The View From the Deck Plate
I didn’t realize it at the time, but my first experience with writing military fiction was also my first experience with plagiarism. I was seven years old, and my family had just moved from Marietta, Georgia to the nearby town of Austell. Our new house was only a dozen or so miles from our old apartment, but the distance was enough to put me in a different school district.
Before our change of address, I wasn’t even aware that other schools existed. Park Street Elementary in Marietta wasn’t just my school. It was the school. The only one I’d ever seen. How could I possibly go to school anywhere else?
But it turned out that there were other schools in the universe. I discovered this when I found myself sitting at an unfamiliar desk, listening to an unfamiliar teacher, in a classroom full of complete strangers, in a preposterously round school building called Richard B. Russell Elementary. (My mom said my new school looked like a donut. My dad called it the circus tent. I preferred to think of it as Hell.)
A few months later, I would learn that there are worst things in life than changing schools in the middle of the year, but if you had told me that back then, I wouldn’t have believed you.
Except for my brother who was two grades ahead of me and avoiding me like the plague, I didn’t know a single person in that school. No friends in the classroom. No familiar faces in the lunch line. No one to pal around with at recess. No seat buddy on the school bus. Even the textbooks and assignment sheets were strange and alien to me.
So when my new teacher announced that she would be holding a story writing contest, she had my attention immediately. As she laid out the rules, I began to smile. The stories would be submitted anonymously, and the class would vote to select the best one. (Good… Good…) Illustrations would be permitted. (Even better, as I considered myself something of an artist.) And the grand prize was to be an ice cream cake, which the winner could take home to his or her family.
I nearly stood up and cheered when the teacher revealed this last part. This was my chance! It was the perfect setup! I would write a dazzlingly brilliant story, brought to eye-popping life by my full-color art work. My classmates would not even realize that they were acknowledging the glory and talent of the new kid when they selected my entry as the obvious winner. And then, when I was basking in their collective adoration, I would have an announcement of my own. Ice cream cake for everyone! The frozen delight would not be going home with me on the bus. I would be sharing it with my fellow students.
No longer would I be the new kid. I would be the story master. The artist. The provider of icy confections. All would love and admire me. And best of all, I already had the ideal story in mind.
My favorite song back then was Snoopy vs. the Red Baron, by the Royal Guardsmen. If you’ve never heard it, you can take my word; that was a pretty cool song. In addition to having a catchy tune, it told the story of a beagle who takes to the skies atop his dog house, to duel with the infamous World War I flying ace, Manfred von Richthofen.
To my seven year old mind, that song had everything a story could possibly need. It had a flawless balance of military action and humor. It had history. It had a life-and-death struggle against superior odds. It had blazing machine guns, and a flying freaking dog. With that much literary goodness going for me, how could I possibly lose?
I sharpened my number two pencil and got to work. After a bit of deliberation, I decided to change the title. I was certain that none of the other kids in the class were cool enough to listen to the Royal Guardsmen, but there was a slim chance that one of them had heard the song in passing. To be on the safe side, I changed Snoopy to Spot. This was, I judged, a sufficient injection of originality. For the rest of the story, I could rely on the actual contents of the song, along with a couple of illustrations depicting my visual interpretations of aerial combat between a murderous flying ace and a cute cartoon dog.
I paraphrased the plot line of the song. “A long time ago, after the turn of the century, in the cloudless blue skies above Germany…”
When it came time to extol von Richthofen’s impressive record of kills, I quoted the lyrics verbatim. “Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty or more. The Bloody Red Baron was rolling out the score. Eighty men died trying to end that stree of the Bloody Red Baron of Germany.”*
*The word “spree” was not part of my vocabulary at age seven, and I assumed that I would learn all about the mysterious term “stree” at some point during the second grade. Or possibly the third.
With such a powerful source to draw from, my story was finished in no time. Away went the number two pencil, and out came the felt-tipped markers. I was determined to make the art work every bit the equal of the literary tour de force I had just penned. And so I did.
My first drawing depicted the deadly Baron in the cockpit of a bright red delta-winged fighter jet. (I apparently didn’t have a good handle on the state of the art for World War I aircraft in those days.) Streaking from the Baron’s jet toward some hapless Allied aircraft were at least thirty missiles, each trailing black curly smoke and long tails of orange fire. The Allied plane—not nearly as badass as the Baron’s delta-wing—was already pockmarked with black dots that represented bullet holes. The pilot was clearly done for.
My second drawing showed Snoopy… I mean Spot… astride his dog house, flying straight toward a head-on collision with the Red Baron’s jet. Guided missiles and machinegun bullets (represented by dashed lines) screamed across the page in both directions. It was a snapshot in time, captured a mere fraction of a second before all of those lethal projectiles struck home. Chaos and disaster just one heartbeat away.
The finished product exceeded my wildest expectations. Looking over my story and drawings, I knew instantly that I was going to win. No one could possibly compete with the lurid high-octane excitement of Spot vs. the Red Baron.
I left my name off the pages, as instructed, and carried my masterpiece to the teacher’s desk where I laid it face down. (Also as instructed.)
Then I had to sit at my desk and wait, while all of the slower kids in class struggled to complete their doomed entries in my contest. I passed the time by mentally practicing my acceptance speech, and imagining the taste of ice cream cake garnished with victory.
At last, the final story was turned in. The teacher shuffled through the pile, pulled out a story at random, and read it to the class, holding up the attached drawings for examination by her students. I didn’t think much of the story or the illustrations. They were adequate, I supposed, but definitely not in the same caliber as my work.
Teacher read another story, and another, and then another. I sat waiting for mine. And waiting.
She finished off a lame tale about a purple horse who could turn invisible, and then proclaimed the voting period open.
I was stunned. What about Spot vs. the Red Baron? Had she overlooked my story? Was such a thing even possible?
My hand shot up. The teacher ignored me.
I waved my raised arm from side to side, in the time-honored gesture used to capture the notice of inattentive pedagogues. The teacher made eye contact with me, gave her head a single shake, and proceeded with the mechanics of soliciting votes for the contest.
This was appalling! I was being cut out of the contest! Denied my rightful chance at victory! But no matter how long I kept my hand in the air, it was clear that the teacher was not going to call on me.
Finally, the prize was awarded. I think it went to the purple horse story. I honestly don’t remember.
I lowered my unacknowledged hand in defeat, and sat through the rest of the school day in disbelieving silence. My master plan was in tatters, and I didn’t even know where I had gone wrong.
When the final bell of the day rang, I joined the scrum of kids shuffling toward the exit. The teacher intercepted me at the door, and handed back my story.
She had circled the word “stree” in red ink, along with an annotation to check my spelling. In the margin was a note which read, “Nice drawings and good penmanship. Look up the word ‘Plagiarism’ when you get home.
I did look up the word, and then I understood why my story had been disqualified. It had never occurred to me that stories and even choices of phrase might actually belong to the people who created them. I took that lesson to heart, and I’ve spent my life as a writer trying to avoid making that same mistake again.
And—to this day—I don’t know what ice cream cake tastes like.
A few years ago, a retired literary agent and long-time friend of mine made a rather interesting comment about my naval warfare books. He remarked that I was rapidly becoming the first military techno-thriller author in history to build a successful career out of writing anti-war novels. Before I could respond, he went on to compliment me for weaving the anti-war message into my stories so subtly that no one had ever caught me in the act.
I honestly didn’t know how to respond. I’ll admit that I’ve explored certain themes in my writing. For instance, Sea of Shadows explores what might happen if an unprepared president takes military advice from his political cronies, while ignoring the counsel of the people who are actually qualified to guide him. The book also examines the dangers of becoming a slave to established doctrine in situations where it clearly doesn’t apply.
In my opinion, both of those concepts are worthy of discussion in real life, and they happen to double nicely as complicating factors in the story. But I wouldn’t consider them messages. In fact, I don’t consider them messages. I’ve never intentionally set out to imbed messages in my stories. I write thriller novels. My job is to entertain readers. Period. Not to educate them. Not to influence their opinions. Not even to broaden their horizons. If I can keep readers turning the pages and smiling, I’ve accomplished my entire mission.
So I was surprised (and frankly a bit upset) when this wise and trusted literary guru congratulated me for the clever subversiveness of my anti-war message. I asked him to explain. He did…
“You’re writing combat action thrillers,” he said, “but your stories are never about crushing the enemy. In your books, the U.S. military units fight until their objectives are satisfied, and then stop. The Soldiers and Sailors don’t wave the banners of victory and proclaim American supremacy. They do their jobs as quickly as possible, and then they go home. No fanfare. No parades. No grandstanding about the glory of war, or moralizing about how the bad guys had it coming.”
Listening to my friend speak, I started to get a glimmer of where he was coming from. Most of what he was saying was true, but I don’t think any of that qualifies as a secret message. It’s more like my basic view of military action, formed over many years of life in uniform.
War sucks. So does open heart surgery, and so does chemotherapy. Military intervention is never a good answer. But sometimes—for all of the attendant horror and suffering—it ends up being the best of all the bad options available. When that happens, like cardiac surgery or chemo, your best course of action is to get it over with as skillfully and quickly as you possibly can.
If you know anything at all about me, you’ve probably realized that I spend a lot of time talking about the nature of heroism. I keep coming back to this topic because I think it’s vitally important. Our very way of life depends upon people who are willing to face risk and bear the sacrifices required to keep our nation safe.
I recently came across a book that explores heroism from an angle which is too often overlooked. Heart of a Military Woman by Sheryl L. Roush and Eldonna Lewis Fernandez is a collection of stories, poems, musings, and sayings, by and about military women. Sometimes funny, sometimes profound, and sometimes heart wrenching, these are the thoughts and experiences of our women in uniform.
Sheryl Roush has kindly agreed to let me reprint one of the stories here…
The Price to Pay
I am a mother, wife, nurse, and an Army Master Sergeant. In February 2003, as a Reservist, I was mobilized to serve my country when my daughter was only three years old. If I had to think of the hardest event in my life, it would have to be the day I left. The front page of the Dallas Morning News said it all in a picture. It showed my daughter being ripped from my arms as I boarded the bus to leave. I have a love for my country and if everyone said, “Military life is not for me,” there would be no one to keep us safe at home. That heartache you never really get over it – and your child never forgets it.
It became a way of life for my daughter to have her mother leave. At age five, In December 2004, I was mobilized again. The sadness I felt was relived all over again. This time my daughter was more understanding. In her Kindergarten class she would say, “My mom is serving her country so we can live here free.” I do not know if she truly understood what she was saying, because it was so far beyond her years. But living the life as a military child teaches our children values others never really achieve.
I trained soldier medics, who were on their way to Iraq, the skills they must possess to stay alive and help others who were in need of medical help on the battlefield. The pride I felt – and still feel – to get an email back saying lives were saved from what I taught is beyond words.
As a woman and mother of three, I have a fear after 15 years of serving my country, I will get that call again. But it is a price I must pay to make sure my children will have a safe place in which to grow old.
—Angela Perez, Master Sergeant, USAR
I don’t know about you, but that short little piece speaks to me as a parent, as an old ex-warrior, and as an American.
Valentine’s Day is nearly here, and I’m willing to bet that three-quarters of the gifts exchanged in this country will fall into the same tired categories. (Chocolates, flowers, jewelry…) Do something different this year. Share this book with the person who shares your heart.
Before you know it, the last of the sweets will be gone and the roses will all have wilted, but these stories of love and heroism will remain in your minds and hearts. Click here to order your copy. You won’t find a more lasting gift than that.
A few days ago, I had the pleasure of attending a Surface Warrior Join-Up, hosted by the San Diego chapter of the Surface Navy Association, in partnership with the guided missile cruiser USS Cowpens. In the spirit of full-disclosure, I have to admit that I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the event. I held membership in the SNA for a couple of years in the late 90s, and it struck me as a rather stolid organization. I agreed with the mission and recognized the good intentions, but the entire thing seemed to lack the sort of energy that made me want to get involved.
I rejoined the Surface Navy Association a little over a year ago, in the hopes that things might have changed in the years since my previous experience. I signed up, paid my annual dues, and then proceeded to ignore my new affiliation the way that most people ignore gym memberships. (Big plans, but no actual follow-through.) Probably, I had subconscious assumptions that I’d be letting myself in for the kind of disappointment I’d felt the first time around.
So I nearly ignored the invitation to the Surface Warrior Join-Up when it appeared in my email. But then I thought, what the hell? They’re holding the event at a very cool pizza restaurant/nightspot, and there will be free appetizers. How bad could it possibly be?
That turned out to be the wrong question. I should have been asking, ‘How good could it possibly be?’ Because it was amazing.
I walked in the door expecting a sedate group of old-timers (like your faithful blogger here), swapping sea stories about the good old days, and grumbling about the directions being taken by the “new” Navy. Instead, I found myself in a crossfire of enthusiasm and information exchange. The energy in that place was palpable. The pool table went untouched the entire time I was there, and I rarely saw anyone standing at the bar. The men and women in that room were too busy mixing around and connecting with their fellow Surface Warriors. They weren’t swapping predictions about the Super Bowl, or grousing about their chains of command. They were trading ideas, lessons learned, and plans for improving their divisions, departments, and ships.
In the space of my first half hour I got in on a great conversation with some officers from LSC Squadron One about the conversion of future Littoral Combat Ships to Frigates, with some fascinating thoughts about what needs to happen in terms of design changes and mission planning. Ten minutes later, I got drawn into an exchange about how Merchant Marine ships fit into Surface Warfare strategy—what the Navy’s doing now; what the Navy used to do in World War II; and what the Navy should do in the future.
If that doesn’t sound exciting, you’ve never been around Surface Warriors when they get fired up. I heard the gamut, from funny, to thought-provoking, to head-shaking, to appalling, to positively brilliant. And all of it was geared toward making the Surface Navy into a more capable and resilient force.
The whole night was like that. I’ve been to full-blown parties that weren’t nearly as much fun, but despite the air of enjoyment, it wasn’t just an entertaining evening. It was vision, and improvement, and change. In other words, it was everything I’d been hoping for way back in the 90s.
It was a gathering of heroes… The Surface Warriors of the United States Navy. And I was honored to be in their presence.
A few days ago, a reader dug up an old entry from my Sea Story archives, and wrote a nice comment about some hijinks from his own Navy days. In the process of replying to his comment, I looked over my old story and found myself chuckling a couple of times.
Not hysterically funny, but smile-worthy. That’s all the excuse I needed to polish up the story and share it here.
Duck-Nappers At Large…
About halfway through a Westpac deployment, AJ, one of the guys in my division, received a care package from home. In addition to the usual assortment of snacks, family snapshots, and miss-you notes, it contained a stuffed duck. (The cute and cuddly toy animal kind, not the taxidermy kind.) The Sonar Gang aboard USS Towers was known for having a twisted sense of humor, so AJ wisely decided to hide his fluffy buddy from the rest of us, to protect it from horrible pranks. Despite his best efforts, it was only a matter of time until the little quacker was duck-napped.
I won’t say that I was in on the snatch, but I will admit to being a co-conspirator. Once we had possession of the duck, we decided to hold it for ransom. AJ had a stash of Australian candy bars in his locker, and we hoped to ransom the duck for some Polly Waffles. Foolproof, right? That’s what we thought.
Our brilliant plan quickly ran into a snag. Word of the duck-napping had gotten around, and AJ began receiving anonymous notes from several sources—all claiming to have custody of the missing duck.
We realized that, tf we were going to cash in, we would need proof that we were the real duck-nappers. We figured we’d take a photo of the duck and attach it to a ransom note made from letters cut out of magazines; just like in the movies. Unfortunately, digital cameras hadn’t been invented yet, and we couldn’t find anyone aboard with a Polaroid. After several hours of fruitless searching, I got a brilliant idea… If we couldn’t photograph the duck, we could Xerox it.
As the originator of this brainstorm, I was elected to do the dirty deed. A buddy let me into the Administration Office after hours. Safely inside with the door closed, I shoved the duck under the lid of the copier and began trying to get a good copy of it. The bulk of the stuffed toy made it impossible to get the lid lowered properly, so too much light kept getting in and washing out the image. We flipped off the light switch and were happily Xeroxing the duck in the dark, when the door opened and the lights came on.
It was the Executive Officer, dropping by to pick up some paperwork. He looked at me. Then he looked at the duck squashed into the copier. Then he looked at the stack of duck images in the out-tray of the machine.
He stood there for about ten seconds, then he gave a heavy sigh and turned the light switch back off. Standing there in the dark, my face illuminated only by the shuttling green glow of the copier light, I didn’t know whether to laugh it off or try to explain. I expected the XO to leave, but he just stood there, silhouetted in the doorway.
Finally, he shook his head and spoke softly. “I’ve got a leak in One-Alpha Oil Purifier. I’ve got two idiots who missed ship’s movement. I’ve got a stack of overdue reports on my desk, and a Second Class Electrician’s Mate who likes to dress in women’s clothing every time we pull into a foreign port. Now, I’ve got perverts Xeroxing farm animals in the dark. Why did I ever agree to take this job?”
He closed the door and walked away.