The Preface to the first edition of Lingard’s Bank Security Documents published in March 1985 contains the following:-

‘Unfortunately, the evolution of security documents is under pressure as banks from overseas – - – flood into London. Such banks often lend at highly competitive rates to strong customers. The result has been to increase the competitive pressures on banks to a point where they are sometimes denied the detailed financial information needed to make a proper assessment of the prospects of a company, and are forced to keep expenses to a minimum – - -. Unless these pressures abate, the authorities may well find they have to mount some bank rescues.’

The pressures increased and were compounded by credit default swaps under which gullible banks participated in bad loans in return for fees which enhanced the bonuses of the ‘bankers’ responsible. Grossly inadequate provisions for the bad debts were made in the audited accounts and regulatory returns.

The Preface to the fourth edition published in August 2006 – before the crash – again warned of “the distinct possibility of forthcoming troubled economic times”. Senior bankers gave priority to selling the bank’s products in a highly competitive market and failed to invest adequate resources in risk assessment. Only now is interest being shown by banks in risk assessing software available from major actuaries such as Towers Watson.

The fifth edition of Lingard’s Bank Security Documents as at 31st August 2011 has now been published to assist bankers and their advisers to structure sound security and sound lending and insolvency practitioners to identify defective security.

The regulatory failures of the recent past have now been admitted and the Bank of England will again take charge. However, competitive pressures remain and the policy of the EEC and British Government is to increase competition by splitting some of the larger banks. The question is: how will the regulators ensure that banks do impose appropriate financial covenants in their lending and follow correct procedure in creating security? Will overseas banks continue to take big risks to grab the business? And how will credit default swaps and other derivatives be policed?

I find many people are interested in what it was like to live in wartime Britain. This prompted me to write BRITAIN AT WAR 1939 to 1945 What was life like during the war? by James Lingard (paperback ISBN 9781434359339) (Kindle ASIN: B005QNPQLE) (ebook 9781434359346). The book gives ‘an excellent easy to digest overview of the key events that affected Britain during’ the war. It has received a number of excellent reviews and is now available on Kindle.

Lingard’s Bank Security Documents - now in its 5th edition – presented a very different challenge and has become the leading English textbook on the subject, widely cited by both banking and insolvency lawyers. The chapters on inherent defects and enforcement are of particular value to insolvency practitioners.

The Chapter on D-Day, recording two out of many heroic exploits on that day, has now been selected as a favourite read. BRITAIN AT WAR 1939 to 1945 What was life like during the war? by James Lingard (paperback ISBN 9781434359339) (Kindle ASIN: B005QNPQLE) (ebook 9781434359346) gives ‘an excellent easy to digest overview of the key events that affected Britain during World War two’ and presents a fascinating insight into the trials of civilian life in Britain during the war; ideal for those who seek balanced background information about the war and the reality of life then. The book has received a number of excellent reviews and is now available on Kindle.

The book has received a number of excellent reviews including:-

History Direct and History Times (May 2009)

‘James Lingard’s Britain at War 1939-1945 presents the reader with an excellent easy to digest overview of the key events that affected Britain during World War two. He has skilfully weaved personal accounts and his own experiences into the book to deliver a fascinating insight into the trials of civilian life in Britain at this key juncture in our nation’s history.’

The History Magazine (Spring Issue 2009)

For many older people the Second World War was the major event in their lives, but for the rest of us it is just history and it is hard to imagine what life was really like for them. In his book James Lingard tries to give us a picture of how a small boy saw life in the war interspersed with a potted history of the war to put things in context This book gives historically accurate facts and figures and cuts through the propaganda which was fed to the wartime public. I enjoyed this book giving as it does an insight into one person’s war.’

UCL People (University College London) (March 2009)

‘A memoir of boyhood in Britain during World War II, this short but powerful book brings together personal reflections with the historical and political context. The author’s memories are interwoven with quotations from Churchill’s speeches and overviews of the major campaigns. ‘Britain at War’ is written from the standpoint of people directly involved, and all personal experiences are based on actual events.’

The Sunday Times of Canada

‘A great book by James Lingard introduces the reader to the harsh realities of war.’

Personal comments from Amazon include:

Mr. M. W. Wabe (UK)  

‘This is a factual but interesting book of the lives of people who lived through WWII. It gives the stories of peoples’ lives, interspersed with the great speeches of such great men as Winston Churchill. It is enjoyable as a read in itself, but even more so for the memories it evokes for those who lived in those times. It provides a valuable insight into those times for us who were born in the 1950s, and onwards and without such a book, it is impossible for us to understand what life was like then. Death was almost always imminent from the bombing, food was short, hunger was not unusual, but a sort of national spirit emerged that is no longer present today.’

Interesting read, 18 July 2008 By DJ Colbran (Liverpool, England)

I really enjoyed this book. It is a great account of war not only from an historical point of view, but also from the social point of view.

It is now available on Kindle at a price of £7.44

The buy links are as below :
> https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0043M6M8A
>  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0043M6M8A
> http://www.lybrary.com/beware-revolutionary-guard-p-85513.html
> http://www.ebookshop.co.za/ebooks/458659/Beware-The-Revolutionary-Guard.html
> http://www.dittostore.com/search-results.php?string=lingard
> http://www.whsmith.co.uk/CatalogAndSearch/eBooksProductDetails.aspx?productID=OD00046094050

THE MILITARY BASE

Silence; total silence, or was there? Certainly, no tramp of marching feet; no shouted orders; no trucks grinding passed the window of his quarters to the entrance of the base and why no reveille? Max had always risen early – ever since his own army days as a tank commander. Now, he stirred restlessly still only half awake, feeling slightly homesick for his wife and two small children. His contract would not be finished for at least another six months.

He glanced at his watch – reveille should have sounded at least five minutes ago. Outrageous, such an omission was unprecedented – quite inexcusable. It seemed as if the entire garrison had melted away in the night – quietly so as not to disturb those still asleep – leaving behind a ghostly replica of their camp in the early morning mist. Could this be real or was he having a nightmare?

Max had always been a natural leader thanks partly to his height, which caused him to look down on those around him, and his impressive handsome features, now slightly worn with age and the gruelling existence he led. Usually quick to make decisions, he found the mystery which confronted him totally disconcerting. Just what had happened? What should he do?

As a civilian engineer, he had been sent by his firm to help supervise construction works on a military base deep in central Iran – part of the Shah’s last desperate attempts to rearm and make himself invincible to all threats, internal or external. He reminded himself that the Shah’s army had total responsibility for security, his own army days were over.

Like many of his Israeli comrades working on the project, Max was no stranger to heavy fighting – Egyptians, Syrians, Palestinians, he had faced them all and acquired quite a reputation for his daring exploits. Indeed, the Palestinians had placed him on their death list, an accolade he would much have preferred to be without.

As the silence persisted, he became increasingly alarmed – the more so when he caught the muffled sound of a suppressed oath outside his window. Dressing hurriedly and checking the revolver he always carried about his person, he decided to investigate before hastening over to breakfast in the mess. Something must be seriously amiss. The Shah’s police had brutally suppressed rioting a few weeks earlier and security at the base had been tightened, but he had heard no rumours of any recurrence of the trouble.

Opening the door cautiously, he stopped and looked around. How quiet everything had become. Not a soul in sight in whichever direction he looked – not even by the main headquarters building. Where was everybody?

Normally, the first bus loads of workers would be arriving from Isfahan. Iranian troops guarding the base would be everywhere. Today, nothing; he was alone or so it seemed. Then the sound of running feet round the next corner, but when he reached it, they were gone.

 Max strode boldly into the middle of the road and stared back at the main gate. Deserted! No guards; the barrier was raised. Any passer-by could walk or drive straight into the base. Now thoroughly alarmed, he broke into a run. One of his Israeli colleagues – equally perturbed and mystified – caught up with him and together they entered the mess.

Half a dozen of their compatriots were standing in a group just inside the door, complaining noisily. No food; no staff; no Iranians at all. Together, they raided the kitchen and set about preparing their own meal. Gradually, other Israeli engineers arrived – all equally puzzled about what was happening.

Suddenly, the door burst open and Ben, who was in charge of the project, rushed in waving the previous days evening newspaper. He looked visibly bewildered and his voice shook with excitement: “I heard it on the radio. It’s all here in the paper which someone pushed under my door. There’s been a revolution in Tehran. The Ayatollah has returned from exile: the Shah has been deposed. Deposed, do you hear me?”

He paused to let the news sink in and the horror of their situation surface in their minds. Just what do you do when, without warning, a declared enemy of your country takes over the State where you are working? Time to leave, and leave immediately, no doubt about that.

“We’re all in deep trouble. There’s a photograph on the front page of yesterday’s evening paper showing Yasser Arafat, the Palestinian leader, shaking hands with Ayatollah Khomeini. I recognise the building. It’s the balcony of the Israeli embassy in Tehran. They’ve seized our embassy. I can hardly believe it.”

 He slumped into a chair, plainly distressed and completely out of his depth. Max felt sorry for him – Ben had no active service experience – essentially a man of peace in a situation which demanded urgent action. But Max had responsibilities of his own. He stared long and hard at the photograph of his wife and young son and daughter which he carried in his wallet. They needed him; he must somehow get back to them.

Everybody began to talk at once. What should they do marooned in   Central Iran, at the mercy of revolutionaries who had commandeered their embassy? Moreover, they were working as contractors for the Shah inside a large military base – an obvious target for the Revolutionary Guards, sworn enemies of Israel. They could arrive at any moment and all too obviously the Shah’s army was no longer on hand to defend them.

A voice from the back reminded them that all too recently, the Shah had declared marshal law and hundreds of demonstrators had been killed or tortured by his secret police. There would be no mercy for his supporters now – and that included them whether they liked it or not.

Max, not a man to panic, banged the table for silence: “We must leave here whilst we still can. They could be on their way to arrest us even now. We are all Israeli reservists. I suggest we cease to regard ourselves as civilian contractors – no one is going to believe that. We must put ourselves on a war footing; treat ourselves as called up. I was a major in the Israeli army. Is there anyone here senior in rank to me?”

No reply, other than a half hearted protest from Ben that taking on the armed forces of an entire country sounded suicidal to him. Max ignored him: “If no one is senior to me, I’ll take command and set about getting you all out of here and back home to Israel.”

This met with a general murmur of approval and Max set about his self imposed task with a show of self confidence and enthusiasm which belied his inner doubts. Did they really stand even half a chance – any chance at all? But if they were doomed, he for one was going to die like an Israeli soldier, facing the enemy with a gun in his hands.

“All military officers and specialists please make yourselves known to me now.” The response was impressive: two pilot officers and a flight sergeant; a captain; a handful of junior tank commanders and artillery officers and two ex Special Forces NCOs. Most of the rest were engineering specialists. That was, after all, why they had been sent by their employer to Iran.

Max had them synchronise their watches, posted lookouts to warn of any approaching Iranians, and ordered everyone to be ready to leave in ten minutes or earlier if the siren sounded. He then set about assigning various tasks to his increasingly enthusiastic men.

A party was dispatched to break into the armoury and bring automatic weapons and ammunition for all of them. No joy there. They cut their way into the armoury with acetylene torches easily enough, but the departing Iranian troops had been there before them and removed anything worth having. Max swore: “We’ll just have to find another armoury. Put the cutting equipment into one of the trucks.”

Another party raided the food stores and succeeded in requisitioning two day’s supply of food and an ample quantity of bottled water. A third seized four trucks and all the cans of diesel they could muster. Whilst a fourth searched out and destroyed any records that might help identify who they really were.

Max, Ben and the Captain retired to the deserted base office block and pulled out the best maps they could find. What to do? Where to go?

 Then, the first signs of dissent began to surface. Ben, who still regarded himself as responsible for all of them, wanted to skirt Isfahan and hide up in the mountains; then travel by night to the nearest border. Max would have none of such weakness – dismissing the idea as short term with no future.

“I entirely agree with you that we must leave this base as soon as possible. Making a stand and fighting it out to the death is all very well for loyal supporters of the Shah but we are Israelis and our duty is to get the men back to Israel. If this base is anything to go by, the Shah’s supporters have deserted him but there may be pockets of resistance. I intend to be neutral, not take sides and I do have a plan – not yet fully developed to get us all out of here.

“My first priority is to arm ourselves properly. A few pistols are simply not enough to do ourselves justice. If we are attacked, our only chance of fighting our way out is for every one to have an automatic weapon and a copious supply of ammunition and grenades.

“Until we’re ready to fight, we must keep out of the way of all military units. That means avoiding Isfahan and major roads which are likely to have road blocks. We do have a choice. We could head west into the Zagros Mountains as Ben suggested or east into the desert. Our enemies will expect us to do one or other of those alternatives.

“My instinct is to go south for a few miles first, and find an isolated village just large enough to have a police station. All the Shah’s police were well armed – how else could they keep the people under control for as long as they did. That’s where we will find the weapons which we need to defend ourselves. The Iranians will hardly expect us to head towards the Afghan border.”

The idea of raiding a police station appalled Ben but he saw the logic of arming themselves if they had the opportunity of doing so without too much bloodshed. “And then what?” he enquired. “Do we lay low and try to discover what the hell is going on? The Shah’s men may mount a counter offensive. We simply don’t know. Alternatively, we could make for the nearest airport and take the first flight out.”

Max looked at him pityingly: “Once we’re armed, we go to ground until the search for us cools down. We can decide the next step at that stage. But we must be realistic. The Shah is not going to come back and no airport is going to let us out without a struggle. We could try to cross a land border or even escape by sea, but I have a better idea.”

He declined to elaborate. “We must go. This is not the time to debate alternatives. We’ll take these maps.”

The story continues – - -

 http://www.authorhouse.co.uk/Bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?BookId=SKU-000242715.

D-DAY

‘In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.’

The Allies had long agreed that the invasion of Northern France must have priority over all else – other operations in the Mediterranean were all secondary. The Russians, of course, regarded the defence of their country as paramount, but Stalin offered to time his next offensive to assist the invasion – in fact attacking in strength on the 23rd June 1944. The Americans also gave priority to the landing over their operations against the Japanese in the Pacific. By D-Day, 1.5 million US troops were stationed in Britain; troops who ridiculed British deference to concepts of class and the old school tie.

As a preliminary to D-Day, 6th June 1944, the French railway system suffered heavy bombing to disrupt German communications and reinforcements. Meanwhile, elaborate planning struggled to work out how best to transport 150,000 men and 20,000 vehicles to France in the first two days and how to convince the enemy that the attack would be directly across the Straits of Dover. This subterfuge, involving erecting dummy tanks guns and vehicles in the Kent countryside, was brilliantly successful and resulted in Panzer divisions being held back from the actual landings.

The invasion force comprised thirty five divisions carried in 4,000 ships supported by 11,000 aircraft of which 8,000 would go into action. In the early hours of D-Day, three airborne divisions landed behind the invasion beaches. They had mixed success: some of the gliders being blown off course; some landing too close to enemy strong points.

As dawn broke, the huge invasion fleet began its attack. German torpedo boats sank a Norwegian destroyer. An expected attack by U-boats was beaten off by aircraft which sank six of them.

 The day yielded thousands of heroic actions. As an illustration, I tell that of Maurice Bennet, a civilian who had joined the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve on the outbreak of war, and three times set out in capital ships to escort convoys to Malta. All three times, his ships had been disabled by torpedoes or bombs and with difficulty limped back to Gibraltar. When the North Africa campaign drew to a close, he had volunteered to command a tank landing craft, and successfully participated in the landings at Salerno before being ordered back to the UK in order to participate in the D-Day landings.

He and another officer volunteered for special duties. Could any such duty be more dangerous than driving a cumbersome landing craft on to a heavily defended beach? Well – yes.

Maurice was to command a landing craft modified to contain one tank and three guns – all with their barrels in fixed positions to fire straight ahead at a target one thousand yards away. He had orders to search out a shore battery; aim the guns by stearing straight at it, then fire at 1,000 yards.

D-Day dawned and Maurice and his sister craft went in at full speed ahead – such as their craft could manage – well ahead of the invasion fleet. The beach had been heavily bombed, but it seemed as though they were alone against the might of an invisible German army.

A mile out and no target identified. Suddenly, a loud explosion to port. A quick glance – the sister ship had received a direct hit and exploded into pieces. Zigzag. Just in time. Another battery closer to Maurice fired at him. This is it. He headed directly for it. Hold on – 1100 yards. Wait for it – fire.

Maurice and the battery fired more or less simutaeously. They missed; he did not. The shell from the tank hit the concrete bunker, but made precious little impression on it. The shells from the three guns exploded – - and produced red smoke. Red smoke, Maurice swore as he turned away from the beach to try another attack.

Suddenly, a tremendous explosion. The battery had gone – not only the battery but the low cliff on which it stood had collapsed into the sea.

Time to take on the second battery which had sunk his sister craft. Maurice had to cover half a mile before he was in range. Random zigzags and a lot of prayer. They fired but he made it. Once again red smoke; once again a huge explosion and the battery had half gone.

He received a signal: ‘Leave immediate’. No need to be told twice. He turned back out to sea – a sea now covered with scores of ships. As he did so, he saw the flash of heavy guns – a Rodney class battleship firing another broadside at the remains of the battery.

Could there be any survivors from the sister craft? Another signal: ‘Get out of the *** way.’ Dozens of landing craft were powering directly at him on their way to the beach and glory. He made it back – many of the others did not.

 *   *   *

Generally, the Allies achieved complete tactical surprise, but on Omaha beach, the Americans ran into a full German division on the alert and had great difficulty in achieving a landing at all. Elsewhere, resistance proved to be lighter than expected – smashed into submission by the naval bombardment and the heavy bombing which effectively destroyed the German radar.

By nightfall on D-Day, 150,000 Allied troops had landed at a cost of approximately 10,000 killed. The Allies hoped to reach Caen, a few miles inland, but this was prevented by a force of fifty Panzers.

Inevitably, the early days after landing had times of chaos and improvisation. An infantry Colonel told me how his regiment rapidly fought their way out of the landing zone and into the Normandy countryside. Three days later, they had achieved their immediate objectives but had had no sleep and precious little food. No Germans in sight. He called a halt, requisitioned a convenient farm house as temporary headquarters, put his men into defensive positions and posted sentries.

He instructed his sergeant major that they were all exhausted and would fight better after a few hours rest, but he was to be called if any German troops were sighted. With which he threw himself on top of a bed. Too hot; he took his uniform off, but adhered to standing orders and left his loaded revolver, safety catch on, tied to his wrist with a lanyard.

The next thing he remembered was that the sergeant major burst into the room, shook him roughly by the shoulder, yelled: ‘Quick, sir. The Germans are surrounding the house.’ flung open the window and jumped out.

Had he dreamed it? He heard a voice shout in German. Hell. No time to get dressed. He flung himself through the open window and landed on his feet, just as two German soldiers came round the corner. They stared at the near naked man in astonishment. He fled for the further corner of the building, but as he ran jerked the revolver into his hand.

He heard a shouted challenge and in reply fired two rapid shots, hitting one of the soldiers in the arm. They returned fire but he was round the corner. A burst of fire from the sergeant major’s tommy gun and both Germans were dead. A quick dash to the nearest hedge, and there were a Company of his regiment lying in ambush. The Germans withdrew as rapidly as they had arrived.

In another sector of the battlefield, a bridge building unit had strict orders as to precisely where to bridge a canal which threatened to hold up the allied advance. They drove directly to the map reference – no sign of military activity in the vicinity.

Within a few hours the bridge was completed ready to be tested. The colonel always insisted on being the first to drive across and this he did. Still no sign of allied tanks – he reported the position and was ordered to sit and wait for them.

Suddenly the roar of engines and twenty Panzers quickly surrounded him and his men. They were disarmed and the German commander told him that they had been watching him for the past hour and his bridge would be most useful.

Three of the German tanks escorted the unit to a German base ten miles or so to the rear. There the British officers were entertained to dinner in the officers mess, while the men were marched off to another building.

Half way through the meal, a knock on the door and a British colour sergeant entered and saluted smartly. ‘A problem, sir,’ he said to the Panzer major. ‘May I have a word with my colonel?’Permission was readily given and the colonel walked over to the door. ‘The men are getting restless,’ he was told. ‘We have overpowered the handful of men guarding us and taken their weapons. There is a guard on the gate and four German officers with you, but that’s all. The tanks have gone. Permission to carry on, sir?’

The colonel consented and within moments the tables were turned and the bridge building unit drove out of the camp with four Panzer officers as their prisoners. They headed back towards their bridge. Two miles short of the bridge, they entered the square of a small town, and to their horror saw the Panzer tanks which had captured them. These were drawn up in a neat row with their crews sitting on or around them, relaxing and drinking beer.

They heard the tank engines starting up as they raced on. The colonel radioed his Head Quarters for help. They made the bridge in record time and raced across. The colonel jumped out to lay a charge and dynamite it. An American voice came over the radio: ‘Don’t do that. Let them come. We’re waiting for them. Just get lost will you.’

The unit sped on under no illusion that next time the Germans would not be so gentlemanly. Then, behind them gunfire erupted. A tank battle had begun; the Panzers had been ambushed. The colonel did not wait to see who won.

*   *   *

Heavy German reinforcements were hastening to the front, but equally the Allies planned to have twenty five divisions deployed within a month. The sixty German divisions – of which ten were Panzers – available to defend France against the invasion were widely spread around the coast; only nine infantry and one Panzer being on hand in Normandy. Such had been the success of the allied deception that they planned to attack Calais.

By 12th June, the Germans had brought four Panzer divisions into the battle – less than General Eisenhower expected. The air offensive had succeeded in disrupting communications. Cherbourg held out until the 26th June and the port suffered heavy demolition which put it out of action for a further ten weeks. The weather also deteriorated and storms destroyed one of the two floating harbours which had been towed across the Channel. Even so, good progress was made in supplying and building up the bridgeheads.

As in Russia, Hitler made the mistake of ordering his troops to stand and fight where they were, rather than making strategic withdrawals. In the last week of June, the British front was attacked by strong Panzer forces, but they were beaten off with heavy losses by air attack and accurate artillery fire. On 8th to 10th July, a British counterattack at last succeeded in taking Caen which had suffered heavy bombing.

By mid-July the Allies had thirty divisions ashore opposed by twenty seven German divisions weakened by heavy allied bombing whenever the weather permitted. Rommel himself suffered severe wounds from a low flying fighter. The Nazis could only respond at night with attacks by single aircraft. Then, on 20th July 1944, desperate anti-nazis attempted to assassinate Hitler, but failed – leading to a massive purge which included Rommel himself.

Hitler now released his Fifteenth Army to oppose the landings, but their intervention came too late to make much impact. The American break out under General Bradley began on the 25th July and cut the German escape route down the Normandy coast. Four Panzer divisions checked the Canadian advance on Falaise. Brest on the tip of the Cherbourg peninsular held out until the 19th September.

Hitler insisted on a major counterattack by five Panzer divisions on Mortain but this was beaten back. Much of the surviving armour succeeded in withdrawing before the gap in the allied advance at Falaise closed, but eight German divisions were effectively annihilated.

The allied advance continued and on 24th August entered Paris. The Germans are estimated at this stage to have lost 400,000 men – half prisoners – and 1,300 tanks.

Published reviews include:-

History Direct and History Times (May 2009)

‘James Lingard’s Britain at War 1939-1945 presents the reader with an excellent easy to digest overview of the key events that affected Britain during World War two. He has skillfully weaved personal accounts and his own experiences as a boy into the book to deliver a fascinating insight into the trials of civilian life in Britain at this key juncture in our nation’s history.’

Practical Family History (April 2009)

‘Written from the standpoint of the people who were involved, Britain at War brings the period alive with accurate facts and figures to illuminate the personal experiences described in their fascinating stories.’

The History Magazine (Spring Issue 2009)

For many older people the Second World War was the major event in their lives, but for the rest of us it is just history and it is hard to imagine what life was really like for them. In his book James Lingard tries to give us a picture of how a small boy saw life in the war interspersed with a potted history of the war to put things in context. He brings to life just how difficult it was to do even the most ordinary things in wartime such as travel from Bournemouth to Yorkshire. He also gives a graphic description of bombing raids and tells of how as a four year old boy he was nearly arrested as a spy just because he waved to a German plane. This book gives historically accurate facts and figures and cuts through the propaganda which was fed to the wartime public. I enjoyed this book giving as it does an insight into one person’s war. I would have liked to find out what happened to the young James and his parents after the war.’

UCL People (University College London) (March 2009)

‘A memoir of boyhood in Britain during World War II, this short but powerful book brings together personal reflections with the historical and political context. The author’s memories are interwoven with quotations from Churchill’s speeches and overviews of the major campaigns.’

Family Tree Magazine  

At the outbreak of war, the author was a young boy living in south London who later evacuated with his mother to her parents’ house in Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire, while his father joined the Army. The author’s personal recollections and stories are deftly interwoven with historical facts and figures to bring the period vividly to life.’

Down amongst the twenty or so dwellings huddled together on a narrow ledge high in the Caucasus Mountains, a group of women redoubled their ululating as they prepared a funereal supper. The men began to chant salaams, which carried to the tiny group of mourners clustered around the freshly dug graves.

Sergei, in his long grey overcoat and wide-topped sheepskin hat, gazed down at the two bodies lying at his feet in open rough pine coffins, and bowed his head in respectful silence. ‘So young, so very young,’ he sighed, ‘yet their lives are over. They died for the cause. They are heroes.’

Then he stared thoughtfully at the lights of two distant villages, the one where he was born perched high above the other, under a towering rock peak which protected it from the worst rigors of the winter blizzards. These were his people, his mountains – range after range stretching into the mists.

Somehow, they seemed to give him the courage to glance across at Alexei, the local partisan leader, a giant of a man with an ugly scar on his right cheek which his black beard could not conceal. Their eyes did not meet and neither spoke.

A voice growled: ‘Good men, Comrade Sergei. This is Captain Yusuf’s work – not many can shoot like that.’

Sergei nodded. One of the bodies could so easily have been his own. Rumour had it that both he and Alexei were on Yusuf’s death list.

Alexei gripped the strap of the Kalashnikov slung across his back, his face ravaged by exhaustion and sorrow; but looked away, as if seeking comfort from the old sepulchres in the small cemetery, from the square stone towers of the mountain village – a relic of the past.

Crack. Two bodies; two shots – the proprieties had been observed. Sergei mouthed a silent prayer. Each body had a bullet hole in the centre of its forehead, and another through the heart; both would have been dead before they hit the ground.

Then the fire seemed to come into Alexei’s eyes as he pledged a blood feud with the Georgians – a feud to end all feuds. Sergei walked over and stood beside him – a gesture of solidarity.

Alexei responded with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks and turned to the villagers: ‘Now is the time for leadership; the time for vengeance. Follow me. These grenades clipped to the metal loops in my ammunition belt, this Kalashnikov, and the armed men around me, all have urgent work to do.’

He took a pace backwards, stood smartly to attention, then slowly raised his right arm above his head and clenched his fist. The whole village fell silent. With quiet dignity, he ordered: ‘Bury them. They will be avenged.’

Sergei bared his head and watched as the coffins were solemnly nailed down and lowered into the ground. Tears welled up in his eyes as they were covered with earth – out of sight for ever. As if to enhance the melancholy, a younger element began to dance to the accompaniment of a balalaika – a dance which grew faster and wilder as it progressed.

Alexei turned and walked slowly, head erect, back to his battered truck, followed by the three armed bodyguards who shadow him constantly. The engine roared into life and throbbed with a power the vehicle did not truly possess. A wave and it lurched down the bumpy track, escorted by a handful of village horsemen.

Sergei, more a politician than a man of action, was left reflecting on how he and Alexei first met. Back in the old days, both had attended a meeting of the Communist Party held in a smoke filled room where a dogmatist – long past his sell-by date – had droned on endlessly.

At the first opportunity, despite the Chairman’s efforts, Alexei had sprung to his feet: ‘Make no mistake, comrades; the people of the mountains are set to throw off the tyranny of Moscow.

Such treachery was not well received. Sergei had saved the situation by leading the audience in a rousing rendering of the ‘Red Flag’, their voices charged with emotion:

                           ‘The people’s flag is deepest red

                           It shrouded oft our martyred dead,

                           And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold

                           Their hearts blood dyed its every fold.

                           Then raise the scarlet banner high,

                           Within its shade we’ll live or die.

                           Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer;

                           We’ll keep the red flag flying here.’

They ended with ecstatic applause and sang it again. But as the meeting broke up, Sergei had found himself bundled into a van, blindfolded, and driven away at high speed. Who were his captors; secret police? He had no idea, but desperately wished he was somewhere else.

When the blindfold was removed, he found himself sitting in isolation, perched on a sunlit boulder high in the roof of the world. Below him, the ground fell away steeply to the top of a sheer cliff. No escape that way unless one tired of life.

His ledge broadened into a tiny hamlet – a few buildings in surprisingly good condition, mostly with tin roofs. Above them a clutch of ancient sepulchers survived, giving the place a weird look; an appearance enhanced by an ancient staircase cut into the sheer rock face – once leading to a place of sacrifice, but now seemingly reaching for the sky.

These were not the mountains he knew; they were on the north face of the Caucasus – he could tell that from the sun. Worse, his captors spoke an entirely different language and he lived in constant fear that they would kill him on the slightest pretext. They seemed so confident, these men with their big knives – Kalashnikovs slung across their backs.

In such circumstances, the invigorating mountain air, the spectacular views, meant nothing. Nobody for miles around cared whether he lived or died. Sergei had never felt more alone, more wretched in all his life.

Then one day, a battered truck had come grinding up the track to the hamlet. Sergei had watched it with barely suppressed excitement. A sense of disbelief – rapidly superseded by elation swept over him. He raced down the slope towards the newcomers, waving his arms and shouting to draw their attention.

‘Halt.’ The command echoed through his head. He would never forget that moment. As he spun round and fell to his knees, the muscles of his stomach clenched as if to repel the bullets.

The new arrival calmly drew his pistol and fired one shot in the air. ‘Everyone stands still,’ he ordered. Alexei’s voice; it really was him.

Suddenly, Sergei was free. Free and utterly determined to stay by Alexei’s side like a shadow, until they were well away from that place.

They drove to Pyatigorsk where various Separatist leaders were meeting near the domed pavilion they call the Aeolian Harp. An ancient harp used to crown the building, its strings struck by a weather vane. Now, the effect has been recreated electronically – ethereal chords float on the wind giving a sense of timelessness emanating from a celestial force. Perhaps the leaders need all the inspiration they can get, he had thought, but he relished the opportunity to meet them.

Sergei had learned that his kidnappers were Chechens seeking a ransom; but the Chechens had now become allies of the Abkhaz Separatists – hence his release.

 CHAPTER 1

THE CRADLE OF FEAR

‘The fear of death is more to be dreaded than death itself.’ (Horace)

‘Keep going. Don’t give up now,’ I whispered urgently to the Abkhaz youth guiding me through the minefield around the wrecked village. For the last five minutes he had begun to glance at his watch. How come one so poor came to have a watch like that?

           ‘They mustn’t see me he hissed,’ ‘The mist helps, but it’s not safe. You’re clear of the mines now. This is as far as I go. Keep heading upwards towards that ridge.’ A wave and he ducked out of sight before I could stop him.

           Ah well! No need to hurry. Not a sound. No one about; I had time enough to slip off my sodden trousers and socks and wring the water out of them – just my luck to slip as we crossed the river back there.

           A rustle in the undergrowth startled me – a fox. ‘Take care Reynard – or they’ll think it’s me.’

           What a fool I had been to volunteer to contact Sergei and report on the situation in Abkhazia; what a fool he had been to get involved in politics. But then, what’s the point of my having spent all those days in training if it’s not put to good use?

           The Security Services had given me a telephone number in case of trouble. ‘Just ask for Jane – pretend she’s your girl friend, she’d like that – and we’ll get your message.’ A fat lot of comfort a call to Jane would be out here in the wild with a pack of murderous villagers hunting me down.

           How was I supposed to know that they had chosen that very afternoon to indulge in another orgy of ethnic cleansing and liquidate their Georgian neighbours? Just my luck to stumble on the site of the mass grave they were preparing. So they want independence, but that’s not the way.

           At that moment, a tannoy boomed out behind me. It sounded to come from back across the river; totally unexpected. The guttural accent still grates inside my head. How can I ever forget?

           ‘You’re a dead man, English. We know who you are, John Armstrong. Go home, or you die. You spy upon our people; you pay with your life. We make sure of that.’

           I dodged behind the nearest clump of gorse and froze. So, they knew my name – that is the name I chose to use for the current mission. There is no John Armstrong; or if there is, it is someone else. But it is a name I would teach them to remember.

           Just how could they know? They must have caught my guide. I had seen enough of their activities to know that torture came easily to them.

           What next? Would a searchlight come stabbing through the darkness to illuminate me for one of their snipers? I could learn to hate the man with the tannoy – no doubt about that.

           ‘Kind of you to warn me,’ I muttered, ‘but I prefer to keep my whereabouts secret and here you are broadcasting my presence to everyone in earshot. There are people who would pay good money to know where I am.

           No sign of pursuit – or was there? I squared my shoulders and began to quarter the bare hillside through my night glasses. Nothing; the swirling mist blotted out the river. But mist deadens sound. Impossible to be certain whether the Abkhaz ‘freedom fighters’ had crossed on my heels. They were out there somewhere and they wanted blood – my blood. Moreover, this was their hunting ground – they knew it far better than me.

           The light drizzle trickling down my neck did not improve my mood. But at least my boots were sound. Be positive. Be thankful summer is here and the forecast promises a glorious day to come. Life is a lottery, play it to the full. Sukhumi and its beaches are only a few miles away; the sea is warm – all you have to do is to move yourself out of here.

           Press on to the tree-lined ridge up ahead. Dawn could not be far away. I clawed my way rapidly up the immediate slope like a cat with its eye on an overweight pigeon.

           Enough moonlight penetrated through occasional gaps in the cloud for me to leave the path to my enemies. Wherever possible, I made use of the meager cover, pausing every now and then to listen for signs of anyone in my vicinity. Not a sound, only the steady drip of moisture from the trees. But this was no place to get careless.

           Odd, I could now make out that there were two ridges. The ground dipped slightly before rising to the main ridge which filled the sky line. My map had shown no such a feature.

           ‘Must be too far west,’ I confided to a nervous squirrel making a mad scramble to the nearest tree.

           Nearing the lower ridge, I slowed down, determined to avoid stepping on fallen twigs. Luck was with me. Down in the hollow, I glimpsed a solitary figure leaning against a giant oak. He remained motionless but alert, clutching his Kalashnikov and staring expectantly down the path.

           His tattered camouflage uniform puzzled me for a moment – not Georgian, certainly not an elite Russian unit, though his weapon was of the latest design and far superior in killing power to my little Browning. Then, I remembered where I had come across something similar – he had to be a Chechen. I had been briefed that the Abkhaz separatists had the support not only of Russia but of Chechen and Ingush terrorists.

           Was he alone? It seemed unlikely. Easy enough to imagine a whole phalanx of watchers in the woods – Kalashnikovs at the ready – tucked away out of sight. Perhaps the tannoy had not been just bravado. One way or another, they did not mean me to go any further.

           That way lays fear – the stuff of nightmares. I had no time now for such weakness. I thought of the twisted remains of the torture victims I had glimpsed – unforgettable images – pure horror. Was that what they had in mind for me?

           Use your initiative. Let this one enjoy a peaceful night and a hearty breakfast. Make a detour. I had no quarrel with him – no evidence to suggest that he had been involved in the atrocities.

           But fate intervened. A sudden puff of wind; a gap in the cloud cover – and there I stood silhouetted in the moonlight not thirty yards from him. Careless of me, comes of letting my mind wander from the serious business of survival. He shouted something at me in a dialect which I could not understand. That focused my full attention.

           I gave the thumbs up sign and turned to go, but he barked a command and motioned me towards him with the muzzle of his weapon. Tricky; field craft has always let me down.

           Putting a finger to my lips and smiling amiably, I stumbled towards him. If that was what he wanted, so be it – besides, I needed that Kalashnikov. All that shouting must have alerted the villagers.

           My right hand eased the throwing knife which nestles in the small of my back out of its sheath. All that training made its delivery automatic – the slightest hesitation would have been fatal for me.

           The Chechen only realized what was happening as the knife struck home. His eyes registered a mixture of shock and betrayal as they stared, transfixed with horror, straight into mine. He slumped to the ground so quietly with no more than a gurgling gasp that it took me a moment to appreciate that he was dead.

           I retrieved the knife and confiscated the gun and all his ammunition. Could be useful, but my primary objective remained to get away – not to fight a war of revenge. It is best not to try and police the world.

           Two blackbirds began to trill high on the oak tree, unconcerned at the killing. They were the first echoes of the dawn chorus as seemingly every bird within hearing strove to out-sing the others. 

           If only I could emulate their carefree attitude, but soon the mist would be burned off by the sun. Already, visibility was improving – far too fast for my liking. I needed to hurry, but equally to avoid any more watchers lurking behind the trees.

           Voices drifted up to me from behind – could be as many as a dozen men. Impossible to tell, but it sounded as though they had found their comrade and knew his killer must be close-by. Now, I knew fear. What chance had I against so many – men desperate to preserve the secret of their atrocity and thirsting for revenge? They would show no mercy.

           ‘Don’t panic. That way you die.’ If only I could reach the higher ridge without being seen – only fifty yards now. So near. It had to be worth a try. I planned my approach and waited for the cloud to thicken. This is it. Go for it. Go – go – go.

           As I reached the crest, the cloud broke and a sliver of crimson sun revealed a broad valley spread out in front of me with cattle grazing in the fields. Could that be utopia? The cawing of crows circling overhead destroyed any such illusion. They seemed to me to be devils hungering for the flesh of those about to die. Could that be me?

           But I was not done yet. The assault rifle was real and so were the clips of ammunition and the blood on the strap. Enough to scare off a few blood crazed villagers.

           Moving with extreme caution through the last fringe of trees, I scraped out a hide in the bracken and settled down to examine the surrounding terrain. No more than ten yards in front of me, the undergrowth ended abruptly as the land fell away devoid of cover.

           Eerie how quiet everything had become – almost sinister, as if creation was holding its breath waiting to see what I would do next.

           A twig snapped close-by – and another nearer, followed by a whispered curse. I froze, straining to hear in which direction they were moving, but rewarded only by the rustle of leaves in the breeze. They had stopped. They must be quartering the landscape inch by inch for me. My enemies were closing in. I had killed their comrade and now they were coming for me; the moment of truth.

           ‘You’re as well armed as they are, and a damned sight better trained,’ I reminded myself. ‘Merge into the vegetation, become invisible.’ Easy enough in the half light, but what happens when the sun rises higher and drives away the shadows?

           My sharp eyes made out the outline of two figures lying in ambush where the path emerged into the valley. They cradled Kalashnikovs as if expecting me to be flushed out of the woods. Was it my imagination, or did they look more like marksmen than villagers? I looked again. Their uniforms were different. These were Georgian troops; these were the men to settle scores with the murderers besieging me. But were there enough of them?

           The tannoy – much nearer now – spoke again in slow measured tones: ‘You’re surrounded, English. You surrender now. We give you this last chance – put you on trial. How do you say?’ and my tormentor laughed a harsh mirthless laugh.

           That laugh made me angry. I rechecked my weapon – the magazine was full, perhaps ninety rounds. They would be enough to dent the enthusiasm of my pursuers. No hurry. Why be in a hurry to die? Perhaps they would betray the positions where they were skulking if I did absolutely nothing.

           Be fatalistic about it – either they died or I did. The torture victims surely decided that issue in my favour. Their souls seemed to scream at me that the men, who goaded me with their tannoy, were the very ones responsible for the crime and that I had the means and the duty to avenge them. ‘To hell with the rules of engagement, set by far-away politicians,’ I muttered. ‘What do they know of these monsters who would show no mercy to me?’

           As the mist cleared, I examined the escarpment around me for the slightest clue to the whereabouts of my enemies – danger fizzed and sparked all around. Once I pressed the trigger, a dozen weapons would instantly reply. I needed a solid earth bank at my back and quickly found one.

           A movement in the bracken close at hand – too close for comfort. Was I certain? There it came again. They were preparing to rush me. ‘No time for niceties,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘Here they come.’ Two short bursts settled that initiative. Now, shift to a new position fast, keeping below the lip of the ridge. Made it; reload.

           Pandemonium up above as the pursuit gathered to rush my previous position. I took several of them in the firefight which followed. Now show yourself Mr. Tannoy. I was the hunter this time.

           ‘Best to leave the village to the Georgians’, I told my reflection shimmering in a pool where I paused to drink. The haunted expression in its eyes unnerved me. After such a hard night, my duty was to vanish, find Sergei and report – Abkhazia was rapidly getting out of control.  I would head for the capital, Sukhumi, but what would I find there?

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The Historical Association – a charity which promotes the study of history – has recommended  BRITAIN AT WAR 1939 to 1945 what was life like during the war? By James Lingard (ISBN 9781434359339) to members. The association supports teachers in primary and secondry education but also academics at all levels and anyone interested in history.

The book brings alive the harsh realities of life in Britain during the war – life full of uncertainty and the danger of impending death. It also provides a concise history of the salient campaigns in World War 2 ideal for anyone who lacks the time or inclination to study the larger works.

UCL People March 2009 – a University College London magazine – has described the work as a ‘short but powerful book which brings together personal reflections with the historical and political context.’

A typical reader commented: ‘I enjoyed this book very much. Being reasonably familiar with the published history, I was nevertheless greatly impressed by the books success in compressing the history of the war and its antecedents to such a modest length without apparently sacrificing any important theatre of conflict. It gives a highly digestible overview of an important sector of modern history.’