Clifford, who was born in Cahersiveen, and it tells the story of the boys of Barr Na Sraide – Top Street – who hunted for the wren. The poem recalls the life of his boyhood friends starting from when they were young children through to the Black and Tan period, and up to the civil war. The poem speaks of the Irish tradition of “hunting for the wran”, (wren), a small bird, on St. Stephen’s Day, December 26. Later set to music, the song has been recorded by numerous traditional and folk singers.

The title of Colm O’Donnell’s CD Farewell to Evening Dances is taken from the song The Hill of Knacknashee, another sentimental and lyrical ballad on the CD. I shamelessly copied the idea and took a line out of The Boys of Barr Na Sraide, the line that goes “And when the hills were bleeding and rifles were aflame…”, to use it as the title for my book “The Bleeding Hills“.

Through my research I found several, slightly different variations of Sigorson Clifford’s lyrics, but, regardless of what version you may find, they are nothing short of beautiful.

The Boys of Barr Na Sraide
O the town it climbs the mountain and looks upon the sea
And sleeping time or waking time ’tis there I long to be
To walk again that kindly street, the place I grew a man
With the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.

With cudgels stout we roamed about to hunt for the dreoilín.
We searched for birds in every furze from Letter to Dooneen.
We sang for joy beneath the sky; life held no print or plan
And we boys in Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wran.

And when the hills were bleeding and the rifles were aflame
To the rebel homes of Kerry those Saxon strangers came
But the men who dared the Auxies and who fought the Black and Tans
Were the boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.

So here’s a toast to them tonight, those lads who laughed with me
By the groves of Carhan River or the slopes of Beenatee
John Dawley and Batt Andy and the Sheehans Con and Dan
And the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.

But now they toil on foreign soil where they have gone their way
Deep in the heart of London town or over in Broadway
And I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can
Those boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran

And when the wheel of life runs down and when peace comes over me
O lay me down in that old town between the hills and sea
I’ll take my sleep in those green fields the place my life began
Where the boys of Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wran.

Ar Sheilg an Dreoilín
An Irish translation of ‘The Boys of Barr na Sráide’ by Garry McMahon

Ó táimse i bhfad ó Éirinn is óm’ bhaile i gCiarraí
Ach is ró-bhuan é mo chuimhne ar an áit de ló is d’oích’,
An botháinín ‘nar saolaíodh mé i gCathair chaoin Saidhbhín
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.

An t-aiteann bhuí, gach tor is claí, chuardaíomar iad go cruinn
Faoi scamaill dhubha gan brón ná cumha ar lorg an éinín.
Bhí gliondar inár gcroíthe do scairteamar gan sriain
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.

Cé throid in aghaidh na Sasanaigh is ghnóthaigh clú is cáil
In aimsir na nDubhchrónach nuair a ghlaodh ar Fhianna Fáil?
B’iad na buachaillí a sheas an fód is chuir ruaig ar Sheán Buí
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.
Is ólaimís a sláinte, na laochra a bhí lem’ thaobh,
A raibh spórt is greann ar bhruach na habhann ins na coillte i measc na gcraobh,
Batt Aindí is An Dálach, sinn ar chliathán Bhinn a’ Tí
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.

Is táid anois thar sáile i bhfad, i bhfad i gcéin,
I Londain nó i Meiriceá agus mé anseo liom fhéin
Ach canfhadsa a moltaí go ceolmhar is go binn
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.

Nuair a ghlaofaidh Dia na nGlór orm chun mo chodladh deireadh buan,
Ar imeall gheal na farraige sea gheobhaidh mé mo shuan,
Is luífimíd go sítheach ann ‘sna gorta glasa mín’,
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.

My research on the subject of Bloody Sunday began almost exactly to the day one year ago. At the time I had no definite vision of my work’s format, whether it would be a non-fiction account of historical facts or if I should package the events into a novel. The question was, how would I separate myself from the numerous other books available on the subject? Just a quick search on Amazon.com will show you what I mean; there are a myriad of books on the Irish War and adding yet another non-fiction work would be like adding sand to the Sahara. Another circumstance that made my choice for a novel was the sober look at a simple number: The Amazon ranking. Amazon sells millions of different books and a ranking below 100,000 is not too shabby, however, most books on the Irish Troubles rank way beyond that, which accounts for a very few book sales per month throughout the entire United States.

The low ranking has, in my very personal opinion, several reasons. First of all, most books on the Irish War are either incredibly boring (they are usually written for people who already have intimate knowledge of the Irish Troubles) or are so politically tainted that you need to doubt their credibility. The other reason may be plain lack of interest in an event, such as Bloody Sunday, that took place more than 30 years ago. Well, I am almost sure there is some good literature out there, but none of them sticks out far enough to separate themselves from the masses.

Consequently, after a few weeks of intense research, I had made my decision to write a novel and embed some Irish history into the storyline, just enough to not be boring, but tickle the readers’ curiosity. Maybe they will feel inspired to go to their local library, bookstore, or even Online, eager to learn more about a topic that deserves more attention than it currently receives.

Besides writing I also create my own covers and I had decided it would be best to use a photo related to Bloody Sunday. The previous research had provided me with a small number of contacts and as it turns out my first contact was also where I got the photo I liked best. That contact was Mary Andrews, Pictures Syndication Manager of the Guardian and Observer. It was very uplifting to receive a response per e-mail that started with a “Hiya, Wilfried.” She offered me a number of photos, most of them relating to the recent Bloody Sunday inquiry (or to use proper English: enquiry), which would have been an interesting choice, but I felt they were not quite right considering the storyline of my novel. One photo, though, caught my attention from the beginning; it is described as Boys Playing In The Bogside Catholic Neighbourhood Of Derry, A Republican Stronghold In Northern Ireland, Antonio Olmos, 01 July 2002.

The events of Bloody Sunday took place in the Bogside neighborhood. The black & white photo shows, besides the boys playing, a large sign in the background “Free All Political Prisoners“. What I liked about the picture is the contrast between the playing children and the political message placed in a neighborhood where thirteen civil rights protesters, six of whom were just seventeen years old, were killed by members of the 1st Battalion of British Parachute Regiment. I obtained the copyright later that year, which also included a very pleasant phone conversation with Mary as she took my credit card number.

I would also like to thank Adrian Kerr of the Derry Journal for his efforts. The Derry Journal owns some few photos related to Bloody Sunday, but they were taken either before or after the events. You can find a number of photos of the victims on their web site (http://www.derryjournal.com/), but as Adrian told me, victim photos belong to the individual families.

Another possible source of authentic photographs was Eamon Melaugh, a photographer, who owns an extensive collection of photos made during and after Bloody Sunday. He also maintains a very impressive web site on the subject, but I have to say he was a vast disappointment. I wrote several inquiries per e-mail, which he chose not to answer.

Well, after all, I am very satisfied with my current choice.

Supplement 07/20/2009:

Maybe I should have done this much earlier, but, now that we are getting closer to actual publishing, I looked into the terms & conditions allowing me to use the cover photo. The terms did not allow me to modify the photo, which limited the design choices for the nice cover. As a result, the cover looked too bland, and we decided to change it. Another reason is, that the royalties I paid are based on a sales volume of up to 100 copies, and I am sure it will sell better than that. We downloaded a nice picture at BigStockPhoto.com, meaning there are no royalties involved.

Well, as I wrote before, this entire process was supposed to give me a look & feel of publishing a novel, and I can say, I have learned a lot.

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Back in 2005 I discovered the thrill of writing and publishing my first book on a very dry technical topic – Controller Area Network, a technology developed for automobiles. Since then I had published two more books of similar nature, but for the longest time I had toyed with the thought of breaking the cycle and explore other topics to write about, maybe even writing a novel of some kind. I am aware, writing technical literature or writing a novel are two very different ballparks, but am also thrilled by the idea.

Now, that a decision for a novel was made, I had to decide the subject to write about. I do have enough material in my mind that would account for at least four or five novels, but I also wanted to start with an “easy” subject, something to get a feel of the whole novel writing experience without wasting years of research and writing. One recent issue of the Poets & Writers magazine listed cases where authors worked for up to 18 years on their first novel, which, honestly, does not appeal – maybe it’s my German efficiency thinking.

After numerous hour-long sessions in the hot tub I came up with the “easy” subject of Bloody Sunday, which made my wife crinch when I told her. Having a law degree and knowing my rebel attitude she foresaw all the legal implications such as verifying copyrights, accuracy of historical facts, etc. It’s ironic, because being married to an Irish-American green-eyed red-head who is spiritually, however, not actively a staunch supporter of Sinn Fein, confronts you with the very passionate topic of Irish history on a nearly daily basis. To my wife’s credit, I hadn’t told her I was thinking about a novel; her initial expectation was a non-fiction account of the events. As Mark Twain put it so adequately “Familiarize yourself with the facts and then you can distort them any way you please.” and that is exactly what novel-writing is about.

Bloody Sunday, which many people associate only with the famous U2 song, refers to the events in Derry (the name Londonderry is not acceptable for a good Irish Republican) in Northern Ireland on January 30, 1972, when twenty-six civil rights protesters were shot by the 1st Battalion of the British Parachute Regiment. Thirteen people, six of whom were only seventeen years old, died at the scene. Five of those wounded, were shot in the back. While the study of such a tense subject seemed promising, I also found that good literature on the subject is hard to come by. Most books are either politically tainted to a degree that their credibility must be taken with a considerable grain of salt or the writing style simply defies the basic rules of good and fluent reading. It is my firm belief that writing about history should not only catch, but also keep the reader’s attention; otherwise the writing turns out to be a worthless task.

I was discouraged to have selected several bad examples from a myriad of available books on recent Irish history. One work in particular, written by a former member of 14 Company, at some time considered the most secret undercover operation of British Intelligence, was written in the style of an adolescent with an inferiority complex the size of Wisconsin describing a violent video game. Accompanying photos were plenty and one of them showed an example of how a pistol was properly tucked into the backside of a woman’s jeans with the subtitle “A fine example of a nicely shaped butt”. A head shake is in order now. I am now using the vast Internet resources for my research.

Another inspiration for my story was a CD I had first heard in Ireland, when we visited some relatives (I am now officially “Irish by Marriage”). My wife’s grandmother was born on the island of Inishbofin off the coast of Galway and came to the United States in the early 1920′s. The CD in question is Farewell to Evening Dances by Colm O’Donnell, one of my absolute favorite Irish musicians. One song in particular, The Boys of Barr Na Sraide, caught my attention. The song, according to Irish singer Tim Dennehy’s web site, “captures beautifully the essence of Cahersiveen nestled as it is between the mountain and sea”. Cahersiveen is an Irish town located at the Ring of Kerry. The song is based on a poem by Sigerson Clifford, who was born in Cahersiveen, and it tells the story of the boys of Barr Na Sraide – Top Street – who hunted for the wren.

Through the intensive research on the topic of recent Irish history I discovered many more interesting details, which influenced my writing significantly as I tried to incorporate historical facts into the story line. Bloody Sunday is still an important part of the story, but more in respect that it strengthened the position of the Irish Republican Army (IRA) and resulted in the recruitment of a great number of new members determined to fight British rule. I used references to The Boys of Barr Na Sraide in a very unique way and you need to read the final result to find out how…

Talking about the story line… Here is a summary:
The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. Finn is protected by the CIA in his exile in the United States after working for them for the past twenty years. Consequently, British Intelligence has come up with a plan to lure Finn back into their jurisdiction, Northern Ireland, by revealing the identity of the man who is ultimately responsible for the killing of Finn’s wife, Shauna. Here they hope not only to apprehend him, but also lead them to another conspirator, Martin Sheehan, who hides in the Northern provinces. For Finn this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland.

The title of the book will be “The Bleeding Hills“. It is divided into six chapters and as of today’s date I have finished chapter three; time to forward it to my editing resource. The remaining three chapters already contain a very coarse draft and I need to flesh them out. You will see me somewhere in Western Massachusetts, hanging out at a Panera Bread, copying thoughts from my brain into my beloved MacBook. The current plan is to be ready for publication by end of May. In the meantime I will post further updates here on my blog.

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.