I don’t normally promote my novels on A Writer of History but I have two specials on at the moment, which I thought you might like to hear about.
Unravelled: Two wars. Two affairs. One marriage. is on Instafreebie for … you guessed it … free!!
“An engrossing historical saga. With narrative insight, compassion, and a strong sense of time and place, M.K. Tod observes the inner workings of a marriage as it’s affected by the uncertainty and tumult of both world wars.” Sarah Johnson, Historical Novel Society Book Review Editor.
Meanwhile, Time and Regret is on the Kindle Monthly deals in both the US and UK.
“With fluid prose and a keen eye for detail, M.K. Tod takes readers on a decades-spanning journey of wartime loss, family secrets, and ultimately, redemption.” Holly Smith, managing editor, Washington Independent Review of Books.
What does a book title do for you? Does it entice? Does it hint at the novel’s story? Does it reflect your personal circumstances? Does it confuse?
My current novel-in-process is set in Hong Kong and has no title, rather like an orphan with no name. I had what I thought was a brilliant title for it – East Rising Sun, based on a move in qigong, an ancient practice something like Tai Chi. However, at the urging of my editor, I’m adding a dual timeline to the story which makes this title inappropriate.
I have a collection of possibilities:
The Landscape of Time
A Necessary Obsession
An Island Apart
The Other Side of Longing
Love is a decision
Time and chance
I write these down at random moments when something sparks an idea and I’m sure I can come up with more. But I’m realizing that the title has to speak to me as the author as well as being one that will attract readers and those in the publishing industry.
My first novel is called Unravelled. But it had other names. For a while I called it Shadows – as in the shadows of war since one of my main characters is a WWI soldier. I called it Dance of Secrets at one point, and Silent Signals and While the Secret Sits and Until Shadows Flee. One day I wrote the word unravelled in the manuscript and it hit me – unravelled was the central theme of the story.
The unravelling of a man after war, the unravelling of society, the unravelling of relationships as a consequence. The title brought focus to my writing and I hoped it would appeal to readers as well.
Perhaps this means I haven’t quite settled on the central theme for this next story. I hope I figure it out soon.
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April 9, 2017 is the 100th anniversary of the battle for Vimy Ridge, a battle where thousands of Canadian soldiers distinguishing themselves by taking this important ridge from the Germans. Each of my three published novels – Unravelled, Lies Told in Silence, and Time and Regret – features this battle. To commemorate the anniversary, today’s post features an excerpt from Unravelled illustrating the later stages of that remarkable day.
Pushing through a knot of soldiers, Edward was breathing hard as he approached Lieutenant Burke.
“Jamieson. Why aren’t you at your post?” Burke lifted his head from the communications grid-map and shouted to be heard over the machine gun firing to his left.
“Vital communication from HQ, sir.” Unable to find a runner to take the message to Burke, Edward had abandoned his post to take it himself. He would experience serious consequences if Burke disagreed with that decision. “There was no one else to bring this to you.”
Burke scanned the message. “Bloody hell. How’ll we alert them in time?”
“I’ve tried wireless and airlines. Can’t reach them.”
“Someone will have to go on foot.” The Lieutenant gripped his forehead as if that would help him focus. “I’ll find Andrews. He’s back.”
Edward checked his watch. “There isn’t time, sir. You take over my post while I run the message forward.” Burke nodded; after all, a lance corporal was the more dispensable man.
The message announced a delay to Z-hour. The Eighty-Seventh Battalion, along with two other battalions, were to take the highest point of the ridge called Hill 145, which was critical to destroying Germany’s stranglehold in the northeast. By now, the Eighty-Fifth would also be in position and all would be waiting for Z-hour before commencing action. If the battalions advanced at the old Z-hour without artillery cover they would be destroyed by enemy fire. Edward had less than thirty minutes to reach them.
Wasting no time saluting, he put on a red armband, tucked the message in his tunic pocket and immediately headed east, his destination five hundred yards away but more than three times that distance using the trenches. Going above ground would be suicide.
Unlike their own trenches, which he could navigate in his sleep, Edward knew only the general layout of newly won German trenches; information gleaned from training diagrams and captured soldiers. He would have to work his way through fighting trenches, communication trenches and finally the resistance trenches. Once he got there, he could follow the resistance trench to find the Eighty-Seventh.
To avoid snipers, Edward moved in a crouched position as he scrambled over a ledge of fallen sandbags where a recent barrage had weakened the retaining wall and destroyed the fire step. He passed by a Maxim gun still on its sledge mount, an unused roll of ammunition hanging out one end. On his right, several stocks of stick grenades remained intact on a dirt shelf. A dead German soldier lay only a few feet away, his helmet off, the left side of his face missing.
Despite the cold, Edward sweated in his greatcoat. Mud oozed with each step, slowing his pace. His foot slipped. He grabbed at a section of chicken wire attached to the retaining wall to steady himself. A few yards ahead, a pool of water lay in front of a tunnel entrance. While slogging through the water, an explosion ripped the sky, spraying earth and shrapnel. Large clods of dirt struck his helmet.
Just inside the tunnel the ground wobbled beneath his feet. Struggling to keep his balance, he realized he was standing on two dead soldiers. He shuddered but kept going, barely able to see in the tunnel’s gloom. Panting, he slowed his pace to avoid falling; not one second could be wasted. Outside, the bursting curtain of steel continued its deadly assault.
He emerged from the tunnel and hurried along an empty trench as snow swirled in a sudden flurry, biting his face and limiting his sight. A low-flying aircraft swooped overhead looking for flag wavers reporting on objectives achieved. Edward heard the blaring of its klaxon. His legs pounded up and down, pleading for rest.
He lifted his eyes from the footpath, searching for a communication trench to take him forward. There it was. He could see the junction ahead. He turned left to follow its zigzag pattern. After a few minutes he found another fighting trench, then fifty feet later a second communication trench. Glancing up, he cursed, ducking quickly to avoid a roll of barbed wire. The second communication trench would be longer than the first as it bridged the gap between fighting trenches and resistance trenches. In the distance he heard the sound of howitzers launching another offensive.
Scrambling over piles of rubble and fallen support beams, Edward thought he could see another T-junction ahead. If that were the case, he would be at the first resistance trench. When he reached the junction, he cursed again and stopped, his path completely blocked. He retraced his steps to a scaling ladder and climbed out of the trench to proceed above ground beyond the blockage. The sudden buzz of a whizbang warned him of danger and he threw himself to the ground as a shell exploded no more than twenty feet away. He got to his feet and ran forward a short distance before jumping back into the communication trench beyond the blocked area. The sharp tang of cordite hung in the air.
Stark flashes of red lit the clouds as he rounded another corner and saw stretcher-bearers coming towards him followed by a stumbling line of German prisoners, one of them dressed in pyjamas. On the stretcher lay a grey-faced soldier bleeding from wounds in the arm and leg. Edward squeezed past the smells of blood and fear.
A few steps later he entered the first of three resistance trenches. He had to reach the third, most forward trench. Edward looked at his watch; unless he went above ground, he wouldn’t make it. Around the next bend he found another ladder, slung his rifle off his shoulder and scrambled out.
As he emerged from the trench, sunshine broke the gloom, flaming against a distant spire. Wreckage surrounded him: barbed wire, torn sandbags, abandoned artillery, stinking shell holes. Wounded men littered the field, begging for help. Dusk would soon close in; he stopped for no one.
Machine-gun fire crackled on his far right as German gunners emerged from a dugout desperate to inflict pain and damage on those who would soon force them out. Edward dodged to the left. He was almost there. Keeping low to the ground, he hurried on with only one purpose—reaching the Eighty-Seventh.
When the sniper’s bullet hit him, all thought of the message tucked in his pocket disappeared. He crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.
I read this scene and others posted this past week and feel once more the sorrow and anger that hit me when first researching WWI. How did they do it? How did my grandfather live through four years of hell? We’re too far removed to fully appreciate the sacrifice made by those who fought in both world wars, but I hope these scenes and my novels offer at least a little understanding.