Trainwreck

Posted on March 14, 2017 by Anne Rouen

Granville-Paris Express Incident in 1895

Trainwreck

How often do we hear railway metaphors and similes used to describe dramatic events in our lives? We say that someone has made a trainwreck of their life; that our plans have been derailed; when we speak of life-changing circumstances. Even in a small way, we might describe a feeling of tiredness as having run out of steam or puff, another allusion to the trains of a bygone era.

The railways have made a great impact on life and language since their eager acceptance by the British public in the 1820s and 1830s. In the nineteenth and early twentieth century, train travel represented possibly the fastest and most economical way to cover long distances; and the most endurable if you were not rich enough to command the comforts of life.

Speaking of such things, I found the above amazing image on Wikipedia while researching the Paris railway stations for my Master of Illusion series.

On 22^nd October, 1895 (when Madame Dupont was also having a little holiday away from her diary) the Granville-Paris Express overran its buffer stop at the Gare Montparnasse; crossed the concourse before crashing through the wall and came to rest in spectacular fashion, nose first, in the street below.

Incredibly, only one person was killed: not by the train directly, but by falling masonry. And here we see the irony of fate: The poor woman was minding her husband’s stall while he was away running an errand. Definitely, the wrong place at the wrong time!

And what of the stall holder himself? Did he congratulate himself on having had an amazing escape? Or did he wish that it had been him? Or miss her so much that he felt he should have died with her? We will never know.

More recently, the Gare Montparnasse is famous as the venue for the surrender of Colonel Dietrich von Choltitz to General Jacques-Phillipe Leclerc and Colonel Henri Rol-Tanguy on 25^th August 1944.

Colonel von Choltitz, the German commander of Paris during World War II, was hailed as the saviour of Paris by its grateful populace for his refusal to obey Hitler’s insane orders to destroy the city.

General Leclerc was the commander of the French 2nd Armoured Division formed in London in late 1943. The Division landed in Normandy attached to General George S. Patton’s 3^rd U.S. Army and fought alongside the FFI in the Battle for Paris (19^th – 24^th August 1944).

Colonel Rol-Tanguy, known by his nom de guerre of Colonel Rol during WWII, was the leader of the Paris division of the FFI. A real hero of the French Résistance, he fought on grimly from the underground through all the years of the war.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

The Quiet Hero

Posted on February 12, 2017 by Anne Rouen

Lt-Col R.O. Wynne

As well as my grandfather, Jack and his mate, Percy, there were other real-life characters amongst my fictional ones in Angel of Song. One very special hero is referred to by Madame Dupont only as ‘Hugh’s friend’.

He was Lt. Colonel R. O.(Richard Owen) Wynne of the 2^nd Regiment, Bedfordshire Rifles and his war record is impressive, to say the least. He was on the Western Front from at least the beginning of 1915 until the end of WW1 and took command of his entire regiment several times in 1917 in what have been considered some of the worst battles of the war. He trained soldiers new to the Front; from time to time commanded other battalions beside his own; and was twice awarded the DSO for conspicuous gallantry and leadership; the second of which he received after the battle mentioned in Angel of Song.

This occurred during March 21- 28, 1918; specifically on March 27 at La Folie when he led a successful assault on enemy machine guns that were decimating our troops, killing their commanding officer and forcing them into retreat.

Lt. Colonel Wynne was a crack shot; with all the speed and accuracy required by the high standard of the Rifles. Later, in his civilian life, he won many shooting competitions. But he wasn’t about to rest on his laurels.

Private research indicates that he led a secret surveillance team ahead of the 6^th Division into France in 1940. The team was left stranded to find its own way out when France unexpectedly surrendered to Germany on the 22^nd June 1940 and the 6^th had to withdraw, leaving them behind.

After many hair-raising adventures, including hiding in olive groves being strafed by Stukas; he finally managed to make it, under Stuka fire, to the Jackal, a destroyer cruising in the Mediterranean; ending up in hospital in Egypt. The Jackal, damaged, but still able to sail out of range of the Stukas, was not as lucky as him and was sunk later in the war. But she got him away to safety.

A letter written from his hospital bed in Alexandria included a tongue-in-cheek comment that the Free French must have been a myth because he didn’t find any of them. In all the months of hardship; making his way through hostile territory, under fire from the enemy; his only complaint was of lice. He said he would always feel sorry for lousy sheep.

From May, 1941, he was found in Australia, maintaining a distinguished but unobtrusive presence as ADC to the Governor of NSW, Lord Wakehurst. Had anything(or anyone) threatened the Governor, Lt. Colonel Wynne would have gone into the kind of action for which his regiment was famous: His ceremonial walking cane was a concealed .22 rifle!

Personification of the courage, integrity and self-sacrifice of the finest soldiers of WW1; modest, unassuming and reserved; with a quiet dignity; yet ‘hell on wheels’ in a battle; Lt. Colonel R. O. Wynne is one of my favourite real-life heroes.

Photo credit: Mt Wilson and Mt Irvine Historical Society.

Private research courtesy of Lt-Col. Wynne’s granddaughter, Avril.

Where Has It Gone?

Posted on January 5, 2017 by Anne Rouen

I am looking at the date on the calendar in disbelief. Perhaps even denial. 2016 just tore by, vanishing into yesterday before I could even catch up.

Amidst the politics and uncertainty, a few things stood out. For me, it was a year of achievement of personal goals, change and sadness.

Some amazing and wonderful people stepped into the pages of history. Many, sadly, before their time. We mourn them each in our own way. To those we love: we will never forget you.

On the positive side: I managed to finish two novels and begin two more; was thrilled that my Master of Illusion series achieved a second literary award; and embraced an unexpected change in lifestyle.

The last few months have been completely, totally mad. (My main New Year Resolution is not to neglect my blog.)

A BIG thank you to everyone who liked my FB pages Anne Rouen and Master of Illusion – it was very encouraging.

And now we are a few days into a brand new year – fresh, untrodden:

What will it bring?

To all my readers and followers: I wish you all that you would wish for yourselves.

May 2017 be your year!

Image courtesy Stuart Miles at freedigitalphotos.net

The Angel of Mons

Posted on July 13, 2016 by Anne Rouen

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I first heard of the Angel of Mons (note the singular) several years ago when I was watching an interview on SBS with an old WW1 Digger. Unfortunately, I do not remember the name of the soldier or the SBS series.

What I do remember is how he described what happened during a retreat from a battle in which the BEF were out-gunned and outnumbered many times by the enemy which pursued, cutting them up badly. And what I will never forget is the look on his face when the interviewer asked him if there could possibly be another explanation for what he had witnessed. ‘Oh, no,’ he replied, in his quiet, humble voice. ‘It was an angel sent from God.’

He said that, just when they all believed they were going to be killed before they could make it to safety, a bright light appeared; stood between them and the enemy, turning back the German forces and allowing the BEF to retreat without further bombardment.

When the interviewer asked him more questions, he said it was just a light: a bright light that had frightened off the enemy; reiterating that he believed it to be an angel sent from God. Nothing could move him from this stance and the sincerity and faith on that old soldier’s face has stayed with me, more convincing than any words, despite what is now on the internet.

Then, there was just the mention of a light; one light; that stood between the enemy and retreating troops; that those who saw it believed it to be divine intervention;and that, if it had not done so, few, if any, would have survived.

Now, to my astonishment, we see a host of material, mostly inspired, as far as I can tell, by the Revelation: forty thousand horsemen etc. The angel is no longer singular but plural. And finally, that it is all a fiction made up by British journalist, Arthur Machen and published in September of the same year, just a few weeks after the retreat.

I find it interesting that the journalist in question wrote this so soon after the event and I believe the two are linked.

Over the years, I have become more and more convinced that there is a collective consciousness at the level of the subconscious. This is the well, I believe, from which creativity springs. Had the journalist written his story before the retreat, I would be more inclined to believe that the real event may not have happened.

As it is, I think he picked up on it through the collective consciousness, embroidered and embellished it according to his journalistic instincts and published it, in all sincerity, believing it to be entirely a product of his own imagination. It is interesting to note that, according to one source, he wasn’t happy with it. To me, this means that he believed he got it wrong. Satisfaction only comes from the creative flow being accurately recorded.

Most men, then, as today, would be reluctant to admit to a visitation from the supernatural.

However, the fact remains that, at Mons, on the 22^nd – 23^rd of August, 1914, something inexplicable happened to stop the carnage on men hard-pressed in retreat.

Only those who were there know what it was.

And if, a little over a hundred years ago, exhausted men, debilitated beyond endurance; facing the most overwhelming odds; were granted a vision to re-energise their retreat to safety; who are we to say it wasn’t real? Or that it didn’t come from God?

Grandpère Sans Pareil

Posted on June 21, 2016 by Anne Rouen

TSS Demosthenes

I have been thinking a lot about my grandfather lately, with this year marking the Centenary of the Western Front. I often wonder how he felt leaving a young wife and baby son, not knowing if he would ever see them again. (And, of course, how dreadful it was for my grandmother.)

He left on the T.S.S. Demosthenes, a steamer commissioned in 1861, described by my grandmother as a ‘leaking old tub in which the bilge pumps worked 24/7 just to keep it afloat.’

He was a remarkable man, belonging to a generation who were prepared to sacrifice their lives for ideals of freedom and justice for their loved ones. Truly, to quote one of my characters (and perhaps countless others) they were God’s finest sons.

In 1900, at age eleven, he was apprenticed to a Master Baker because, he reasoned, people would always need bread and he would always have a job. I still have his cake scales that he bought second-hand, at this time, and used right up to the end of his life. They take pride of place in my kitchen.

In the depression of the 1930s, his business went broke because he would not see people go hungry and always gave them bread whether they could pay or not. Unfortunately, the flour mills did not feel the same way about him. But he worked hard and finally opened another bakery with enough turnover to survive his generosity.

Every year, on Anzac Day, he marched with his mates in the morning; got drunk with them in the afternoon; and, in keeping with others of his generation, never mentioned or referred to the war at other times or in any other way. He also looked after Percy, his friend debilitated on the Western Front, until Percy’s last illness took him to hospital. Percy, who suffered from shell-shock(PTSD) and lung complications, was homeless after being thrown out of his accommodation because he was a hopeless alcoholic.

My grandfather was quick-tempered; proud and independent; took no nonsense from anyone; and called a spade a shovel, offending some. On the other hand, he had a wicked sense of humour; was loyal, kind and generous; a man of both physical and moral courage; and a man of honour.

The maxim: If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing properly; and if you can’t do it properly, don’t do it at all, was his rule for life. He set a high standard.

To his grandchildren, he was Farby; and he spoilt us with ice-cream and sodas from the Greek café up the street; to everyone else he was Jack: and you could take him or leave him.

In my dedication, I refer to him as a patissier sans pareil and so he was: It is many years since he baked his last batch of pies, but there are still people today who remember them as the best ever.

In keeping with his maxim, it took me three years to write this book. I worked hard on my research, as did my wonderful editor, meticulously cross-checking my references.

And so I am proud to dedicate Angel of Song to Jack: Grandpére sans pareil.

Hidden Inspiration

Posted on March 30, 2016 by Anne Rouen

from Wikipedia

My life had been turned upside down. I found it difficult to function. This morning, everything had gone wrong and I hadn’t even dressed for work. I rushed to the dressing table I had inherited from my grandmother.

Stressed, I pulled on a drawer too hard and it fell out upside down, emptying its contents onto the carpet. This was the last straw and I burst into tears.

Then, I stopped. Folded many times and tucked between the bottom and the back of the drawer, only visible from this angle, was a tiny, yellowed scrap of paper torn from an exercise book.

I prised it out and opened it. In my late grandmother’s handwriting was a message from beyond the grave. Stunned, I read these beautiful words:

In the dark night of the soul,

Bright flows the river of God.

A message reaching out to me in perhaps my darkest hour. I dried my tears, put the drawer back and made it to work on time.

I have never forgotten this beautiful message and say it to myself whenever things are grim. I often think of my grandmother and what may have inspired her to write this verse on a scrap of paper and tuck it in the back of a drawer where I would find it decades later. Yet it was only recently that I thought to wonder where she had found these glorious, inspirational and healing words.

This was how I discovered the heart-rending story of Saint John of the Cross; his love and piety; his evil treatment at the hands of so-called men of God. Part of his story can be found here.

Sometimes, when I come upon the dark things of History, it is good to remember that there are wonderful treasures there, too.

Words to inspire your life: From a man who should know!