The same thing I am:
The same thing I am:
The same thing I am:
An almost picaresque story about Royal Marine Major William Martin, who was lost at sea in an aircraft accident carrying important dispatches about future Allied plans in the Mediterranean. His body washed ashore in Spain and by nefarious means the dispatches were copied and forwarded to Abwehr, German intelligence.
Except that that major was no major and those dispatches were fake. It was all an elaborate plot cooked up by British Intelligence to deceive the enemy, and which disinformation Abwehr and Hitler himself swallowed whole, to the extent that the Germans moved a vitally significant portion of their forces from Sicily, where as Macintyre puts it anyone with an atlas knew the Allies would invade, to Greece and Sardinia, where the British hoped to fool the Germans into thinking they would. And fool them they did. Operation Mincemeat was, to put it mildly, successful.
The British Eighth Army had expected some ten thousand casualties in the first week of the invasion; just one-seventh of that number were killed or wounded. The navy had anticipated the loss of up to three hundred ships in the first two days; barely a dozen were sunk…The Allies had expected it would take ninety days to conquer Sicily. The occupation was completed on August 17, thirty-eight days after the invasion began.
Further, Operation Mincemeat began a cascade of other events, Mussolini’s downfall, Italy’s surrender, the abandonment of the German siege of Kursk and pretty much the beginning of the end of the European war. Macintryre writes
The Third Reich never recovered from the failure of Operation Citadel, and from then until the end of the war, the German armies in the east would be on the defensive as the Red Army rolled, inexorably, toward Berlin.
The cast of characters has to be read to be believed. There’s the British Jewish nobleman (I didn’t even know there was such a thing), his unbelievable brother (I won’t spoil), the submarine driver with comprehensive powers of seduction (I’m thinking of the car with the doors that wouldn’t open), the crazy commando who kept refusing promotion and went on to be portrayed in film by James Garner, the undertaking brothers, one in the front lines and the other not but still part of the story, and so many more. But! One of the things I particularly love is that at least three (possibly four, I lost count) of the men engaged in kerflummoxing the Germans so completely were…writers.
A rollicking story, all the more exquisite because it’s all true. Don’t pick up this book until you’ve got a few days with nothing else to do because you won’t be able to put it down. Highly recommended.
So, I subscribe to Conor Friedersdorf’s The Best of Journalism newsletter (and so should you). His day job is staff writer for The Atlantic and he moonlights with this newsletter, which curates three or four stories per issue for people who are interested in life, the universe and everything but don’t have the time to surf out those stories themselves. That would be me.
And for the second time in a week that damn Friedersdorf made me read a story about sports.
I follow no sports. I do no sport. I am a sport-free zone. The last time I stayed in a hotel I saw that basic cable now has four ESPN channels and all I could think was, “Why?”
But two newsletters in a row now, that damn Friedersdorf (that is actually his official name) led me first to a baseball story with some of the best writing I’ve read in a long time (and hey, I finally know who A-Rod is), and this story.
It’s by a hockey player. The craft isn’t as good here as it is in J.R. Moehringer’s story on A-Rod but the guy isn’t a professional journalist so my expectations aren’t so high they can’t be met. And it turns out he’s open and honest and has been so totally screwed by his own employers that I devour every word from first to last.
[Cave, lector: I’ve been to one hockey game outside college, an Anchorage Aces game that was a birthday gift from my niece, so expect no expert commentary here or, hell, even a minimal understanding of the game.]
John Scott is a hockey player, an enforcer (yes, so far as I can tell that is the actual name of his position), whose job from what I google is basically to beat the other team members out of the way so his team can score. He’s not the best player on any ice, he says so himself, but he works his butt off and he connects with the fans.
The National Hockey League has an All Star game where the fans vote on what players are in it. So the fans vote John Scott into the All Star game.
The NHL doesn’t like this because, again from what I can tell, they don’t want an enforcer in their All Star games. (Really? The game has enforcers but, you know, avert your eyes?) They try to talk him out of participating, and as instructed Scott even tells the fans not to vote for him, but they do anyway. And the NHL promptly trades him to a different team which promptly demotes him to a minor team so he won’t qualify to play in the All Star game.
The fans understandably rebel and the NHL backs down and John Scott plays in the All Star game and he even scores two goals and is named MVP. And everybody goes home happy, although Scott’s still playing in the minors.
As much as I understand it, in sports money comes from fans’ butts in the seats and broadcast fees and sales of memorabilia. When the masters and commanders of an individual sport create something like an All Star game so the fans, from whom, see above, all money flows, can vote on who they want to play in it, you’d think the governing body would be a little less tone deaf than to tell those fans their vote means squat. And in offending so severely against a fan favorite. Does no one ever stop to think before they do these things? And did anyone get fired afterward? We can only hope.
That damn Friedersdorf. First he made me read John Scott’s story, and then there was so much in it I didn’t understand that I spent an hour googling around trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
Man, I’d just rather go for a boat ride. A sail boat ride. But not in a race.
Never mind statistics, there were lies, damn lies, and the spouting forth from single-issue lobby groups. Blinkered, fanatical and blind to counterargument and reason. Facts they didn’t like they ignored or dismissed as lies. Sometimes they were just the foot soldiers in a bigger game, being used and manipulated by puppet masters working silently in the dark. Some were misguided and wrong. Others were plain crazy. A few had valid points, but these were often lost in rhetoric and fury. Ask an animal rights supporter if he would rather have a new cancer drug tested on him first and he will say “That’s not the point.” But it’s exactly the point. If his mother were diagnosed with cancer, he would demand treatment to cure her. He’d be the first to blame the government and the health services if it didn’t exist.
Warning: Spoilers spoken here.
Of course you’re all right. It’s the lock box.
Commemorated in this scene, which begins
It was entirely involuntary, a knee-jerk reaction. She didn’t stop to think about it, she just picked up the little tin lock box and let fly. It’s arc was swift and her aim was true. The box caught him just above the left eyebrow and burst open.
but also for what Kate finds in it before she launches it as an offensive weapon slash foreplay. It’s also a pretty good symbol, if I sez it who shouldn’t, of Kate breaking free of her grief over Jack to begin to live again. Even if it is with the single most unlikely guy in the Kate ‘verse. [Bonus points to anyone who remembers which book in the Kate series first signals Jim’s other than professional interest in her.]
Next month, an object from A Grave Denied, the thirteenth Kate Shugak mystery. Please put your suggestions for said object in the comments below, and thanks!