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BIOGRAPHY Maurice Rowdon
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Maurice Rowdonfsa-prefessional.author/playwright trained in philosophy, anda
brenth-master-Ho-wasbominLondonianno
a famity L fework whetherin
books_plays.orhands-on-breath.guidance'has-been-a-contisual-involvement-with-the-mature
ofintelligenee,tuman: and antmat.
Cnlwd u - -
Not that this was ever in his mind at the beginning ofhis career. You can't write like that--
you just have to letithappen." Only later did he begin to see humans in an entirely new way,
not as masters of themselves but as beleaguered animals, namely animals without a fixed
habitat.
What does 'a fixed habitat' mean? It mean one to which your nervous system is perfectly
attuned, you eat from the trees or grasses or soil or waters of sea or lake, you never have to
guide your wings or fins, you have a perfect inner radar system SO that you are never required
to 'think' as the human does; in a word, your nervous system is that which your habitat
devised for you as a perfect guide to what you should eat and where you should sleep and
whether by day or night.
But the human must think of every aspect of his life, how he will move, by what means he
may eat better or be safer in sleep. Indeed this thinking takes SO much hold ofhim that he
begins to despise the other animals for being thoughtless. He sees them as machines' and
himself as 'free'.
How must we approach ourstudy oft this animal?..
Not until we see ourselves in our performance às animals do we reach the truth about
ourselves. The only way we can judge the intelligence of animals is by how they leave
their habitat, whether enriched or degraded. By this criterion the human animal is the
least animal on earth.'
But we have to see this---our human predicament--with sympathy, not blame, otherwise our
enquiry grounds to a halt. The most striking thing about thel human, historically, is that he has
mastered first many and now all habitats on the earth.
This means that he has been a stranger to his original fixed habitat, and obliged to seek ever
new habitats in the hope that his nervous system would be perfectly attuned to it, as other
animals are attuned to theirs.
We call those acts of mastery mutations and adaptations. These names indicate the human's
astonishing efforts to master one strange habitat after another in search, always, of the one
that will fit his nervous system perfectly. That perfect state of animality was never reached,
SO that ultimately, in his doomed search, he mastered every habitat on the earth.
The serenity we find in other animals, the eyes SO wide and unblinking, the stealth and vigour
and expertise of their movements, which require neithér forethought nor afterthought, mean a
perfect inheritance of which the human has been robbed.
So we should not be surprised that human mastery ofthe entire planet has ruined that planet.
Here the matter of what can only be called, from the animal point of view, human dementia
must be faced.


Maurice Rowdon is a professional author/playwright trained in philosophy, and a
breath-master. He was born in London in a working-class family. My life work, whether in
books, plays or hands-on breath guidance has been a continual involvement with the nature
of intelligence, human and animal.'
Not that this was ever in his mind at the beginning of his career. 'You can't write like that---
you just have to let it happen.' Only later did he begin to see humans in an entirely new way,
not as masters of themselves but as beleaguered animals, namely animals without a fixed
habitat.
What does 'a fixed habitat' mean? It mean one to which your nervous system is perfectly
attuned, you eat from the trees or grasses or soil or waters of sea or lake, you never have to
guide your wings or fins, you have a perfect inner radar system SO that you are never required
to 'think' as the human does; in a word, your nervous system is that which your habitat
devised for you as a perfect guide to what you should eat and where you should sleep and
whether by day or night.
But the human must think of every aspect ofhis life, how he will move, by what means he
may eat better or be safer in sleep. Indeed this thinking takes SO much hold ofhim that he
begins to despise the other animals for being thoughtless. He sees them as machines' and
himself as 'free'.
How must we approach our study ofthis animal?
Not until we see ourselves in our performance as animals do we reach the truth about
ourselves. The only way we can judge the intelligence of animals is by how they leave
their habitat, whether enriched or degraded. By this criterion the human animal is the
least animal on earth.'
But we have to see this---our human predicament -with sympathy, not blame, otherwise our
enquiry grounds to a halt. The most striking thing about the human, historically, is that he has
gnie
mastered first many and now all habitats on the earth.
This means that he has been a stranger to his original fixed habitat, and obliged to seek ever
new habitats in the hope that his nervous system would be perfectly attuned to it, as other
animals are attuned to theirs.
We call those acts of mastery mutations and adaptations. These names indicate the human's
astonishing efforts to master one sttange habitat after another in search, always, ofthe one
that will fit his nervous system perfectly. That perfect state of animality was never reached,
SO that ultimately, in his doomied search, he mastered every habitat on the earth.
The serenity we find in other animals, the eyes SO wide and unblinking, the stealth and vigour
and expertise of their movements, which require neither forethought nor afterthought, mean a
perfect inheritance ofwhich the human has been robbed.
So we should not be surprised that human mastery ofthe entire planet has ruined that planet.
Here the matter of what can only be called, from the animal point ofview, human dementia
must be faced.
Only Socrates, in our Western civilisation, faced human dementia squarely. He discussed it in
its two roles---as a kind of divine ardour, and as the dark side of that ardour, a state of self-


horror. Thus it is that the religions and civilisations he has tirelessly brought into being
address and heal and canalize that state.
We know of no civilisation which wasn 't the product of a religion. Indeed the civilisations is
always and everywhere the realisation ofthe religion in a community form.
Just as we know of no civilisation that failed to crumble into lawless disorder once the
religion began to falter.
Only Socrates, in our Western civilisation, faced human dementia squarely. He discussed it in
its two roles---as a kind of divine ardour, and as the dark side of that ardour, a state of self-
horror. Thus it is that the religions and civilisations he has tirelessly brought into being
address and heal and canalize that state.
We know of no civilisation which wasn't the product of a religion. Indeed the civilisations is
always and everywhere the realisation ofthe religion in a community. form.
Just as we know of no civilisation that failed to crumble into lawless disorder once the
religion began to falter.
There is one feature ofthe human that has persisted from his first strange appearance on the
earth.
He has always talked about himself, always wondered about his own nature, until at the
height ofl his bafflement he has concluded that we do not properly exist at all. Descartes
personified this distracted, indeed demented attitude. He said 'cogito ergo sum' which means,
literally, not 'I think therefore I am', , as is usually said, but 'I contemplate or meditate upon
myself, and only in this act do I have a clear proof that I exist'
This kind of thinking has been called philosophy', which means 'the love of wisdom'. In
other words, floundering as he does in the schizophrenia that is always a part of dementia, he
congratulates himself, and his helpless human audience congratulates him, SO that he is now
able to say that his very dementia contains a dignity far beyond the power of other animals to
attain.
And these self-consoling thoughts have a remarkably powerful influence, such that they may
actually groom the thoughts not only of one generation. Thus it is that our minds, all our
Christian minds, and increasingly the minds of everyone on earth as Western modes of
money-making and technology spread across the earth, are today, whether we like or not, the
product ofthe philosophy of Aristotle, the ancient Greek, indeed they are the very basis and
content and form ofour daily thoughts.
His philosophy was bogus and trifling but I who call his philosophy bogus and trifling have a
mind entirely formed by him, I am as much his helpless prisoner as everyone else on earth.
He was for the middle ages the arbiter of all disputes, the criterion against which every new
idea must be weighed, he alone could determine, dead though he was by many centuries, what
thoughts were valid and what not. His influence was SO great that more than one pope tried to
curb his influence, bring some balance into the matter, but he always gave it up as hopeless.


This is not my book. This is my late husband, Maurice Rowdon's book, and I wish it was Maurice and not
me sitting before you and trying to speak on this most courageous and radical work. He was an
enormously erudite man, very. eloquent and funny and comfortable and natural talking with people
from all walks. He was very entertaining, like this book. It's just packed with new thoughts about
humans. In fact it is an examination of what the human is instead of what he thinks he is.
He came from very simply roots, he was from a working class family and it was a time in England, the
early 1940s, when there was not much mobility between the classes in England and yet he earned a
scholarship to Oxford and he received a 'short' degree in history--they gave him a year there before
sending him off to war as a front line forward observation officer on the Italian front. He survived it-
The FOO was what the French called the Lost Sentinel, they didn't last very long. When he got back to
Oxford he was simply shattered by the war and yet he went on be invited to study philosophy as well as
history. He came down from Oxford with degrees in both disciplines and where he also dived deeply into
theology and economics. He was invited to teach English Literature at Bhagdad University. This he did
for a period while writing his first novel. And soon he saw that writing was his passion. He left bhagdad
and went back to Italy to live and that is where his career took off. He lived between Italy and London
for many years and not only did he publish twelve books, non-fiction and fiction, but he was also a
prolific playwright--I have found so far some thirty two plays in his archives, and he was a poet. He
went to California in the early eighties before finally ending up in California where he taught a breathing
system, Oxygenesis, that he devised from thirty years of pranayama. He meant to stay in California for a
few months and stayed off and on for ten years. The breathing system was to initiate an inner guidance :
system that he felt had eroded to a desperate degree in thè human. It was these years of work with his
clients and his meeting with Dr. Penny Patterson's charge, Koko the gorilla who communicates in
American Sign Language that gave Maurice the basic inspiration for this book.
How to talk about Maurice's book? This is his most sensitive work. In his earlier published work Maurice
was struggling to understand his own message, his subjects were so varied and wide and indeed he was
told by his agent that he was risking his career by ranging so widely, that he needed to basically write
the same thing over and over, which is what most writers do to be continually published. Maurice was
writing on the same subject but even he didn't see his theme until very late in his life---that being
humans, what are we really? I have in my possession quite a few very interesting manuscripts on this
subject which were considered unpublishable, there was no market for addressing collective human
dementia as Maurice has done. He started this book in 1984 and worked exclusively on it for some 10
years before he began sending it out. Even in the mid nineties anyone questioning the status quo about
the human was not going to get a hearing, unless of course, it came from academia. Maurice had been
free-lance all of his career and had done very well, only his most sensitive and daring work was not
being accepted. It was always rejected. From the mid-nineties onward, he revised the book over and
over, in an attempt to make it more palatable and the end result was that it found its way to the stacks
of unpublished work in the library at home. About three years ago, we decided to take the bull by the
horns and get it out. I had always said to Maurice he had to do like Beckett, for instance, he simply had
to take charge of his own most radical work. He decided he would do this, only by that time we were
lost in dozens of revisions. The archives are huge at home and scattered and somehow Maurice


succeeded in coallating several versions to finally produce this book. And think he went back to the first
versions, they were the most powerful, they did not try to placate. I don't know how he did it because
his health was by this time very fragile, but Maurice worked on this book again with the most amazing
speed and concentration and dedication. By November 2008 we had it with the publisher, iUniverse,
and were working hard together getting it into the formats the published needed. On December 22
Maurice was diagnosed with Leukemia and he was gone from us on 15 February 2009. We all think he
forged on until this most important creation of his life was on its way and then he could allow himself to
give out. When Maurice finished any work he always got ill, had to go to bed for a few weeks, he worked
with that intensity. This time he left us completely.
His goal was to examine the human as he is and not as he thinks he is. And to do this he
He says that the only measure we have to judge of any animal's intelligence is whether it leaves its
habitat enhanced or depleted, and by this measure the human is the least intelligent of all the creatures.
He was examining how it happened that we humans came to see and treat every resource on the planet
and every non-human animal as more dead than alive. And how it is that we humans can extend the
same doctrine to whole races--exterminate others of our own species. He says that the only measure
we have to judge of any animal's intelligence is whether it leaves its habitat enhanced or depleted, and
by this measure the human is the least intelligent of all the creatures.
Maurice says that the human has always been a beleaguered animal, that in fact it was always the
weakest creature, not the fittest. We never had a habitat into which we fitted comfortably, our
weakness had us adapting, mutating very creatively, mind you. Our weakness had us develop non-
biological tools and become a deferral animalin order to survive and in fact creature and our history of
ourselves as being the wisest creature, the most intelligent, the master of the earth is nonsense, a giant
grandiose fabrication that comes from misguided theology. And through We. This beleaguered animal
was and is different from other primates soley in his manner of perceiving. P41.
His natural faculties are eroded and the kind of life the human has constructed erodes the faculties
further.. He says that far from being a question of survival of the fittest, the human was the weakest of
the animal kingdom. He never had a habitat into which he fit comfortably. He was ill-equipped for all of
them. He had to develop -non biological tools and deferred thinking in order to survive as he wandered
from habitat to habitat, mutating and adapting and fabricating for all he was worth. He had to develop
his brain in a special way as his very life depended upon it. He had to become a master of self-
withdrawal.p 53-63.
The strange and haunting circumstances: Maurice says that humans had to contain their biological
dementia in some way. They did this by devising religion and civilization. Our perceptions came from
these institutions. They replaced our natural faculties. Every religion is founded on a vision and the
civilization follows.
But if the theology isn't right, the human is in deep trouble as we are now, as our planet is now.


It is from our theology that the human has come to see the earth's resources and all other non-human
animals on it as more dead than alive. The only measure we have of any animal's intelligence is whether
it leaves its habitat enhanced or deplete, and by this measure the human is the least intelligent of all
creatures.'
The dead-habitatmetaphysics cameifrom the Church's misconceptionsand frank corruption of Aristotle
and out of the Church's interpreatating)
He examines our civilization and he argues that Christianity has not been based upon Jesus's teachings
at all. But upon the most mediocre and worse teachings of Aristotle and a total incomprehension of
Socrates. He simply puts forth those two philosophers teachings against Jesus's teaching and it is
apparent that we are to this day following Aristotle!
And he traces Aristotle through the Medieval world, the church's struggles, until we arrive at the puritan
doctrine which governs us today and which has brought our planet to this state and to our own
collective suicide.


plelonphe,
INTRODUCTION
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Maurice Rowdon (1922-2009) was a 'part-prophet part
anthropologist' whose writing ranges from accounts of
Leonardo da Vinci and the Fall of Venice to an
investigation into the singular case of the talking dogs in
Bavaria in the early 1970s. He was a ferocious enquirer
and astute visionary. Rowdonabad an incredible ability
to prophesize, for example, the future congestion in inner
cities and the political dominance of environmental and
green issues. Despite the weight of his topics his writing
was characterized by a lightness of touch and tone of wry
amusement. His colourful and varied career was-eembined
withawhimsicalpersonality_and led him to Bagdad, Frdia,
Switzerland and California during the course of his life.
EARLY LIFE
Maurice Rowdon was born in Wandsworth, South-West London in
1922 to Gladys and William Rowdon, a dock worker. He
attended Emanuel Grammar School and went on to apply for an
organscholarshipat-Cambridge-Universitya.position which
-he-narrowly-missed. He was accepted into Keble College,
Oxford, in 1941 to read History. Rowdon had a deep passion
for history, taking it to 'mean everything the human has
ever thought about himself even when his own actions have
been deeply mysterious to him,' yet was perplexed by the


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Maurice Rowdon is an Oxford-trained philosopher and professional authorHe has
published with Chatto and Windus, Heinemann, Constable, Weidenfeld, Barrie and
Rockdliffe, Gollancz and Macmillan in London, Praeger Putnam and St.Martin' S Press in the
USALS.Fischer Verlag in Germany. A
His last year at school was interrupted by World War 11 (and he took a war degree in Modern
History. He was in the Italian campaign 1943-45 with one of the most dangerous jobs in the
uhore
army as Forward Observation Officer (described in his Forward Into Death A study in
shock). He resumed his studies at Oxford from 1945, this time in philosophy for three-years,
specialising in Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. After Oxford IstimjobwasatBaghded
Duiths
university teaching English literature. There he wrote his first novel, (Hellebore the Clown)
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drawn
to Italy byl his memory of the Italians during battle---honest, open, humane to
(Frdo
both sides without exciting resentment on either. He resolved to live there but first returned to
London where he wrote two books,Perimeter West A parable ofthe Berlin ruins Amty/:
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returned'to-italy-andi began living in Rome, whereke wrote his first two books on Italian life,
on aufo Italian Sketches and A Roman Street. These two books gave him a serious literary
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vineyards apd learned every aspect of honest wine-making. Hismew-etetus-as-weiter-opened
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The Spanish Terror, Leonardo da Vinci, Lorenzo the Magnificent
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Ronz 6 during which he got to know New York well, which led to his Brain Fevers, Two
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Englishwomen in New York (awaiting publication). His-wife-taughtafa-cotlege-in
5 WHamsburgandtte-jeinedhert to givea Hecturethere,white-maintytakenup-by.his.new
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book on animal intelligence, The Talking Dogs, which was published simultaneously in
London and New York. He sbught out a talking horse (namely, a horse that like thedogs
tappedkthei-answers) and traced itto Richmond, Virginia, but was twentyyears too late, with
only press records of the horse available.
Back at theTarm he began to read books emanating by chance from Berkeley Ca., more
especially a book by a physicist and another by an ophthamotogist-on-theppossible-rlation
between disturbed 'kundalini (sexual energy in western language) and psychosis. By this
time Maurice had been doing dailupranayumaorsomal breathing.ouetaperiod ofat least
seventeen years, 'which made a session in Earl's Court London with Janabai, aclose associate
remarkable) Leonard LOrr the 'rebirther' . The effectof the first
was
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two-hour session
remarkable. He awoke a changed individual, with urgent resolves he appeared not to know
anything befbroxHesolda Spanish table on the farm which gavehim.the pride ofaticket to
colf X San-Francisco, plus afew months keep. He had already bogun workingon this OWIN breathing
system/which started from the breathing muscles, not the breathing, avoiding all aspects of
tetanus and hyperventilation. Hel had a letter of introduction to a Greek professor of
arple comparative myths at San Francisco university, Nanos Valoritis, who was a poet, and they
qpa were astonished to find they had common friends all over Europe. Nanos set him up with a
group of mostly university people who would study the breath with me, and Maurice set up a
4 practice which thrived for over four years, with offices in the medical area of San Francisco,
which led to his writing Breathtaking Moments,which awaits publication. This contact with
Orr initiated in him an interest inod age, which he began to see as a preventable aberration -
which cuts off human life decades before the full biological capacity of 120 years. At these
offices he met the best friend he ever had, Dachiell, a Texantady, 2 and they took up life
together in San Anselmo, Ca., and now have a house in London and another in France.
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Dear Mr. Branson:
I have just seen the Millionaires television program about you and was SO struck by
your questing nature that I'm taking the rather hairbrain liberty of trying to interest
you in a publishing project of Maurice Rowdon, my husband.
Twot top New York editors have called this non-fiction book 'The MadA Ape'subtitled
The Animal that Said it Wasn't twenty-years in advance and have placed it in the
catagory of human intelligence (a book catagory which doesn't exist in England but
in the U.S.). The book rewrites our human history in a totally revolutionary and
entertaining way, presents extremely new and hard to digest ideasfvirgimbernitony)
to explain the visible and accelerating decline of civilizations globally. It offers new
solutions to this, ones which have never been written about before. It's written in
simple language to reach a maximum commercial audience.
The main stumbling block is that of presenting the book because no matter howyou
slice it, condensing the radical ideas down to outline and synopsis makes the book
look academic(which it certainly isn'tand thus limited for a small and select
audience.
Everybody knows the big publishing houses are after blockbusters that require the
minimum effort to put out. Mostly they don't reflect people's real concerns and
worse, the readeris now widely regarded as being of low-levelintelligence with low-
levelinterests. Obviously the ghost-writtenJoan Collins type books eatupthe money
that could go to real writers who have important contributions to make. The few
small remaining houses don't have money enough to risk on something new.
So more and more mid-line writers who were once the main-stream and backbone of
serious publishing are having to self-publish if they want to be heard. Bernard Shaw
and Dickens were quite the exceptions in being able to turn theirwork into business
and Dickens, clever as he was, I'm sure you know, was haunted by poverty. Butwho
cares about poverty if at leastyou can get your work out? If L0U Are A
Can andue ternhle fmanaad
At laantyyon con get you E ok
refyon
sneny
My husband has been a non-fiction, fiction, art historian, travel, animalintelligence
book and play writer all his life. He never concerned himself with building a
commercial lreputation, Early on, hisa agent told him that his main problem was that
he wouldn't write the same thing over and over again, that his versatility would
eventually kill his career!
Where is the Medici of this century? If he doesn'tappear all new expression is going
to be totally lost. Your balloon flying and whatyou're looking for up there and how
you conductyourself on the earth---by creating a viable working civilization in your
Ontont
pif CVi men a hactun 6 -
alde to 5pt - out
hs har ss-
gommnl
In hooli nciook


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S el
intheyonr businesses that create harmony, peace, security and good relations
between people' makes me wonder if perhaps you aren't at least one of the culture
patrons who must appear and who always existed until-reatlyafter World War II.
THE MAD APE was born out of a hermetic breathing therapy which my husband
developed some twenty years ago and practiced in San Francisco for seven years,
guiding people from all walks in this technique which opens the breather to
unconscious collective information that is, for lack of a better word, out-there,but
not available by rational channels. The name of this process is Oxygenesis and it's
rather like high-flying, only you're lying on a nice comfortable pallet and doing it
without drugs and airplanes and balloons. My husband happened upon this
gradually and learned that really,he had tapped into ancient and secret hermetic
techniques which were at the grasp of orientalyogis and swamis and most certainly
eertain-ancient Christians sects such as the cathars bAAWith the breakdown of
civilization HaagahAPTost sich that the modern gurus could only find material
manifestations forin airplanes and balloon and drugs jod computeryetauphnen t
thon
I do hope I've intrigued you enough to wish to know more about this project. I'm
taking the liberty of sending you the outlineandsome sampthapters just SO you can
see the quality and serigusness of it whith needt someone who is well outside of
mediocrity to champion, Aitis truly virin territory.
Virgim
I thank you very much for your patience.
Im Not PIAZED
caut ger
Ut mu


Maurice Rowdon has guided many hundreds of people in
Oxygenesis throughout the West, including California for eight
years. He wrote his first book in Baghdad where he was
teaching at the university.
He took a boat to Naples, then a
train to Rome, where he settled.
He wrote two books on the Italian people and was suddenly
established as a writer.
Twelve others followed on various
aspects of civilization.
He worked in television, in the
theatre, he wrote on animal intelligence.
But he wasn't getting to the core of what he wished to
say. He began to realise that we pursue excellence far more
than happiness, that we willingly suffer for the directives
inside us. A totally paralysed Frenchman dictates a full-
length book letter by letter by blinking one eye, before he
dies.
At Oxford Maurice took two honours degrees, in history
and philosophy.
He was short-listed for a fellowship in
philosophy at Oxford's most prestigious college but, again, he
wanted more.
He went to an Indian guru who introduced him to pranayama
but with the admonition that the deepest secrets of the breath
were dangerous, though they led to remarkable discoveries'.
For twelve years Maurice practised pranayama, always
seeking a way to those discoveries'.
One day he found
himself plunging beyond his guru's barriers. The promised
remarkable discoveries - followed day after day. He
patiently built a breath system that would be safe.
The world is getting harder to live in, for all animals,
all life. We may awaken with fear.
Everything we count on
may collapse.
Such unhappiness is natural for species losing
their sources of nourishment. There are also famines in
career, family, friendship.
Oxygenesis brings the mind by
gentle stages to an awareness of itself.
It bypasses
suffering and illumines the directives that guide us.
handles work problems, floods the mind with new ideas.
can be triggered off in the direst circumstances, unnoticed by
others.
Maurice's upcoming titles---HOW TO STOP DYING IN CALIFORNIA
and THE MAD APE.
One- or two-week workshops.
La Luciole (Firefly) is an
eighteenth-century farmhouse in a superb show garden with
pool.
Guests will stay in Cucuron, a charming village in the
Luberon foothills, and they will enjoy a delicious
Mediterranean cuisine. Write Oxygenesis, La Luciole, Chemin
des Patins, Cucuron 84160, France or phone/fax UK (44)


Maurice Rowdon has guided many hundreds of people in
Oxygenesis throughout the West, including California for eight
years. He wrote his first book in Baghdad where he was
teaching at the university.
He took a boat to Naples, then a
train to Rome, where he settled.
He wrote two books on the Italian people and was suddenly
established as a writer.
Twelve others followed on various
aspects of civilization.
He worked in television, in the
theatre, he wrote on animal intelligence.
But he wasn't getting to the core of what he wished to
say. He began to realise that we pursue excellence far more
than happiness, that we willingly suffer for the directives
inside us. A totally paralysed Frenchman dictates a full-
length book letter by letter by blinking one eye, before he
dies.
At Oxford Maurice took two honours degrees, in history
and philosophy.
He was short-listed for a fellowship in
philosophy at Oxford's most prestigious college but, again, he
wanted more.
He went to an Indian guru who introduced him to pranayama
but with the admonition that the deepest secrets of the breath
were dangerous, though they led to remarkable discoveries'.
For twelve years Maurice practised pranayama, always
seeking a way to those discoveries'.
One day he found
himself plunging beyond his guru's barriers. The promised
remarkable discoveries' followed day after day. He
patiently built a breath system that would be safe.
The world is getting harder to live in, for all animals,
all life. We may awaken with fear.
Everything we count on
may collapse.
Such unhappiness is natural for species losing
their sources of nourishment.
There are also famines in
career, family, friendship. Oxygenesis brings the mind by
gentle stages to an awareness of itself.
It bypasses
suffering and illumines the directives that guide us. It
handles work problems, floods the mind with new ideas.
can be triggered off in the direst circumstances, unnoticed by
others.
Maurice's upcoming titles- --HOW TO STOP DYING IN CALIFORNIA
and THE MAD APE.
One- or two-week workshops.
La Luciole (Firefly) is in
France, an eighteenth-century farmhouse in a superb show
garden with pool. Guests will stay in Cucuron, a charming
village in the Luberon foothills, and they will enjoy a
delicious Mediterranean cuisine. Write Oxygenesis, La
Luciole, Chemin des Patins, Cucuron 84160, France or phone/fax


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history and the second (three years) in philosophy, and he'd
even been shortlisted for a fellowship in philosophy at one of
Oxford's most prestigious colleges. Now it all came i useful.
He made the astonishin discoveries' his guru had promised,
and over a period of ten years, most of them in California, he
began setting these out in a book called the mad ape which is
now in its final stages.
Our workshop takes us into this new
land, this new civilization, and the breath suuports it, as it
supports the breath.
One- and two-week workshops. La Luciole (Firefly) is an
eighteenth-century farmhouse in a superb show garden with
pool.
Guests will stay in Cucuron, a charming village in the
Luberon foothills, and they will enjoy a delicious
Mediterranean cuisine. Optional excursions, guided tours,
exhilarating hill walks.
45 mins from international airport
Marseille.
Phone/fax France (33) 490771240 or write
Oxygenesis 40 Glenluce Road London SE3 7SB UK.
Cnl
Ceun
wvel
pAstal


- af
deyes
rU2
un -
pcilce
sfl
A writer in
puuflyy
Baghdad
Maurice Rowdon has guided many hundreds of people in
Oxygenesis all over the Western world,including
Calitormiadunjnia
published his first book (now one of thirteen) at the age
yas .
of 29 with Chatto and Windus, at that time London's most
interesting imprint.
He wrote it in Baghdad where he was
teaching at the university and comparing his comforts with the
poverty on the streets. The coupanm uwhanc di uad he
AH-paths lead-to-Rome
Aou
He took a boat to Naples,a train to Rome. The sale of
short story to Harper's Magazine boded well. He stayed in
Rome DDO years, learning from the Italians not to fear and
thoughts or words.
He wrote two books on the peeple and was
suddenly established as a writer.
Nething failelike-sueeess
He worked in television, in the theatre, he-discussedffilm
projects AL
Joe Loserr Ken-Russell, he met Dytan Thomas,
Brecht, Thomas Mann, was published by Mann's publisher in
Germany.
New books were commissioned. He-wrote on animal
intelligence. EE Fe wasn't getting to the core of what he
wished to say. Ar
as kuse Ue he 3
Thenew path leads back to life
Mahie
He met an Indian guru in Switzerland who Isaid I give you
yoga, plus a bit extra.
He emerged from the experieneea
changed person.
But he was surprised that there were the
same ups and downs as before, He may have changed but life
hadn't.
Sheuldt-thisnew ghtness he felt-have-ehanged-the
ife teo? or Was he tryin to achieve a fatselifewithout
ealamities? Was all
gu cemment business a dopmed
search for happiness?
lath
He Temembered-that His guru refused to teach any
drastic' breathing.
The breath is dangerous, it requires
long preparation'
But when mastered it led to
extraordinary discoveries'.
Urgent questions
leurice practiced-the pranayama daily for years. He,
felt mere and more hat 14 aren'tpleasure andeemfert
seekers, that our goal is excellence and that we will achieve.
this if-neeessary
he expense ot happiness
We may doa
hundred therapies but
wi return because
we-have certain r CE ect ives insi
which we ebey:
He found the breath system he was looking for.
He did
all the drastic breathing he'd been forbidden, and indeed it
was dangerous but it meant that his system was safe, he knew
what limits to set. The extraordinary discoveries' his guru
had promised began and over a period of ten years---he was by
now in California--he set these down in a book THE MAD APE now
nearing completion.
The forgotten Oxford scholar
But suddenly a lot of new thinking was require, d_tor the
system began to work on him too, as he began to teach it to
more and more people.
They asked for explanations- -wat was
the conditioning? how did it happen? where was it lodged?
Maurice had taken two honours degrees at Oxford, the first in
gur 1
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myed
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Con cloe (he dusdide,


Maurice Rowdon has guided many hundreds of people in
Oxygenesis throughout the West, including California for eight
years. He wrote his first book in Baghdad where he was
teaching at the university. He took a boat to Naples, then a
train to Rome, where he settled.
He wrote two books on the Italian people and was suddenly
established as a writer.
Twelve others followed on various
aspects of civilization.
He worked in television, in the
theatre, he wrote on animal intelligence.
But he wasn't getting to the core of what he wished to
say.
Yet he knew he was striving for it. He began to
realise that we pursue excellence far more than happiness,
that we suffer for the directives inside us even if we don't
know what they are.
We see it all round us. A Frenchman
dictates a full-length book letter by letter by blinking one
eye, unable to move, before he dies.
At Oxford Maurice took two honours degrees, in history
and philosophy.
He was shortlisted for a fellowship in
philosophy at Oxford's most prestigious college.
But the
excellence he was pursuing, while it required the power to
analyse, went beyond.
He went to an Indian guru and returned a changed person.
But he also returned to the same ups and downs of fortune.
He had changed. Why hadn't life?
His guru refused to teach more than a mild breathing
system, saying that drastic' breathing was dangerous, though
it led to remarkable discoveries'
For twelve years Maurice did his daily mild pranayama,
always seeking a way to those discoveries'
One day he had
a session with a breath practitioner and found himself
plunging beyond his guru's barriers. The promised remarkable
discoveries' followed day after day.
He patiently built a
breath system that would be safe.
The world is getting harder to live in, for all animals,
all life.
We may awaken with fear.
Everything we count on
may collapse. Such unhappiness is natural for species losing
their sources of nourishment.
There are also famines in
career, family, friendship.
Oxgenesis bypasses suffering and
illumines the directives that guide us.
It handles work
problems, floods the mind with new ideas.
It can be
triggered off in the direst circumstances, unnoticed by
others.
Maurice's upcoming titles---HOW TO STOP DYING IN CALIFORNIA
and THE MAD APE.
One- or two-week workshops.
La Luciole (Firefly) is an
eighteenth-century farmhouse in a superb show garden with
pool. Guests will stay in Cucuron, a charming village in the
Luberon foothills, and they will enjoy a delicious
Mediterranean cuisine. Write Oxygenesis, La Luciole, Chemin
des Patins, Cucuron 84160, France or phone/fax UK (44)


Maurice Rowdon has guided many hundreds of people in
Oxygenesis throughout the West, including California for eight
years. He wrote his first book in Baghdad where he was
teaching at the university.
He took a boat to Naples, then a
train to Rome, where he settled.
He wrote two books on the Italian people and was suddenly
established as a writer.
Twelve others followed on various
aspects of civilization.
He worked in television, in the
theatre, he wrote on animal intelligence.
But he wasn't getting to the core of what he wished to
say. Yet he knew he was striving for it. He began to
realise that we pursue excellence far more than happiness,
that we suffer for the directives inside us even if we don 't
know what they are.
We see it all round us. A Frenchman
dictates a full-length book letter by letter by blinking one
eye, unable to move, before he dies.
At Oxford Maurice took two honours degrees, in history
and philosophy.
He was shortlisted for a fellowship in
philosophy at Oxford's most prestigious college. But the
excellence he was pursuing, while it required the power to
analyse, went beyond.
He went to an Indian guru and returned a changed person.
But he also returned to the same ups and downs of fortune.
He had changed.
Why hadn't life?
His guru refused to teach more than a mild breathing
system, saying that drastic' breathing was dangerous, though
it led to remarkable discoveries'
For twelve years Maurice did his daily mild pranayama,
always seeking a way to those discoveries'.
One day he had
a session with a breath practitioner and found himself
plunging beyond his guru's barriers. The promised remarkable
discoveries' followed day after day. He patiently built a
breath system that would be safe.
The world is getting harder to live in, for all animals,
all life. We may awaken with fear. Everything we count on
may collapse.
Such unhappiness is natural for species losing
their sources of nourishment.
There are also famines in
career, family, friendship.
Oxgenesis bypasses suffering and
illumines the excellence we struggle for.
It handles work
problems, floods the mind with new ideas.
Rescue and repair
can be triggered off in the direst circumstances, unnoticed by
others.
Maurice's upcoming titles---HOW TO STOP DYING IN CALIFORNIA
and THE MAD APE.
One- or two-week workshops. La Luciole (Firefly) is an
eighteenth-century farmhouse in a superb show garden with
pool.
Guests will stay in Cucuron, a charming village in the
Luberon foothills, and they will enjoy a delicious
Mediterranean cuisine. Write Oxygenesis, La Luciole, Chemin
des Patins, Cucuron 84160, France or phone/fax UK (44)


A pas
lnhlor
laumelend
Fetty
Maurice Rowdon has guided many hundreds of péople in
Oxygenesis alover the Westerm vorle including/ California
duriy
fore years.
He au 2A shed Ais Eirst beek-fnow-eneof
thisteen)
age
hatte-and Ain lus, atthat
sime London's mest Tyte esting imprint.
He wrote
ikm
Baghdad where he was teaching at the university andcomparing
his comforts with the poverty on the streets. Phe-eomparicen
drove-him-ewey. /He took a boat to Naples, then a train to
Rome, where he settled.
The-sale of a chort-story-to Harpef's Magazine boded
wett. He wrote two books on the Italian people andwas which
suddenly established as a writer, He worked in television, and
t the theatrex he-met-Bert-Brecht, Thomes-Mann, wes-published
by Mann's publ sher in Cermany -One beok commissioionfellowed
another
He wrete enanimal intelligence. bth A. cr 1 Aordi.
But he wasn't getting to the core of what he wished to
say.) Not-that-he-knew what-thie-wae- He didknow-he-was,
ser wing towerd it all the time.
He began to realise that xe pursue excellence far more
than we do happiness, that we suffer for the directives inside
bad
us,even if we don't know what they are. We see it all round
usg-deeadfully-handioandseappod-peoplo-demonetratergensuerret
whatevercest. A Frenchman reeentiy dictates - a full-length
book letter by letter unable to move, before he dies.
Kiki
Oxford Maurice hadtaket two honours degrees, the
firetin history and theaseconten philosophy.
He was
7 e
shortlisted for a fellowship in philosophy at oneof Oxford's
most prestigious collegeg. Christ-Cherck.
But the excellence
he was pursuing, while it required the power to analyse, went beymd
rogically, couldn't -be-triggered-by-theught.
Heaet an Indian guru i Swrit ertand,who A
teach-hatha-yogar plue
extrawhich - - dont mention.
Mauriee-emerged from
- gat a changed person.
But
time he experienced the sane ups and downs of fortune, and
hope asbefore.
He had changed. Why hadn't life?
Ie-remombered-thef EE guru had refused to teach 116
pupas more than a mild breathtag system, saying that
drastic' breathing was dangerous. and-reget ee
ap ude
and=bong prepasation, the undoubtedly the proper drastie I
breath led to romarka le discoveries'
For twelve years
Maurice did his daily mild pranayama, always tocking for a Lw a
means et illuminating those-directives inside i that emitted
todeclarethemselves- Gne-dayA lin Y S Court Lenden, RA
aroom over-a-busy, noisy stréet, e taell a session with a
breath
practitioner and found himself plunging far beyond the da
banciar his guru'shad set
E lames
The remarkable discoveries' followed day after day.
ing eyet a each-ether.
He pâtiently built a breath-system
that would,do for thars what ae ishedit tede forhim, -anded
doit with-perfect safett.
e ook-many-experiments, some
frghtening,
The world is getting harder to live imeveryday, for all
animals, all life.
We- expertoneeperiodé of famines-we
Kusnelle discoveri,
tore
the
disiovesi
Joal.
lagar


Breynej a st à
cl-pee
awaken freguently with fear.h Such unhappiness is natural for
species losing their very sources-e-efnourishment.
ls Sperienee famine in career, family, friendship: In success
we fear to fall and n Failure to rise. Oxgenesis dee
sueten 1 E bypasses theganhappineser the suffering, the
emation, and illumines these-dtreetives-we-obey through-thick
andthim fattureand-success some-of-which-may-be
destruetive. * A EE
fow mementsr
simplest means, LLumine-the er
moments the crisis
unoupooted-lose. Itwi-mever evade. tetpean be- *
triggered ME in any circumstancer, even imprisonment, without
anyone bedng able t observeTit, Het a-eingty movement.
One- or two-week workshops.
La Laciole (Firefly) is an
eighteenth-century farmhouse in a superb show garden with
pool.
Guests will stay in Cucuron a charming village in the
Luberon foothills, and they will enjoy a
Mediterranean
del/gigye,tes
cuisine. Optional excursions, jar dee boure
exhilarating-he
alks.
ES-HIs om internationel
Mameetlied Phone/fax UK (44) 181,858.2937 or write
Oxygenesis 40-Gremhuce-Road London- SE3 7SB-UK.
LA Lbciole Cheni a
MLA Aehw
wfl putlen
drpaf
ke cxcelluc
Aou h Mob
tite-
apouny
APE
7HE MAY
- - Cllm :
Pyy


Maurice Rowdon has guided many hundreds of people in
Oxygenesis throughout the West, including California for eight
years. He wrote his first book in Baghdad where he was
teaching at the university.
He took a boat to Naples, then a
train to Rome, where he settled.
He wrote two books on the Italian people and was suddenly
established as a writer.
Twelve others followed on various
aspects of civilization.
He worked in television, in the
theatre, he wrote on animal intelligence.
But he wasn't getting to the core of what he wished to
say. He began to realise that we pursue excellence far more
than happiness, that we suffer for the directives inside us
even if we don't know what they are.
We see it all round us.
A Frenchman dictates a full-length book letter by letter by
blinking one eye, unable to move, before he dies.
At Oxford Maurice took two honours degrees, in history
and philosophy.
He was shortlisted for a fellowship in
philosophy at Oxford's most prestigious college but, again, he
wanted more.
He went to an Indian guru who introduced him to pranayama
but with the admonition that the deepest secrets of the breath
were dangerous, though they led to remarkable discoveries'.
For twelve years Maurice practiced pranayama, always
seeking a way to those discoveries'.
One day he found
himself plunging beyond his guru's barriers. The promised
remarkable discoveries' followed day after day. He
patiently built a breath system that would be safe.
The world is getting harder to live in, for all animals,
all life. We may awaken with fear.
Everything we count on
may collapse.
Such unhappiness is natural for species losing
their sources of nourishment.
There are also famines in
career, family, friendship.
Oxgenesis bypasses suffering and
illumines the directives that guide us. It handles work
problems, floods the mind with new ideas.
It can be
triggered off in the direst circumstances, unnoticed by
others.
Maurice's upcoming titles---HOW TO STOP DYING IN CALIFORNIA
and THE MAD APE.
One- or two-week workshops.
La Luciole (Firefly) is an
eighteenth-century farmhouse in a superb show garden with
pool.
Guests will stay in Cucuron, a charming village in the
Luberon foothills, and they will enjoy a delicious
Mediterranean cuisine. Write Oxygenesis, La Luciole, Chemin
des Patins, Cucuron 84160, France or phone/fax UK (44)


Maurice Rowdon has guided many hundreds of people in
Oxygenesis throughout the West, including California for eight
years.
He wrote his first book in Baghdad where he was
teaching at the university. He took a boat to Naples, then a
train to Rome, where he settled.
He wrote two books on the Italian people and was suddenly
established as a writer.
Twelve others followed on various
aspects of civilization.
He worked in television, in the
theatre, he wrote on animal intelligence.
But he wasn't getting to the core of what he wished to
say. He began to realise that we pursue excellence far more
than happiness, that we willingly suffer for the directives
inside us. We see it all round us. A Frenchman dictates a
full-length book letter by letter by blinking one eye, unable
to move, before he dies.
At Oxford Maurice took two honours degrees, in history
and philosophy.
He was shortlisted for a fellowship in
philosophy at Oxford's most prestigious college but, again, he
wanted more.
He went to an Indian guru who introduced him to pranayama
but with the admonition that the deepest secrets of the breath
were dangerous, though they led to remarkable discoveries'.
For twelve years Maurice practiced pranayama, always
seeking a way to those discoveries'.
One day he found
himself plunging beyond his guru's barriers. The promised
remarkable discoveries' followed day after day. He
patiently built a breath system that would be safe.
The world is getting harder to live in, for all animals,
all life.
We may awaken with fear.
Everything we count on
may collapse.
Such unhappiness is natural for species losing
their sources of nourishment.
There are also famines in
career, family, friendship.
Oxgenesis bypasses suffering and
illumines the directives that guide us.
It handles work
problems, floods the mind with new ideas.
It can be
triggered off in the direst circumstances, unnoticed by
others.
Maurice's upcoming titles---HOW TO STOP DYING IN CALIFORNIA
and THE MAD APE.
One- or two-week workshops.
La Luciole (Firefly) is an
eighteenth-century farmhouse in a superb show garden with
pool.
Guests will stay in Cucuron, a charming village in the
Luberon foothills, and they will enjoy a delicious
Mediterranean cuisine. Write Oxygenesis, La Luciole, Chemin
des Patins, Cucuron 84160, France or phone/fax UK (44)


Sund
Italians had made on him during the war He wanted to highlight the detriment of war to the
human nervous system. His'ability to cutto the core of human experience was evident in
Of Sins and Winter (1955) in which Encounter reviewed it to be profoundly serious.
here, it seems to me, is described the dilemma not only of war and peace, but that of this
century. ' He settled first in Rome and then on afarm near San Gimignano, Tuscany, where
he began-parbliotwig A - Books on Italy. He-started with famous figures such as da Vinci and
Lorenzo the Magnificent, examining time and time again what it is to be human. He spent 1
m four decades in Italy.where/his observations on Italian life, culture and society were SO
highly regarded that he was invited to become an Italian citizen, an honour he kindly
declined. His insights were praised as 'so piercingly accurate and SO far underthe skin of
everyday appearances that it really a new appraisal almost of a new country. Rowdon
had an uncanny.ability to padleser atse accarately far beyond his time. In his acclaimed
Italian Sketches 1963, he casually wrote that cars would eventually be banned from city
centres and politics in the future would be determined by environmental issues. Similarly,
hisskill as an astute-visionargaand-observerwas-made-blatant.in his bookPerimeter West
1965, where he described menacing yet absent frontier posts of a nameless German city /
Wor
which became the reality of Berlin with the construction of the Third Wall in 196T It was
Wokt
these,radical and original théories that earned him the title of part-prophet and part
Jh m Y nV
lu Anthropologist, his visions. reflected the current instability of today's world and civilization.
MOV
The Out of the twelve books published in his life time, the travel books were the most
critically
acclaimed, including A Roman Street (1964), Lorenzo the Magnificent (1974) and The Fallnt l
Eniof Yenice (1970).
We nn
: d lirg 1 hu di
However, Rowdon grew restless and dissatisfied with,Occidental tibught and disciplines
ànd thushe immersed himself in all that was Oriental. He embarked on an exploration that
extended mental enquiry, undertaking hermetic techniques as well as physiologigal
disciplines such as yoga, Pranayama, meditation, fasting and vegetarianism. From heishe
proere formedhis own breathing technique, Oxygenisis, designed to stimulate the inborn
intelligence-systems that lie waiting in our bodies, ready to be used. He practiced in Europe
and then in Berkley and San Francisco, California for over eight years, and later as part of
the medical director' S team at the Hale Clinicin London. His most ambitious work, The
Ape of Sorrows, From Stranger to Destroyer: The Inside.Story ofl Humans, is a
culmination of his explorations in- the Occidental and Oriental, and took .fifteen years of
Tefinementuntil-completion.
gpocloh ih e (
Rowdon': S messages,and predictions, despite being chillingly accurate, were notalways
mrst
mut compatible withthe isdciety Manth he was writing; he was a visionary to Whichhis time
could not accommodate. Whitstbis visions were-sometimes viewed as 'cranky' Rowdon
mart
was adamant that he wouldnot compromise his views. Unconcerned with the cult of
celebrity and fame he wrote for the necessity of his message rather than appraisal of an
audience. Making it even harder to pin-point Rowdon as an author was the fact that, in
publishing, he was mostly outside the various literary paradigms and categories. Some of
his works, such as the play "Christophe the Haitian King' were highly regarded by
companies such as The National Theatre, but rejected in 1975 on the grounds that they
simply could not supply a large enough black cast. Even the emphasis that a television
adaptation would translate brilliantly could not be put into praçtice due to insufficient
funding. Rowdon, always the rapid generator of ideas, could not wait for the world to catch
up with-his-visions, and thus much of his highly pereéplve-work did not surface.
h ns f - molioeh
PHILOSOPHY - 1. Breath intelligence 2. Animal/Human intelligence a3y Views
on history/religion
u phs Guedopini
Rowdon's S preoccupation with the restrictions of 'mind' culminatedijo the formation of his
.own breathing technique, Oxygenisis, in an attempt to escape the inherent preconditions of
society. He was fascinated by breathing asffis the most vital and basic aspect to human
survival. As emphasised in The Ape of Sorrows, Rowdon had a conviction that Christian
civilisation had unwittingly stripped humans of their natural intelligence, and this spear-


thought-reflex which says that the past is inferior since nearer the 'dark' or
'animal' past we are trying to fling off in an ever upward journey.
Of course Christendom in the 'dark' ages had exactly the same structure as
the 'middle' ones, with the same major towns, the same names and the same
connecting roads.
At Oxford, I began to see that we were all living
inside highly intellectual systems without knowing it.
These are fixed within out perceptive apparatus, whether
we're illiterate or poorly educated, or educated not at
all.
We now call these systems 'complex systems'and
they govern every aspect of work, nourishment, domestic
life, being theological systems fulfilled.
At Oxford I dodged between disciplines trying to
find a clue to their parameters, but they didn't question
their parameters because they didn't believe these had ever
come into being as intellectual systems, or were anything
but reality! What they called 'thinking' was the mental
'application of the enlightenment theology they carried
about with them. This enlightenment reflex said that it
was just a question of getting more enlightened, and the
more enlightened we were the more we were in touch with
the absolute and final and unimpeachable facts'. This
"thinking' is all but universal today. The idea worldwide
is that we now think more than people did before, we have
more information available and altogether we are more
conscious. This coincides with the New Knowledge idea
that unlike the animals we fashion ourselves, with conscious
designs, and are capable as never before of 'detached'
thought. The pork butcher's 'They can't feel anything'
in the midst of heart-rending screams shows just how
powerful theology is.
On the contrary, no animal is capable of 'detach-
ment' from the habitat since he is a function within it,
and that goes for humans too.
But, to repeat, theology forms our perceptions
and is therefore our life-line. Butit has to be right.
There is right theology and wrong theology. The medieval
mystics were greatly handicapped because they had only


*"Of Sins and Winter", Chatto & Windus, London 1955
*(Unpublished) "War In Italy: War Between Friends", written between
*(Unpublished) "Tho
octed by author.
**INTRODUCTION
Maurice Rowdon (1922-2009) was a British author, philosopher and historian
who published thirteen books on investigative history and culture. A
writer of fiction and non-fiction as well as a prolific playwright and
poet, he also taught his own breathing system, evolved from Yoga practices,
in California and Europe. He has been
called a Epart-prophet part-anthropologist: for the radical and original
theories espoused throughout his work. His earliest works demonstrate a
highly unconventional and brilliant thinker. At 15 his first poem was
published in *Poetry London*. At 18, Mass Observation employed him upon
the recommendation of Stephen Spender. He was educated at Emanuel School
and took a one-year war degree in Modern History at Keble College, Oxford
before becoming, at 21,a Forward Observation Officer in the Italian
Campaign of WW2. He returned to Keble after the war and took his second
degree in Modern Greats specializing in Philosophy and the works of
Immanuel Kant, with Politics and Economics as subsidiary subjects. He
taught English Literature at Baghdad University Iraq and left academics
early on to settle in Italy where he became an expert on Italian
civilization.
He went on to receive a Master of Arts degree from Oxford in 1983. By the
early 1950s he was preoccupied with the extreme effects of human activity
on the planet, accurately predicting that environmental issues would become
the political platforms of the future. These concerns, along with his
WW2 battle experiences, provoked his life-long examination into
the nature of intelligence, both human and animal. Dissatisfied with
Page 8 of 17


Occidental philosophy, he turned to the Orient, its teachings and the
practice of yoga, meditation and pranayama from which he pioneered his own
breathing system, Oxygenesis. Early on, his large and disparate body of
work
on genius, civilization, religion, war, sexuality and history (both
published and unpublished) had his agents and publishers despair he would
write himself out of public visibility. Indeed, his predictions and messages
in their chilling
accuracy were not compatible with the society for which he was writing.
Later in his life he declared privately that he felt he had a public but was
uncertain that his most sensitive work would
reach it in his lifetime. With the publication of his non-fiction CEElke and
Belham, The Talking Dogsi (1979) Rowdon ceased accepting book commissions.
His observations of these dogs communicating with their human teacher,
together with his own intense exploration in breathing techniques had him
leave for northern California where he intended to stay for several weeks
and instead remained for almost a decade. He focused on Oxygenesis,
established private practices in San Francisco and Berkley. He continued to
write prolifically, both novels and plays, and his massive archives on his
therapy became the basis for his last, most ambitious non fiction work, The
Ape of Sorrows, From Stranger to Destroyer, The Inside Story of Humans
religion - *The Ape of Sorrows* Ca work of unparalleled provocationi (Neil
Norman). CEa profound analysisSof the arid, super-rationalist civilization
that has shaped Western cultureSintricately constructed, beautifully argued,
compellingi (Andrew Tyler, Animal Aid) <*http://www.theapeofsorrows.com/*>
* I"I In this, he attempts to redefine human history, declares the human
species to be suffering from Efaculty erosion1. He examines CEthe role of
religions and civilizations in trying help the human contain what would
otherwise be an untamed state of dementia.1 Rowdonis thought was SO far
ahead of his time
that temporary invisibility was inevitable. His theories, however, now
reach an epoch in which human behavior, in and out of declared war, the
state of the planet and rapid species extinction is mirroring his vision
once considered extreme and unacceptable.
His poignant message is that CEthe only measure we have of any animalis
intelligence
is whether it leaves its habitat enhanced or depleted, and by this measure
the human is the least intelligent of all creatures.1
Throughout his productive and varied writing career he was published by
Chatto and Windus, Heinemann, Victor Gollancz, Collins, Barrie and
Rockcliff, Constable, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, Macmillan, Praeger, St.
Martinis Press, Putnam, S. Fischer Verlag. He was reviewed favorably by
Cyril Connolly, The *Observer*, *The Sunday Times* *The Guardian*, *Punch*,
*The New Yorker*, *New Statesman*, The *Times Literary Supplement*, *The
Daily Express*, *Sunday Telegraph*.
**PERSONAL LIFE
Page 9 of 17


Maurice ROWDON was born in 1922 in South-West London, the third of three
brothers, (television documentary-maker John Rowdon, OBE civil service
Lesley Rowdon) to Gladys and William Rowdon, a dockworker. He was educated
at Emanuel School in London. Along with thousands of youths he was
evacuated to Petersfield Sussex to escape the World War Two London
bombardments and there he met Hungarian Philosopher and Economic Historian
Karl Polanyi (The Great Transformation) and the German Sociologist Norbert
Elias (The Civilising Process). Both men became Rowdonis mentors and he
remained friends with Elias for many years as letters from Elias in Rowdonis
archives demonstrate.
He took a CEwar degreel in Modern History at Keble College in 1941. At the
age of 21 he became a
Forward Observation Officer in the Italian campaign. His front-line battle
experiences shaped his life-long preoccupation with war, its long-term
effects on the fighting soldier and the human nervous system. After the
war he took his second degree in Modern Greats at Keble College,
specializing in Philosophy and the works of Immanuel Kant, with Economics
and Politics as subsidiary subjects. His two guides at Oxford were John
Stewart and Donald Mackinnon. He married Joan Wyndham, British
writer and memoirist, and together they had a daughter Clare. He took his
family to Iraq where he was a lecturer in English Literature at Baghdad
University. They divorced amicably in 1958 as a result of Joan becoming in
involved with Shura Shiwarg, a Russian intellectual living in London and
with whom she eventually married. A journey to Naples had Rowdon leave
academics and settle in Rome when the sale of his short story No Enemy but
Time (Harpers) financed the beginning of his long and varied freelance
career. He met
and married sculptress Annette Fischer and after several years in Rome they
moved to Tuscany and spent the next years living between their working farm
in the countryside near San Gimignano Tuscany and London. Great lovers of
nature and animals he and Annette produced their own wine and olive oil.
After the collapse of their marriage Rowdon then went to Northern
California with the intention of remaining for several weeks and instead
remained for almost a decade. There he met his third wife, artist and
writer, Dachiell Ahlschlager in 1984. They eventually returned to Europe
where they
lived and worked together between London and France until Rowdonis death
in their home in France in February 2009.
Although he lived mostly abroad in Iraq, Italy, Switzerland, Northern
California and France, Rowdon always boomeranged back to London.
Page 10 of 17


CAREER
1. On War, Debunking CEa great human institution with its special laws and
shared glory1.
His front-line battle experiences as a Forward Observation Officer in the
Italian campaign of WW2 cemented his aversion to war. So it is that the
major thrust of his work, in his non-fiction and fiction as well as his
plays and poetry (published and unpublished), returns ceaselessly to the
trauma and shock experiences of the frontline solder. He de-romanticizes
war and the idea of heroism and seeks to understand what seemed to him an
inner compulsion of the human to make war. In Rowdonis *Of Sins and Winter
*(1955) the longstanding effects of war were given haunting and
metaphorical resonance*; CEYour religion is dead, and as for eternity, war
is the shadow that constantly falls on your sleeve. *1 EProfoundly
seriousSas an indictment of modern warfare Of Sins and Winter is extremely
powerfulShere, it seems to me, is described not only the dilemma of war and
peace, but that of this century1 (Encounter). ESin its first pages are
revealed the guilt a man may feel for the part he had played in mass
slaughter, and the terrible sense of exile which accompanies it1. In 1953
he gave us Hellebore the Clown, the story of a professional's clown guilty
encounter with the best friend of his son who died on a battlefield.
CEStakes the reader to the heart of an unhackneyed emotional
situation*(Birmingham Post.) ESone of the truest novels I have ever readi
(Nigel (). In Perimeter West 1956, he described menacing yet absent
frontier posts around a nameless German city which became the reality of
Berlin with the construction of The Wall in 1961. Welt and Wort called this
book at the time CEthe most
important novel to come to us out of England since 1945S deals with war and
itis spiritual meaning. The theme is fear, force, terror and horrori. He
gave us his novel, Afterwards (1973) in which an American publicity agent
sees Hiroshima as dividing history into Before-The-Bomb and afterward---the
final step into dementia.
3. Italian Years
His work on Italy and her people won him wide critical acclaim. Of CEItalian
Sketches1 Isabel Quigley of The Guardian wrote, Eso often piercingly
accurate and SO far under the skin of everyday appearances that it is really
a new appraisal almost of a new country. Of CEA Roman Street1 Bernard Wall
(The Observer) wrote CEa first-class daily-life writer and all the Romanists
will want to read himSEvery word of it rings trueSreminds us of Lawrence1.
J.I.M Stewart wrote CEIt catches the very voice and breath of Romel. His
general insights had Punch write of CEA new writer of importancel. Sunday
Times wrote EEEndowed with a sharp reporteris eyel. CEHe can describe what he
sees and hears with an unpretentious immediacy that
scene
brings a
instantly
and enduringly to lifel (Times"Literary Supplement). His CFall of Venice1
had Nigel Dennis of Sunday Telegraph write Ebold and vigorousSone cannot
help concluding that to fall is happier than to risel. Cyril Connolly of the
Page 11 of 17


Sunday Times wrote CEMr Rowdon is fortunate, because after reading his
enthralling essays one can still return to Venice and see SO much that has
survive the Fall1. The New Yorker wrote EStylish and haunting1. Of his The
Companion Guide to Umbrial the Eastern Daily Press wrote (Ethis is an
outstanding travel book1. He wrote ELeonardo da Vinci1 (seeking reviews)
and ELorenzo the Great1 (seeking reviews). His CThe Fall of Venice1 was
commissioned by the BBC for a television special. Vladek Shabel starred in
this production.
* >> 1 Rowdonis long presence on his working farm in the Tuscan countryside
and his writings earned him an invitation to become an Italian
citizen, an offer he kindly declined preferring to remain an Englishman
abroad.
His deep enquiry into the nature of human perception translated into a
restless and intense questioning of history and established facts, implicit
in all the disciplines devised to explain what it means to be human.
Unpublished archives. Rowdonis messages and predictions, despite being
chillingly accurate, were not always compatible with the society in which
he was writing; he was a visionary to which his time could not
accommodate. Making it even
harder to pin-point Rowdon as an author was the fact that his writing was
mostly outside the various literary paradigms and categories. He even
declared himself to be basically un-publishable. His
category, Chuman intelligencel doesnit exist. Some of his works,
such as the play EChristophe the Haitian King1 were highly regarded by
companies such as The National Theatre, but rejected in 1975 on the grounds
that they simply could not supply a large enough black cast. He
even sent out his own manuscripts, one on Hermaphroditism called *Sophia The
Wild *and his apocalyptic *Songs of the End of the World *in
the 1970s with a wry letter to publishers that he was sending these
himself, wishing to spare his literary agent from doing SO as his agent
declared he needed to eat. Along with the manuscripts he sent the most
damaging rejections from various other publishers. Rowdon, always a rapid
generator of ideas,
could not wait for the world to catch up with his visions, and thus much of
his highly perceptive work did not surface.
**PHILOSOPHY - 1. Breath intelligence **2. Animal/Human
intelligence 3. Views on history/religion
Rowdonis preoccupation with the restrictions of the rationalist mind had him
become dissatisfied with Occidental philosophy and turn to Oriental thought,
notably that of various mystics such as Ramakrishna, Mahara. By 1960 he was
Page 12 of 17


practicing yoga, meditation and pranayama under the guidance of his Indian
guru, Yevsudian (Northern Italy and Switzerland). He was fascinated by
breathing as being the EEprincipal key to human lifel and began to experiment
with other systems of breathing. He was drawn to Leonard Orris ERebirthing!
method and underwent a series of guided sessions in London, the results of
which had him begin experimenting with many forms of breath control.
Gradually he pioneered his own breathing system that he eventually called
Oxygenesis and which could Estimulate inborn intelligence systems in our
bodies1. CEOxygenesis: Secret of Breath1 (Creative Consultants, 1983) As
emphasized in *The Ape of Sorrows, *Rowdon had a conviction
that Christian civilization had unwittingly stripped humans of their
natural intelligence, their physiological guidance systems, and he was
curious to explore whether or not some of this lost intelligence (CEeroded
faculties1) could be recovered through various breathing techniques. As he
worked with the effects of the breath on his own organism he began to
challenge the assumption that the mind is the seat of power to objectify our
sensations. Rather, his emphasis lay on the nervous system; the seat
of the ego as well as the bank from which we draw our resources and
information. Further, he believed that it was a great error to regard
perceiving as a mental and not physiological activity, and was anguished by
the fact that no one questioned perception in this manner. His archives
show that by the time he had for over eight years guided clients through
Oxygenesis he felt he could demonstrate that his breathing system could
provide Epsychoanalysis without
words, regeneration without medicine, information without thinking.1 In
northern California he attracted intellectuals and clients interested in
changing their consciousness or ways of perceiving. He held weekly
discussions that were recorded and some of these recordings are available in
his archives (seeking others). He also worked with singers and various
performers in California and in Italy. Back in London very much later in his
life he became part of the medical directoris team (Rajendra Sharma) at The
Hale Clinic in London and participated in a television documentary where he
treated patients who wished to stop smoking at a health spa.
*Animal* - Rowdonis study of Oriental thought and his practice of Oriental
physiological techniques, including his own therapy, Oxygenesis, provoked a
deepening of his enquiry into the nature of human and animal intelligence,
most
especially the humanis status-quo collective vision of himself as being the
most highly evolved and superior creature on the planet. Known for his
unconventional tendencies, he was invited to observe two dogs communicate
with their teacher through tappingin their Eclassroom1. From this came,
CElke and Belham, The talking Dogs1 (1978) which was later
Page 13 of 17


reviewed as CEone of the most remarkable animal books ever written. Some
may accept it. Others may reject it. But nobody puts it down
unfinished.(5] <* IN California he visited KoKo, the lowland gorilla who
communicates in the American Sign Language with Dr Penny Patterson as her
guide, philosopher and friend. He writes, CEI went straight to her and
3exchanged2 breath with her. It was upon the heels of that meeting that he
began his last, most ambitious work.
to In notes within his many revisions of The Ape of Sorrows he states that
CEonce we see human performance in the world as arising not from the greatest
intelligence, but from loss of intelligence, we are well placed to recognize
the lethal erosion all around---from the fatally low oxygen content of the
air, the poisoning of seas and soils and sunrays---an exact reflection of
the erosion that grips our own faculties1. Rowdonis piercingly relevant
dictum that Enow
that truth is dawning on us1 is a reminder of the self-perpetuated
environmental situation that dominates politics today. Rowdon himself knew
that such issues were and would increasingly become important; in a letter
to his agent, Arthur Ormont, New York, (early 1990s), in regard to The Ape
of Sorrows (then entitled The Mad Ape) he highlighted the absurdity of CEsuch
a theme,
which every day is getting more and more evidence for its truth, should (be)
submerged in a sea of argument. He explored what he called (Edead
habitat1 doctrines and offered an explanation as to how and why we are
tragically committed to the destruction of our planet, our evolutionary
mutations revealing a hard-pressed creature who seems to have no other
course.
5.History and Philosophy
Rowdon writes CEI take history to be everything the human has ever thought
of himself--even when his own actions have been deeply mysterious to hims
CEI learned more History from Philosophy than I could believe. Philosophy
asked me to consider what I meant by the word 3facts2, namely what History
is all about. It asked me even more severely what I meant by Bindisputable2
facts, since anything and everything was open to dispute. 3Truth2,
3reasoning2, 3analysis2 -all the things claimed by History---were drawn
from the study of Logic, which again belongs securely to Philosophy.
Equally, he was perplexed by the EEstrange time categoriesi
Historians invented for us Equite as if human life was on the bubble all the
timel. He began to question epochs and structures of history; why, for
example, does the world accept Herodotus to be the beginning of ancient
history? Taking up
philosophy thus allowed him to challenge Efact1 and Etruth,1 and delve into
areas such as theology which were rarely questioned. He was inspired by T.H
Bradley, the only philosopher, in his view, to have humanity. Rowdon felt
an affinity to Bradleyis view on the credulous nature of humanity; that we
Page 14 of 17


base our lives on ridiculous assumptions about ourselves, and that chief of
these assumptions is that we CElead1 our own lives. In CEThe Ape of Sorrows1
he maintained that EMan might indeed be called the visionary creature
because without a vision of what life should be or what life means or how
life should be lived, he cannot even form a society. - Civilization, in
Rowdonis view, had a tendency to divide humans from one another, indeed (Enot
only the living from the dead but the living from the living.1 His first
step in questioning this led him to the realization that all the
civilizations we know about are perceived through their religions; we know
of no civilization that was not preceded by a religion, of which that
civilization was the community. (p76-77)
6. PLAYS
7. Death
Rowdon fell ill with a blood condition after suffering from an insect bite
in France in 2000. The ten year illness relegated him to increasing
isolation in which he was unable to access the recognition that his ideas
and work deserved. He passed away in February 2009, leaving behind extensive
archives and unpublished work. Conclusively there are thirty-five plays,
ten novels, two non-fictions, numerous travel books on Italy, an extensive
body of poetry concerning war and shock, a large body of short stories,
articles and notes concerning his breathing therapy Oxygenesis
8 Unpublished Archives
Rowdon was a polymath whose vision has barely surfaced as much of what he
wrote was deeply unconventional and outside of the various literary
paradigms. Or as in his play EChristophe the Haitian Kingi Ronald Bryden of
The Royal Shakespeare Theatre wrote in 1975, CEWe (he and Trevor Nunn) can
both see that itis a play with immense theatrical possibilities. But itis
hard to see how they could be realized with a cast of less than twenty-five
or thirty, all but six of them black1. Rowdon had tried to mount a black
company himself. Peter Hall wrote him in September 1975 CEI think the play
rings of truth and that the characters are drawn with clarity and
compassion. The story line is strong and important, and the part of
3Christophe2 would provide a black actor with an opportunity for a great
tour-de-force performance. The background is colourful, exciting and
extravagantS.In our current state of flux we do not have the flexibility
which would be required to enable us to incorporate this particular piece
into our repertoire. 1 Lord Birkitt of the National Theatre wrote in October
1975,1 Like Peter Hall, I found the play extremely powerful in many
respects, and it has, as he said, a marvelous part for a black actor.1 Lord
Birket went on to say his subsidy position was worse although thy National
Theatre now had a new theatre and SO he could not take on the play. He
suggested that EThis may seem obvious to yousif so, you must forgive
me---but it does appear to me that 3Christophe2 would make a marvelous
television spectacular, or indeed a marvelous film.1 An investigation of
Page 15 of 17


Rowdonis archives does not show that he pursued this line but it does show
that a great deal of his work, both his books and his plays, received the
same sort of outstanding praise and yet never came to light. There are
similar letters from theatres pertaining to two of his last plays, CEAnd In
Came Ophelial and EGenes1. One of Rowdonis difficulties was his prolific
creativity. He could concentrate on trying to promote a work for a very
limited period of time before it was relegated to his archives as he was
already pursuing another subject. In regard to his most difficult and
sensitive work his archives show that in the 1970s he sent out two of his
own manuscripts, one of a fascinating novel on Hermaphroditism called
ESophia The Wild1 and an apocalyptic poetry and prose work entitled CSong of
the End of the World1 with a wry letter to publishers that he was sending
these
himself, wishing to spare his literary agent from doing SO as his agent
declared he needed to eat. Along with the manuscripts he sent the most
damaging comments from various other publishers. As of this date (July 2012)
the compilation of his archives remains incomplete. There are, SO far,
thirty-five plays, ten novels, two non-fictions, numerous travel books on
Italy, an extensive body of poetry concerning war and shock, a large body of
short stories, articles and notes concerning his breathing therapy
Oxygenesis, various works on barbarism, on the first eight centuries of
Christendom (the age of monks), on various figures such as Gustav Mahler,
Alma Mahler, Casanova, Diaghilev, Hitler. CEDespite the weightiness of his
topics his work is characterised by a lightness of touch and a tone of wry
amusement. 1 (Neil Norman)
On 20 July 2012 22:33, Dachiell Rowdon <msr@dhrowdon.com> wrote:
Hello Emily,
I'm traveling tomorrow. I'll get into the wikipedia in a few days...if you can
send me the one you sent in that would be helpful. I don't think it was the
one I corrected. Best, Dachiell
On 7/19/12 5:25 PM, "emily neaarn" <enearn777@googlemail.com>
wrote:
Hi Dachiell,
I'm home but can't get to my laptop until later tonight. I'll look
it over tonight and email you for Friday morning.
Best,
Emily.
On Jul 17, 2012 3:56 PM, "Dachiell Rowdon"
<msr@dhrowdon.com> wrote:
Page 16 of 17


Emily, my trip to France is cancelled until Saturday SO
perhaps we can speak
on Thursday?
Hope you had a good trip.
Best,
Dachiell
Page 17 of 17


Conhad 6 resken
Trank
the
h mies are in uer Kel are nallech
bachi nho cn keshm
unadohmantpont 2 view
Hamplen Lourt Padani
Ringetion Wimbli clar
Bronki.@afngd
Be8
Engafon Hoplon
Ss0- coN -
A3 SE-FR


Maurice Rowdon
44 Brookwood Road London SW18 5BY
tel : 0208.874.5361 e-mail:rowdoxy@aol.com
Michael Alcock
Druwo frihiit.
Michael Alcock Management
96 Farringdon Road
21 wr didie wul atwlahl.
London EC1R 3EA
Burksewn. :
alur wroe
i ay e e
THE LIES WE DIE
cayp
FOR [working title]
cuauhilai;,
Notes on a lying time 1939-1945
Racent
Endder, uunep hed a dinisim
Dear Michael Alcock:
ww Shie Roehe Jelu Lad iagpuy:
I wonder if I could send you excerpts from the above A ceureil
non-fiction title. This letter is a combination of
oid
outline and a resume of my professional background.
Ctty
THE LIES WE DIE FOR is a narrative of my battle garr hi tluoie
experience during the second world war. Its tenet is l, bei A
that this war established war as the basis of human
life.
c', cohrul)
challenges the received idea that it was
wus Ungiealp
against Hitler and nazism. Wars are never about what
the war journalism decides it should be seen as. The ill huel!
second world war was a disastrous extension of a
Palud,
small conflict between Britain and
to the
guanfcal
Germany
whole world. This is usually attributed to the
wasie
mistakes of 'appeasement'. But no appeasing went on.
You
Ancmes
appease a wild maverick you are afraid of.
Nre do
Britain had no fear of Hitler, whose hold on his
Arussh
country was slight. and whose military force was
negligible. The two governments enjoyed'an"
enthusiastic friendship together, on the basis of a
foreign policy long agreed between the US, France and
Britain.
None of us wanted war. Certainly the right wing
didn't, and the-left, which I worked ardently for as
a child of 15, clamoured for it but also didn't want
it. No one wanted it. Nevertheless this- war was
different. It had a very convincing moral ticket, a
quite spurious one but it..got-us in. i Many if not.most
gentiles in this country (I was one of them) were
drawn into giving their assent to this war because.it-
seemed to them urgent to get rid of a man who
believed sin the death of Jews. Hir Lere ngriad of d -
But Chamberlain's seemingly: reckless declaration
of war (Churchill called it 'tragically ill-timed')
uild
boantideun Uxa Juns C d uieli lbyn4
Itrec
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Laur moun u
Lryfmies
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esclertimit
My tnl clpte gie
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ha berowe 'histay laifer Tul Lhgme,7tie wa


Maurice Rowdon
44 Brookwood Road London SW18 5BY U.K.
e-mail: rowdoxy@aol.com
Georgina Morley
Macmillan Publishers
The Macmillan Building
4 Crinan Street
London N1 9XW
WAR IN MY EYES
Some personal notes on front-line warfare
Dear Georgina Morley:
Do you have time to consider the above title for
Macmillan?
My book is about my experience of front-line
warfare in world war two, over a period of two years
in the Italian campaign. My function was that of a
Forward Observation Officer who had to place himself
at the spearhead of attack and sometimes beyond,
which at times involved getting lost in enemy lines.
I describe battle in great detail and concentrate on
the shock involved. This shock is a day and night
constant and has to be managed by youths in their
early twenties if they wish to survive or (it may be)
die by a chosen method. My story treats courage and
cowardice as components of each other, and their
proper interplay as the key to performance.
Afterwards you see that this performance had nothing
to do with you as someone with a past and future. A
citation for gallantry is a comment on nothing. There
is a strangeness in battle which soldiers never talk
about because it defies words, and these words take
years to unfold.
My previous publishers have been Chatto and
Windus (2), Heinemann (1), Constable (1), Gollancz
(2), Macmillan (1), Weidenfeld (3), Collins (1) and
in the States Putnam, St. Martins' Press, Praeger.
Most of these were commissioned non-fiction titles.
Length: 75000 words.
I enclose some reviews and an SAE.
with best wishes


CANONGATE BOOKS LIMITED
14 HighStreet, Edinburgh EHI ITE
TEL: O131-557 SIII FAX: O131-557 52II
Mr Maurice Rowdon
44 Brookwood Road
London
SW18 5BU
13 April 2004
Dear Mr Rowdon,
Many thanks for submitting your synopsis and sample chapters for our consideration.
Your work displays a literary style of great eloquence with astounding moments of
brilliance and terrifying insight. In light of the high quality of writing and the subject
matter exposed, I am' convinced your work should be published, but do not feel we are
the best publishers to ensure it receives the full attention it SO deserves.
Naturally I wish you well in finding a suitable publisher and thank you for thinking of
Canongate. I recommend the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook published by A & C
Black Ltd which lists agents and publishers and their submission procedures. In
particular I would recommend Bantam Press, Corgi, and Doubleday all ofwhich are
imprints of Transworld Publishers. Their address is 61-63 Uxbridge Road, London
W5 5SA, telephone number 020 8579 2652, fax number 020 8579 5479, email
info@transworld.co.uk, website www.booksattransworld.co.uk.
With best wishes,
Katie Gould
Submissions Assistant
info@canongate.co.uk
www.canongate.net


DANIEL KIRMATZIS
5 MAGNOLIA COURT
BLENKARNE ROAD
BATTERSEA, LONDON SW116JD
dkirmatzis@googlemail.com
dachiell@dhrowdon.com
11 July, 2012
Archivist
Archives Regiment Head Quarters
Grenadier Guards
Wellington Barracks,
London SW1E 6HQ
Dear Archivist,
I called on Wednesday 11th July about finding information on a former soldier who fought
in the Italian Campaign. His name was Maurice Rowdon, military number 53847. He was
a Forward Observation officer & was part of the US 5th Army, 46th division. He was 21 in
1943. From his cap badge it looks as if he was in the Grenadier Guards. I am trying to
find as much information as I can about his war service. Please find enclosed a cheque
for £30 to carry out the research. I, and his widow, Dachiell Rowdon, are writing a book
about Maurice's experiences in the Italian Campaign and the effects of war.
Thank you.
Kind regards,
Daniel Kirmatzis MA
Dachiell Rowdon


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Sat, Jun 1, 2013 10:25 PM
Subject: Maurice
Date: Thursday, December 27, 2012 1:18 PM
From: Daniel Kirmatzis dumatzis@grogemai.com>
To: "msredhrowdon.com" <msr@dhrowdon.com>
Conversation: Maurice
Hi Dachiell,
Ihavel been reading through Maurice's I second account of Italy/
Cairo/Greece/Austria
Perhaps it's Maurice's spirit guiding me but we haven't a moment
to lose.
Ithink we must do this now.
Ihave a few questions.
1. Are there more war photos? have some you lent me but
reading Maurice's account he mentions a photo of him smokingin
Cairo in uniform, having been taken by a nurse. Does this &
others exist?
2. We should try & gather any war related materials together &
put them in one box, protective box against water or sunlight.
Page 1 of 3


3. Does his second account end in Austria, meeting the Jewish
Concentration Camp survivor in British uniform?
4.1think we should plan to go to Italy in a quiet periodie. not in
School holiday time.
5. We know so farthat Maurice was in the Royal Artillery, 46th
Division, part of the 10th Corps. Tracing his stepsshould be
relatively easy. He mentions certain locations in the account.
Paths may have been altered/rebuilt since 1944 but we should
still be able to trace them.
6. We will have to speak to Jonathan about filming & puttinga
documentary proposal together.
7.Ithink the book should accompany the film. I've been thinking
that it should be text accompanying Maurice's images, with
sections ofwar poetry. The threadis Maurice's journey & the
theme is impact of war on the individual & how one works
through that impact.
Speak when your free. l'm at home most of the time. 0207924
Page 2 of 3


All the best,
Daniel.
Page 3 of 3


Sat, Jun 1, 2013 10:27 PM
Subject: Re: Maurice
Date: Friday, December 28, 20129 9:48 PM
From: Daniel Kirmatzis dumatis@groglemai.com>
To: Dachiell Rowdon <msr@dhrowdon.com>
Conversation: Maurice
Dear Dachiell,
take time to be at peace with the house & your memories. heard
a wonderful line a few days ago from a film butl tithink it is a much
older saying, yesterday is history; tomorrow a mystery; but
today is a gift, that is why it is called the present.
lama applyingi it to my life now & will never lose a moment looking
at what has gone... although as a historian it is : hard not to look
back..Jr mean that I will not allow my own past to stop me from
livingt today.
Best wishes,
Daniel.
On Dec 28, 2012 8:30 PM, "Dachiell Rowdon"
<msr@dhrowdon.com> wrote:
Hello Daniel,
I have gone through the last trunk here---huge amount of writing, lots of
Page 1 of 6


letters and nothing that dates back into the forties. I did find a few letters
about the first war book---These were rejections, I think the book must
have been in early stages. Maurice had a habit of sending out work too
quickly but whenever he got rejections he used them to work through the
next version. Here is a letter from Harper Brothers in Jan 1954 when
Simon Bessie wrote him declining the book. He wrote'...I say it with
considerable difficulty because the book is SO beautifully written and
because some of its passages seem to me as vivid and penetrating as
anything I have seen on war'. He goes on to praise and say it does not
hold together etc etc...He also got a letter from James Mickie his agent
and one of the most erudite gentlemen I have ever read. James wrote, -
The honesty, strength and personality of your book are tremendous. What
you have put into it must not be lost and will not be lost.. Yet as it is it
appears to be still a draft, a tremendous note- book, a confession indeed
(of general importance) full of beautiful writing but not a book as yet,
alas. The letter talks about his having made the book a novel---in the end
it was an autobiography. Maurice got there no doubt through James who
also wrote about Chatto 'They are justified in my view to be critical of the
MS but if they want to be worthy of the name of responsible and serious
publishers, they must say to you (and perhaps they have done SO by
now): this book MUST not be lost, it is immensely important---you still
have to make it. - If they were honest in offering literary criticism that is
what they must say. I feel now what I felt at the first reading: this is
original, this is alive, this makes a penetration, a funking publisher won't
publish. You have to fight for this book, make it irresistible for it MUST
appear. Yours always, James'.
I take that last sentence as our challenge too, Daniel- -his writing is
already irresistible. We have to put it all together in such a way that it
MUST appear.
It was a long day in that trunk. Lots of interesting things---also maybe
some poetry including war poetry I don't have at home. It's not familiar to
There are some boxes to look through at Brookwood. That will be high
priority for me when I get back..
Meanwhile, keep pulling those passages and know that great critics and
scholars are with you in spirit..
I think I'm going to have to leave this house. The memories it provokes in
me at this time of the year are SO raw. I am scheduled to go into the
mountains tomorrow and if I don't write again and the next you hear from
me is from London on the phone then you know I was able to leave. My
sleeplessness is SO intense I can barely function..
Blessings upon you, Daniel...
Page 2 of 6


Dachiell
On 12/28/12 12:05 AM, "Daniel Kirmatzis" <dkirmatzis@googlemail.com>
wrote:
I have parts of two versions of the book SO it would be good to
get all parts together. I have a bit of War in Italy & a lot of
forward to the death SO it would be good to get all parts of both
versions to work from.
I have been going through writing down all the places he
mentioned. I have a one page list.
Do you know if Maurice kept the camera he confiscated from
the SS Officer in the POW camp in Udine? I've been reading
about his time in the camp where they brought German SS
Officers & have been fascinated by the account. It is generally
overlooked in the war's historiography. I'm excited to learn
more.
Do you know if he kept any of the items he mentions such as
the camera?
If we pitch it right I think we can make a gripping film. The film
could be produced with the book but I do think we could get a
commission for one of the TV channels.
All the best.
On Dec 27, 2012 10:13 PM, "Dachiell Rowdon"
<msr@dhrowdon.com> wrote:
It is hugely late, Daniel, and I'm SO delighted you feel
a sense of urgency to get moving on the book. And
yes, Maurice is with us, I know he is wanting us to
move on it. No, the version I have ends with his
being in Greece, I believe and he is asking himself
what the devil he had done to himself.-- -which must
be what every soldier asks himself at the end of it all.
But Daniel, I have found other chapters that are not
in the book. And I think there is another whole
ending. We might could go through all the different
versions and come up with things he cut that could
be very interesting. Yes, I have more war photos and
some are in very bad condition. There is one which is
of him but which partially destroyed. I think it is on
the website and somehow I think that photo should
Page 3 of 6


be on the cover as that is what happens to soldier, he
returns in many ways destroyed.
I don't know if Jonathan will help us. Probably not.
But Lou Gardy wants to help us or she says she does,
only she directs---she doesn't film. We'll look around.
I thought a CD should accompany the book. Are you
saying it should be the other way around? I think we
might not be able to interest the ITV or BBC in our
project. But maybe you have other ideas.. and I
remember your saying you have maps etc. I think we
can follow the campagin through following Maurice's
writings. .in both books... .I have two young friends
here who are professionals, they are landing huge
contracts. I don't know but maybe I can get them to
help us, it depends on their time and schedule and of
course if I can pay them enough. I cannot ask them
to do this for nothing.
Yes, I agree that we should go to Italy in a quieter
time than ordinary vacation time. We can go this
April or May. For instance.. But you know, he landed
in September. We might ought to go once in the
spring to reconnoiter, really find the places he went
to---travel up italy locating them. And then do the
filming beginning in September and go back to Italy
through the winter to try to be with him and the
men, how it was for them. The winter was ghastly.
We have to do the book carefully and we'll need all
that time anyway to get it together..
When I am back at the house it would be good if you
could come over and go through some of the stacks
of revisions and maybe we can get more material out
of it and organize it differently. I do wish to employ
you, Daniel, part-time for this. Please accept that.
Now I must go to bed. I am exhausted!!!l've not
been sleeping here, I think because the house is So
huge, no kitties and Maurice died here and Christmas
for me is the pits anyway because that is when he
got SO sick and we came here for our usual Christmas
in 2009 not knowing he would never step foot in
England again.. .My world came apart then. anyway,
it's hard for me here. I'm a little better in England
because when I get down I can duck out and go to a
museum or go have a tea somewhere. Here I feel his
absence and in fact my aloneness SO acutely. Take
Page 4 of 6


good care, Daniel. we'll speak hopefully tomorrow.
I'm hoping to go up into the mountains to see the
new year in with friends of long ago, anything to
leave the house.. best, D
On 12/27/12 1:18 PM, "Daniel Kirmatzis"
<dkirmatzis@googlemail.com> wrote:
Hi Dachiell,
I have been reading through Maurice's
second account of Italy/Cairo/Greece/
Austria
Perhaps it's Maurice's spirit guiding me but
we haven't a moment to lose.
I think we must do this now.
I have a few questions.
1. Are there more war photos? I have
some you lent me but reading Maurice's
account he mentions a photo of him
smoking in Cairo in uniform, having been
taken by a nurse. Does this & others exist?
2. We should try & gather any war related
materials together & put them in one box,
protective box against water or sunlight.
3. Does his second account end in Austria,
meeting the Jewish Concentration Camp
survivor in British uniform?
4. I think we should plan to go to Italy in a
quiet period i.e. not in School holiday time.
5. We know SO far that Maurice was in the
Royal Artillery, 46th Division, part of the
10th Corps. Tracing his steps should be
relatively easy. He mentions certain
locations in the account.
Paths may have been altered/rebuilt since
1944 but we should still be able to trace
them.
Page 5 of 6


Sat, Jun 1, 2013 10:24 PM
Subjects Lines from war memoir
Date: Thursday, December 27, 20129:46 PM
From: Daniel Kirmatzis dumatzs@gnogemal.com>
To: msredhrowdon.com" <msredhrowdon.com>
Conversation: Lines from war memoir
I'mjust reading Maurice's unpublished work & these lines jumped
out at me..
'You can't get used to the unexpected, expect it as you might. of
course you know that the bell is always tollingand it may or may
not be ford you but it tolls So madly, SO minute by minute, iti is
bound to seem to be always in some measure tolling fory you and
there is no escape from it, even when it has tolled, in a split
second choice, for someone else'.
Such great words. So right. Iwish i'd known Maurice.
Page 1 of 1


EARLSFIELD OFFICER DOES GALLANT
SERVICE
Gunners. Defy Enemy on - Italian Heights
In the dusk through a narrow driven off by'a combination of in-jthe time when :
walley beneath the barren heights fantry dash and the devastating scholarships to they. Bon eech er
.in which a British division of the effect of thè fire directed by Lieut. and from there unté to
Fifth Army is now fighting in Italy, Rowden. On one occasion shell- three brothers hare tort
rema
walked a young officer and two zun- fire became SO heavy that the post ably successful caroers. Shads
ners-Lieut. Rowden, of 49 Waldron- had to be moved further east along Now, in war-thme
.road, Earlsfleld, Gunner J. Walton, the crest. Shortly afterwards Gun- tinguishing themselves: they are vell
of Newcastle-on-Tyne, and Gunner ner Walton had .to crawl up the Mr. Rowden, sen, is tn equally
Asbury,
of Burton-on-Trent. They crest with a message. for Lieut. ment of
morth the-employ
vere on their way to the assembly Rowden which had come over the Council. Wa
Borgugh
area of an infantry regiment which air. He reached the : sangar - John, the eldest:
is aged. 30.
was about to go into the line. without being seen by the enemy, After winninga son.
Their wireless
etholarahipetrom
and equipment. 60 yards away but-as -he raised his the Emanual :
-he i took
necessary to set up an observation hand to give. the message to his diploma in: journalism School,
post were carried on two mules. officer it was spotted.
don University. He is now at- intindis. tbe Lon-
The next three days were spent in.
A RAIN OF GRENADES
He went, there chortlg: befero the
the assembly area-three" days of At once
war to: grite at far irida atays
rain and sleet, extreme discomfort
a rain "ar lolly gren-: and to.broadcnat educitional
and boredom only enlivened by oc- ades -German grenades on the to Indian children: He: is working talks
casional shell-fire.
end of sticks-came down upon as a
'in short. govern-
On the night of February 10 they them. The infantry on Cerasole ment commentator Alms.
moved up to the forward crest of replied and there was a short sharp. After entering the same univer-
Mount Cerasela, bleak, shell-swept battle at the end of which the Hun. sity on a.similar scholarship, Leslie,
rock mass from which they were to retreated further down the slopes. who is 28, became an accountant.
direct the fire of the Field Regi- The gunners played. their part in He is now. an-:officer in a heavy
ment, R.A. The two gunners 'set this action, flinging grenades.at the A.A. battery.
about the vital business of com- retreating enemy.
munication at once. They installed The post remained in action until
LETTERS HOME
their wireless on the reverse slopes the battalion whom they were. sup-
of the crest with the mast- bent porting was relieved on the night The. youngest SOL, Msurice, who
away from the enemy to avoid of February 13. They were never. is only 21, also went to Emanual
giving away the: post.
out of. wireless communication and School and from there he won a
SHELL-FIRE
were constantly able to engage the scholarship to Keble College," Ox-
SUBJECTED TO.
enemy throughout this period. The ford. He joined the Royal Artillery
Lleut. Rowden built himself a conditions under which they fought two years ago and wentabrosd with
: sangar " or stone shelter cn the were almost indescribabie-rain, the rank of Heuteriant last August.
crest. All that night they were sleet and snow. during thé day, fog His parents know very little about
subjected. to shell-fire to which at. dusk which enabled the enemy his war' service. In his letters home
mortar fre was added in the. early to creep close- to them, severe frost he never mentioned his:job, or the
hours of the morning. Just before at night which left their hands conditions' out. there.
dawn the enemy counter-attacked, numb with frost bite, and, perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Rowden now know
venturing within 30 yards of the most trying of all, a never. ceasing through the call of.a reporter. and
post. Lieut. Rowden coolly con- strain from being under constant they have greater reason than be-
tinued to observe, giving his fire fire.
fore to be proud,of their youngest
orders.to one. of the gunners who By the time they were relieved son..
scribbled them down on a scrap of they were stiff and aching from ex-
paper for the other to send over posure, almost deafened by shell
the air. The infantry sent them bursts. They were infinitely glad
grenades
self-defence
SALUTE
for
and these
THE S
to get out and they went with the
'were used with telling effec:.
knowledge that they had done their
The next three days. were spent job and done it extremely well.
under much the' same - conditions. Lieut. Rowden is the youngest of Battersea
"Counter-attack after counter-attack the three sons. of Mr. and Mrs.
and Waj
was put in by the Hun, only to be Rowdon, of 49 Waldron-road. From
Their


FIRST THREE CHAPTERS OF WAR BOOK, REVISED IN 2009, AND TITLED
WAR IN ITALY: THE HITLER-CHURCHILL HONEYMOON


MAURICE REVISED THE FIRST THREE CHAPTERS OF THE WAR BOOK,
CUTTING IT BY 20 PAGES AND THEN HE WENT BACK TO THE ORIGINAL
TEXT (CHAPTER 4--APPARITION).
HE ALSO CHANGED THE NAME OF THE BOOK FROM FORWARD TO THE
DEATH TO WAR IN ITALY: the Hitler-Churchill Honeymoon
I have found another title, Ithink, a recent one, and it may have been a part of a title:
WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS


DACHIELL ROWDON
44 BROOKWOOD ROAD
LONDON SW18 5 BY
rowdluce@aol.com
WAR IN ITALY is a literary account of what it was to be a Forward
Observation Officer in the Italian campaign of World War II by Maurice
Rowdon.
Maurice took two degrees at Oxford, the first, before the war, in
Modern History (one year) and the other, afterwards, in Modern Greats
(philosophy, politics and economics). He went on to teach English
Literature at Bhagdad University before making Italy his home where he
became a specialist in Italian civilization.
About WAR IN ITALY, before his death in 2009, he wrote, 'I describe
battle in great detail and concentrate on the shock involved. This
shock is a day and night constant and has to be managed by youths in
their early twenties if they wish to survive or (it may be) die by a
chosen method. My story treats courage and cowardice as components of
each other, and their proper interplay as the key to performance.
Afterwards you see that this performance had nothing to do with you as
someone with a past and future. A citation for gallantry is a comment
on nothing. There is a strangeness in battle which soldiers never talk
about because it defies words, and these words take years to unfold'.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
bol.ce
SYNOPSIS/FORWARD TO THE DEATH
ihce
Why another WW2 book?
Because this is not a military history. Military
histories are accounts of frontline warfare as a
rational undertaking, and in living fact the front
line is devoid of any reason whatever. Shock renders
that out of the question. 'Advances' and 'retreats',
victories' and 'cowardice' and 'courage' are
illusory concepts used to dress up the corpse and
temper the scream, the progeny of press room and
military academy.
My eye-witness narrative of frontline warfare in
the Italian campaign over a period of two years from
my 20th to my 22nd year presents an altogether
different account of World War Two from that of the
press archives and histories. Simply by being a
moment by moment account of battle, without polemics
or speculation, it page by page removes World War Two
from view as a serious, considered or in the least
way moral chain of events.
Every inherited 'fact' about that war falls away
not under the weight of argument but that of events,
as if the war itself were anxious to achieve self-
demolition, being only words and attitudes.
Never at any time was World War Two a war
against Hitler or nazism. Never was it a war in
defence of the Jews. In fact, because of the
frivolous declaration of war in September 1939 the
Jewish civilisation in Europe was trapped within


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Hitler's regime for six long years. This was
confirmed (after the war) by Churchill-: 'The
declaration of war was tragically ill-timed, causing
the deaths of tens of millions of people'. At the
time, however, he was in the cabinet and voted for
the declaration---was indeed elated by it, and
predicted a 6-weeks walkover in Poland, which neither
French nor British forces could reach.
As to World War Two being in the least sense
concerned about getting rid of Hitler or Nazism the
Danuay
Casablanca Conference of June, 1943 (before the
Italian campaign and the Normandy landings) turned
what seemed to us a simple conflict with Hitler into
declared genocide against the entire German people,
including Hitler's many bitter enemies and even the
Jews, who now remained at his mercy. Germans were
declared to be preternaturally evil on the lines of
the former genocide called World War One. Germans no
longer had any chance of British help for their many
attempts to assassinate Hitler, which were continuous
tlu
from as early as 1938. 16 war luis cnfuuo tie delini
Every inherited concept about those times, from
the 'appeasement' that never took place to the
'stirring' nature of Churchill's speeches, simply
falls away of itself when you recount what actually
happened on the ground. A soldier in the front line
is one in seven of an army, which means that this
army is largely there to serve him. So 'the war',
that imagined bigger scenario, is always in his mind,
both sustaining him with its hero stories and
dorier
Argrlfue tonhs Ate Camey,
Beig t Cush Gema monle' cas urel l ce Afercach.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death,
Buhit
Vile
Suatn
undermining his trust/at every step,
Is a peculiar
paradox, few hue holiced.
Churchill might have convinced us (he didn't)
that despite having the greatest navy in the world we
were in imminent danger of German invasion but his
renowned 'We will fight on the beaches, in the
streets' speech lost even the small conviction that
all war speeches have when we were told, as a follow-
up to the speech, that in the event of invasion the
government and the royal family would be clearing off
to Canada (presumably with the greatest navy in the
world).
Not that we felt blame. Daily war routines,
domestic or military, exclude that ('we're all in
this together'). So blame doesn't figure in my
account. If any shadow of blame does arise it is
towards people who dedicated themselves to the
Struggle against Fascism and were---in one of those
giant contradictions that mark all war---the major
cause of World War Two and even the precipitators of
its 'tragically ill-timed declaration'.
And as I was an ardent and active believer in
that Struggle from the age of fourteen I would
naturally be unable to see our movement, deeply
committed to peace as we verbally were, as in error.
W.H.Auden's pamphlet poem 'Spain' (1936) described
all the things we used to love, like jolly trips to
nostalgic
the sea, and each, stanza ofreminiscence ended with
the words 'But today the struggle'. Once established
in New York he excised the poem from his canon. But
for us it echoed OnA und 5


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
We were the most vociferous movement in the
land. Churchill was our chosen hero, hoisted on our
sole shoulders. The conservatives would never have
put him there. They knew him.
So on the several occasions when parliament
wanted to press a vote of non-confidence against him
it always drew back because of his untouchable
popularityA wihk us.
The Italian campaign
This campaign was outstanding for its
unthinkably high body-count and so-called 'non-
battle' cases of shock.
When the Hygiene Unit of the Medical Corps,
whose duty it was to clean up after a battle, walked
into Cassino they were appalled to speechlessness by
the carnage. There was nothing to do but cover the
corpses in quicklime. I describe in my account how I
stand alone in that town, surrounded by this ghostly
hillside pall, and how I plan a suicide 'with glory'
in a future battle. And indeed that battle did take
place.
Not that my decision was in the least unique.
One of the bestsellers of the early war years was
Richard Hillary's book The Last Enemy. He was a
fighter pilot and wrote of his wish to defeat that
last enemy, death. He was shot to his death soon
afterwards.
thi
Whathe described was a simple psychological
response at a certain point of battle maturity./ But
in -
Once
was a body sensation, not a thought. Whe you
de AAnen


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
have So to speak broken the code of shock it seems
obvious to you that you should now offer
h A nalure
your/life.
The Italian terrain was one_might say designed
for maximum shock---Sudden little chasms, sharp hills
and streams, copses and slopes and unexpected open
plains, all in a narrow peninsula through which whole
armies and their supply echelons had to pass. They
made it possible for absurdly small forces of Germans
to face without alarm our Ashatteringh bombardments
(a thousand tons was a trifle) plus the head-on
divisional or two-divisional attacks that/followed
thempup iH.
The worst carnage at Cassino, disposing of
several divisions (the New Zealanders were
disbanded), was inflicted by two German battalions.
Such a terrain would naturally call for small
bodies of men to infiltrate it with simultaneous
flank actions. No such thing in the Italian campaign.
The strategy adopted from the bottom of the peninsula
to the top was heavy armoured frontal attacks which
committed to battle the maximum forces---and iff Hhese ueue
aal
Ike
war hinpls reei,
defeat to-repeat-that strategy/ and this dufing two
long years, as if self-immolation on the grandest
llalian
scale was thejo campaign's sole objective.
Only in the second half of that campaign, from
Tuscany up, when we on the ground begin to have more
control of events, could small-scale engagements take
place, and the fronts move fast.
In such a terrain it was absurdly easy for the
wily German commander Kesselring to prepare his traps
for us. He could build his defence lines at leisure


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
while we were still pounding away at his last
previous one.
Hitler at first wanted to abandon Italy but once
he recognised, watching Kesselring's performace, that
frightful casualties could be inflicted on the Te
at very little cost in men and material he concurred
with warmth.
The narrative
This is a description of my experience of
frontline warfare as an F.0.0. or Forward Observation
Officer.
My job as an F.0.0. was to put myself at the
head of an attack and, when necessary, beyond it. It
was thus easy to get lost in enemy lines, and it
happened to me and my small body of signallers
(usually four in number) more than once.
The army textbooks referred to us F.0.0.S as
'the eyes of the army'. That is, we provided up-to-
the-moment intelligence about where the front line
was (always a puzzle when an attack is under way),
and what enemy dispositions we were facing, and how
itu 6.o.0,
formidable or otherwise they were. In us untinlcuto
h Ihe
But my practical importance for the infantry was rseliuel
very different---I could call up artillery support at
puol-
a moment's notice by radio. That is, all F.0.0.S were
2 STeallec:
gunner officers.
Jiue
My account is the story of how I mastered the
work of F.0.0. by slow degree, learning how to manage
and even utilise states of shock SO varied that there
was no way of pre-empting or foreseeing the nature of


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
a new engagement. Also these states could at any time
turn into that extreme state of muscular atrophy we
call shellshock, namely a temporary alienation that
if permanent would be defined as madness.
There lies the wisdom of committing the very
young to the front lines. Only they can accept the
journey into death and out again with equanimity
because life has not yet spelled itself out to them
as it has to older men. They have not yet been told
that they are rational.
So their nervous systems quickly attune to
conditions that might drive older men to run
screaming at enemy positions and be mown down at once
(I mention two such). .
The frontline soldier's first experiences will
shake his very conviction that he is alive. The
miraculous escapes which happen if he does survive
convince him that this is not an earthly process.
Only the youthful nervous system can withstand this
disruption of what we call reality. Again, body
sensations, not thoughts, are involved.
When the 'suicide' battle I planned for myself
at Cassino came to pass (you await with perfect
certainty the fulfilment of your previews) I had to
take command of over sixty men when their commanding
officer succumbed to shellshock. We were in an
untenable position, sticking out into enemy
territory, their tanks at very close range.
For this action I was cited for gallantry and
felt an embarrassed pride struggling with the deepest
shame inside me. The wish for death had failed.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Preparation/background
I published an account of the Italian campaign
(Chatto and Windus, rights now reverted) in the years
immediately after the war. It was a confused cri de
coeur against 'the murder', without awareness (as I
see it now) of what really went on inside me. I tried
to convey my thoughts, troubled or horrified, namely
the mere results and surface of body sensations.
Certainly that earlier book has been a useful
basis of recall for me. It gives me a graphic account
of some things I remember only vaguely, while there
are also scenes and nuances I remember clearly which
it omitted.
In the late Sixties and Seventies I picked up
every book I could find that dealt with the events of
WW2 with serious scholarship-- -and soon an entire
literature was available.
Having got an Oxford war degree in modern
history, and a fulltime degree after the war in
philosophy, politics and economics, I felt well
equipped to research quickly and surely.
During that time I was publishing, mostly non-
fiction commissions, and I became something of a
specialist on Italy, where I began to live. These
books were about many aspects of Italy---the art,
history, people. But it was the fact that I became a
specialist also of the terrain that gave me growing
insight into exactly what the war experience was
about. For twenty five years PESE I had a farmy
which produced wine and oil. And slowly, through
years of Italian talk and transaction, I came to know


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
the civilisation we had made war in. I could piece
together what had happened in the front line with
mueh more insight, Ikan evr befne,
Even the sullen suspiciousness we (men and
officers) used to feel in that war, our sense of
being gypped, became clearer to me. In another
terrain would our conversations have been SO bold,
AI ali,
direct? We were very ready with a rebellious stance
when we thought (which we did twice) that we were
being tricked from on highfThe government climbed
down on the first occasion, and dealt us a
treacherous lie on the second.
flenil i - feunnd chpt have
Would the actual mutiny
toak place in a no Ita
Ile
lemi
that
fellow battalion *secondchapter), resulting in
arrests and imprisonment, 7 have-happerred-etsewhere? Tullallder
Churchill called it The Unnecessary War, in a
double-entendre that was typical of his genius, and
which few have understood.
According to his doctor he sat naked one morning
on his bed and wondered half to himself whether
future generations wouldn't condemn him (bat the
utolualg
anecdote)lies outside my book's timeframe).
Conclusion
This narrative offers no easy conclusion about
the nature of war. It says that to go out on the
streets for or against war is like going out on the
streets for or against thunderstorms.
Wars cannot be launched when governments are
dar
udee
mer. Annati
transparent/intieir approach toit, as in the case
tui Was
of the present Iraq war,
is no different from
Beel


wa docile euyr utel u feu t leg.
Wa S neue Ae planned caund foressen
Smcliue 2 wul te uililan acaduy, : , ltr
vete vetiran aginelze asso c lon
loue tr hatk in.
Cluurliill


Maurice Rowdon
44 Brookwood Road London SW18 5BY
tel: 0208.874.5361 e-mail:rowdoxy@aol.com
THE LIES WE DIE FOR [working title]
Notes on a lying time 1939-1945
Dear :
I wonder if I could interest you in the above title.
It is a description of the second world war as a
disastrous spreading of a small conflict between
Britain and Germany (small because of the state of
close friendship between British governments and the
Nazi one) to the whole world.
The effect of Chamberlain's reckless declaration
of war (Churchill called it 'tragically ill-timed'
though he was in the cabinet that approved it) was to
release Hitler's regime of terror into the rest of
Europe. That is, in one stroke it secured the
ultimate death of the Jewish civilisation in Europe.
I cannot believe I was the only gentile who felt the
sole valid reason for entering war was to remove a
government that was killing Jews. But the Jewish
problem was never addressed. It simply provided a
cynical moral ticket, a catch.
The one thing Churchill's famous 'we shall fight
on the beaches' speech never did was to rally us.
Nobody needed rallying. Everyone was already, by May
1941, very resignedly and cynically at war. How could
a message that read 'England is dead', once you had
decrypted the speech, rally a people? It was a lie So
deeply inlaid that nobody tumbled to it. I didn't.
My function, between the ages of 20 and 22,
after I had done a first year at Oxford, was that of
an FOO or Forward Observation Officer, namely a
gunner officer who accompanied forward troops and was
described in the manuals as 'the eyes of the army'.
The FOO is perhaps best seen as a kind of sentinel
perdu who easily gets lost in enemy lines (I was,
more than once). It wasn't So much that the FOO was
privy to Intelligence as that he added to it and
corrected it, being nose to nose with the enemy on a
front that changed too fast for Intelligent reports


of even an hour ago to be accurate. He was there also
to serve the Company commander he had been detailed
to, that is he ordered gunfire from the rear to knock
out enemy gun emplacements or send attacking Germans
to cover.
My book is almost wholly a moment by moment
account of battle. But, in that, it is also an
analysis of what war is, I believe the first one to
refuse war the status of an institution, namely a
habit that has a special legitimate place in human
life. War is in fact an instrument that destroys
institutions-real ones like upper classes,
religions, literatures, law and order.
I accord war no dignity, no serious or useful
quality in my book. Accounts of battle that are
essays in heroism or prowess or suspense or rightness
are simply more deception. Battle, recollected in
tranquillity, shows me how closely war is connected
to human dementia, not at all to the many surrogate
ideals used to cover this. You only have to follow
what the nervous system does in battle to get the
proper story. Shock is the principal feature of my
account. I demonstrate it in dozens of instances. I
show why shock accounts for perhaps the greater
number of those registered under 'sick' and why these
'sick' are often the greater number under the general
heading 'battle casualties'.
Shock has many degrees, the most extreme being
the disabling one we call shell-shock. I show (simply
by following the events of battle) how the propensity
to shock is a preliminary and essential ingredient of
what we call courage. It is like an actor who makes
his first entrance of the evening: if he doesn't have
feathers the performance will suffer.
The resilience with which men from the ages of
21 to 26 (the average age of an army) will attribute
authority to almost anything has its other side: they
also find no difficulty seeing through that
authority. Hence the large-scale desertions I mention
(we only know how large since the publication of the
courts martial in the 1990s).
Frontline soldiers are 1 in 7 of an army. Those
1 in 7 are an army's claws but they must largely
train themselves. No one has told them what battle
involves. The subject is under wraps. It always has
been.


In my book I describe the progress of my own
self-training, to the point where I found myself
adept at what I was bitterly unwilling to be adept
at. I describe my shame, struggling with unwilling
pride, at being cited for gallantry.
I enclose some reviews. I have another agent,
Micheline Steinberg Playwrights, but her remit stops
at the dramatic.
Length: circa 80.000 words.
Thank you for your attention. I enclose an SAE.
Yours sincerely


A WAR BETWEEN FRI END IDS
ONE
Baptism
We were dropped off at the Salerno beaches south of Naples by an American
landing craft in the late afternoon, as close to dusk as possible and in a calm sea
silence and a soft still warmth. We were reinforcements---urgently needed. It was
September 1943 and I was twenty.
These beaches had been invaded by the Allied Fifth Army some days before
on September 8. This was the outfit I belonged to and its commander-in-chief was
Mark Clark, a Texan.
Wejumped down into the shallow wash, having been warned back in Algeria
not to make any splashing noises as we waded ashore in the deepening twilight of a
hot autumn day. The trees higher up, even the fig trees, cast quickly deepening
shadows and if we turned and looked back to sea we could comfort our eyes on the
destroyers and landing craft at anchor--carefully watching over us as we thought.
Yet the hush was perplexing.
We reached those beaches on D+8---the war dialect for the 16th of September,
namely eight days ago, when the first landing. I had one pip on my shoulder as a
second lieutenant and also I had a photo of my girlfriend in my upper left pocket, that
is close to my heart.
We hushed reinforcements went to our various assembly points. The captain
who welcomed me -with a nod as if we already knew each other -was modest,
pleasant. Then after my second salute he turned away as ifto say we don't need polite
exchanges here.


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
The gunners were grimy. That was another perplexing thing---why were they
here at all, since artillery belongs far behind the forward lines. And if this beach was
now far behind the lines, as I had already comforted myself that it was, why were we
hushed quiet by higher officers, as ifthe enemy could hear us? I began to think that
this was a military exercise---after all, the army could get up to the strangest antics,
we all knew that.
These are the customary wishful thoughts of a reinforcement. You had a
pleasing picture of battle as a repetition of those safe exercises you had sweated
through at training camp.
And then there was the fact that the Germans, SO we thought, would soon be
pushed out ofl Italy. Being caught in the tarp of a narrow peninsula, hardly eighty
miles in width, they would soon find themselves in a trap and would fleeing as
quickly as they had come.
We had already decided this in our stifling bivouacs in the Algerian desert.
Italy was just no use to Hitler, especially with hundreds of miles of coast which we
allied ships could bombard at any time.
We were badly wrong. Yes, Italy was indeed a very close terrain- sudden
hills and miniature chasms and rivers galore, providing a surprise every fifty yards.
You only had to turn a corner and you could be under enemy observation (as I quickly
found out). And this made it easy for the Germans to defend, and the very devil to
attack. This was because the Germans could prepare their defences carefully,
sometimes manning them with only a handful of men for the simple reason that it was
designed for short-term defence. This you could easily overrun but then behind it you
found the ambush, namely a toughly held position which it was costly to attack.


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
In fact, ifHitler wanted to lay waste our armies at little expense to himself this
was his best chance in the whole of Europe. He needed most of his armies to face the
Russians---and to see off the allied invasion in Normandy, which he knew was being
prepared.
But only small, sensible and mistaken fairytales crowded into our minds to
explain the hush that lay over Salerno.
I saw corpses in the distance. They were close to the last wash oft the waves,
exactly as they had fallen. They were ours. I thought they were an unlucky exception.
Yet they had a strange way of remaining there--somehow they kept plucking me by
the sleeve. And I looked again and again.
As darkness gathered I walked uphill to where the trees began. I came on a
large hushed group of men standing close together in the dusk. As I came nearer I
noticed that a Brigadier was at their centre, addressing them. I could see the red tabs
on his shoulders. He was speaking very softly. We had to crane forward to hear his
words. I thought it remarkable that a brigadier should be addressing Other Ranks man
to man. That was a lieutenant' S or captain'sj job, a major's at most.
The Brigadier was saying in his careful murmur, Jerry's right behind me on
the other side of this lane behind me (it lay between trees a few feet back). He said,
you're going to stop him crossing this road. Whatever happens, chaps, you're not
going to move, understood? You don't move. You stay where you are. There were
nods in the deep dusk.
I felt my girlfriend' S photo in my pocket. She was Viennese, the daughter of a
woman who had led a communist revolution in Hungary. I remembered that mother's
soft patient voice. She had steel-grey eyes but her softness overrode their steely


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
single-mindedness. She said fascism was the last bastion of capitalism, and this war
would destroy them both.
I already had a nervous habit of feeling the photo as if to assure myself that
she was really my girlfriend, which she wasn't. We had said a last good bye on a
London railway station. She was in love with somebody else, an economics student.
But I needed her now as my lucky talisman. I didn't care about deceiving myself (and
others), it was easy.
I felt bolshie all of a sudden---in the lonely manner of a reinforcement who
doesn'ty yet have his unit. I asked myself what am I doing in this bloody war anyway?
All we ever knew about it was that it was suddenly on. We just found ourselves in it.
A bolt from the blue, without a by your leave or explanation.
The declaration of war hadn't sounded right even when it was being
announced on the radio by the prime minister. Neville Chamberlain': S voice wobbled
as if the matter hadn't been thought about at all. Which it hadn't, seeing that war was
declared to protect the independence of Poland, which the French armies, not SO say
the British ones, couldn't possibly reach. So the moment the declaration of war was
made (with Churchill's gleeful assent) Polish independence was lost.
Grumbling to myselfI remembered the recruiting interview I'd had in a little
Oxford room. The man facing me was disarmingly deferential. Would I fight in this
war?
And when I said yes I was surprised at myself---it didn't seem my own
decision at all. But it was. Unhesitatingly. I was going into this war because of the
Nazi concentration camps. This alone made the war different from all others---it was
justified (I didn't know that all wars are justified to the hilt, once they've been
decided on).


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
What that declaration of war did was to trap the Jews inside Hitler' s regime (it
stretched as far as the Ukraine) for six whole years. In that time the Jewish
civilisation in Europe was virtually removed.
Little did we know that Churchill would one day (once it was all over) agree
that this declaration of war was 'tragically ill-judged' - At the time he was elated by it.
It would be a 6-weeks war, he told the French ambassador in an excited phonecall.
I strolled back to where the fruit trees were, the last of the day's hot sky
lighting my way. I began looking for somewhere to put my sleeping bag (being a
gunner, not an infantryman, I had no watch duties). I chose a soft leafy place right
under a plump fig tree, overlooking the fact that, this far south, figs ripen early and
fall from the branches with a plop.
But when, breaking from the sky like a monstrous hot breath, there came the
sound ofwhat seemed an engineless plane crashing to earth, followed at once by a
thunderous metallic crash near by in the woods, I thought perhaps this isn't a training
camp after all, we aren't behind the forward lines after all.
Another heavy one came over and another. And had I been seasoned I might
have thought that these were the prelude of an attack.
Small mortar bombs began coming over in quick succession. These were
preceded by a loud thump when expelled from the cannon (from just across the little
road). The mortar bomb comes down on you vertically, with hardly a warning swish.
It brings changes in the air---from warm to. stifling.
Then darkness came with the characteristic Italian swiftness. The firing
stopped. No attack came. At last we could hear the silence that rightfully belonged to
this beach and the woods that watched over it. It was like an exchange of whispers.


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
Italy was still in its pristine mediaeval state at this time, her slopes and copses
and streams in secret close liaison with the sky, a liaison we were to live with for over
two years.
I felt drowsy. I slipped down inside my sleeping bag, that little womb I was to
carry unwashed to the top of Italy and beyond. Night came and I blinked in the dark.
By now even I knew that this was no rest area. Oddly, it was the silence that
convinced me. And as I dozed a certain nervousness gathered in me, a foreboding that
stirred sleepy feathers of fear.
The possibility of being trodden on by Germans in the night didn't occur to
me, though it was in almost every other mind on that beach. It was figs that gave me
trouble. They plopped down on me. In full autumn maturity, they made thick little
purple pools, one of them on my brow. As for the poor spotless sleeping bag it would
be dyed for its lifetime. I picked myself up and stumbled with my kit to another fig
tree and there I fell asleep, as if moving had done the trick. Even my belly-feathers of
fear went, my slumber an expanse of stillness of the kind you wake from suddenly---
and utterly fresh.
With first light my division also woke up, especially to the existence of us
reinforcements. We were conducted by runners to our various command posts. These
were still close to the sea, in earshot of its leisured wash, but on higher ground. A
major told us in clipped tired tones that we could easily, at any time, be pushed back
into that wash. We were hanging on by a tight strip of land, he said. It was all that was
left to us.
So this was really war. The enemy was breathing and watchfully close. My
realisation brought about ---and I cannot explain why---a great turning point in my


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
life. I became responsible. Thus it is that boys in their early twenties must always man
the front lines.
I was allocated to a troop -four guns under the command of Captain H., a
Yorkshireman of thirty or more who walked with his feet splayed out and his head
forward as if greatly excited to be going anywhere, even the latrine. He was beginning
to bald and when he laughed you could see his slightly buck teeth. He already had a
family, SO was very grown-up for the rest of us.
Our command post, set behind four twenty-five-pounder guns, quickly became
a home. The captain and I quickly discovered how devoted we were to the Struggle
against Fascism--words that covered a vast left-wing movement stretched right
across Europe, with the Soviet Union as its guide, philosopher and friend. I proudly
told Captain H. how I had walked up Whitehall with my girlfriend and a hundred
thousand others yelling Down With Chamberlain and Chamberlain Must Go.
Churchill was hoisted on our shoulders. He was the man to do the job.
Yes, it was we of the Struggle who had put Churchill there. We hoisted him up
on our sole shoulders. His own party would have had grave doubts. Here was as right-
wing and war-minded man as you could find- in a sudden love affair with the Left.
So this was very much 'our' war.
Still sleepy, I wandered away from our command post up the hill to where
Texan infantrymen huddled in their hastily dug slit trenches. They seemed surprised
to see me, watching me from below, as who wouldn't to witness a youth strolling
about an observed area. I stood talking to them, looking down at their heads level with
my boots. It didn't occur to me that I made a perfect target, with all six feet of me
exposed. They said, You British have war in your blood, it's like you're on holiday.


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
Charitably, they didn't tell me I was a bloody fool. Yet I had already, quite
unawares, learned something. The evening before, I'd seen men throw themselves to
the ground when a big one came over. So now, when one fell pretty close, I did the
same, though it was still a kind of drill for me, with a touch of tomfoolery. Then I
stood up again and the Texans went on talking affably. I was glad to be thought a pre-
packaged soldier.
I listened to their soft, low, strangely consoling Southern voices.
I think probably none of them survived. I was to meet them again just before
the last unthinkable hell that did for them. They were at our side all the way up the
peninsula.
Captain H. filled me in with a clear strategic picture of what was happening.
Our division was in charge of Salerno the town, while the enemy was still in control
of several roads leading down to the coast, i.e. to us. So they were in a good position
to cut us and the Texans off---from our own supplies of both ammunition and food (in
that order of importance).
Salerno was ill-chosen as a landing place. You could see why on the map. A
big force could be throttled just by the terrain, its flanks and retreat-exits squeezed
with ease. What we didn't know was that our commander-in-chief Mark Clark wanted
to pull out of Salerno and even---because of the huge casualty rate it would involve--
from the entire Italian campaign. Yet he proved to be one of the chief instruments of
the vast toll of dead, wounded and shell-shocked in that campaign.
The ugly fact was that the Germans held the dice all the way up. At this
moment we had the 16th Panzer Grenadier division facing us, their task being to keep
us from the road to Rome for as long as possible.


AWAR BETW EEN FRIE N NDS
The German commander-in-chief of Italian operations, Field Marshal
Kesselring, had already rushed three ofl his divisions to our area, Hitler having told
him (on August 22, a fortnight before the Salerno landing) to treat Salerno as 'the
centre of gravity' for the defence ofItaly.
Hitler had seen at once that such a terrain could be defended economically,
and attacked only at great cost. This was perfectly illustrated in the Salerno operation.
Our two divisions, plus the 7th Armoured division and an armoured brigade, were up
against at most four German battalions. And, being acutely intelligent like SO many
unbalanced and depressive leaders, he reckoned he could prolong this agony all the
way up the peninsula. He took one gamble---that we the enemy might be as intelligent
as he. But he needn't have worried.
As for Captain H. and I, two bright buttons of the Struggle against Fascism,
we didn't even cotton on to the truth by slow degree. We thus shared the principal
self-disabling delusion of the entire polyglot army that Churchill had got together with
reckless zeal---New Zealanders, Indians, Moroccans, Australians, Canadians, Poles
and Frenchmen and Americans and Russians (yes, even Russians kept a presence in
Italy).
So one man planned every movement made by our vast concourse and he
wasn't on our side. Even at this moment Kesselring was ordering his army to make a
teasingly slow disengagement' (as he himself called it) from the Salerno area to the
difficult river Volturno, north of Naples, where he was planning our first big casualty-
toll---and was as good as his word.
And Hitler was paying attention to his every move. The more we entangled
ourselves in the Kesselring traps the more he was impressed by Kesselring as the right
man to be commander-in-chief of Italian operations.


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
Solely for this reason we on the Salerno beaches hadn't woken up under the
heel of a German boot. Our version of events said that our naval gunfire and nearly
two thousand air sorties had done the trick. It had made it possible for us to 'chase' a
harried and frightened German army to the Alps. It was what our newspapers were
saying. The Ministry of Information in London was agreed on the grand illusion that
was the basis of allied strategy.
This word 'strategy' means trying to pre-empt the enemy intention but we
failed to pre-empt Hitler's sole strategic intention of creating a series of death-traps
for us.
All of a sudden, just seven days after we reinforcements had landed, Salerno
became a backwater. Our forward lines 'broke through' to the road to Naples on
September 26". But they broke through into emptiness. The Germans had quit three
days before---to be exact, in the course of one night. What kind of'chasing' was this?
Our beach was a holiday beach again and our battle cruisers looked like
pleasure boats. We felt happily forgotten. The days were balmy, so sweetly heavy
with that special haunting hot scent of wild thyme that marked the Italian autumn.
We again heard birds (always silenced by battle). In a characteristic Italian
rhythm the colder sea air of nightfall was, each evening, drawn to the still-warm
mountains inland. And at dawn the chill mountain air rushed back to the sunlit and
already warm sea---an inhale at nightfall, an exhale at dawn.
A bombardier rushed into our command post and shouted, Bring your mugs,
anything you can lay your hands on. An infantryman had found a huge cement vat of
red wine and bored a hole in it. We drank and lazed drunkenly and talked by the light
of our oil lamps, we wrote letters and I secretly touched my no-longer-girlfriend's


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
photo. I even showed it to Captain H., hoping that he saw her as my future wife,
which might magically, in the rosy haze of wine, banish the impossibility of that.
We moved our guns north, troop by troop, each convoy leaving separately.
Captain H. led our troop into the hills and we found ourselves in a meadow high
above the sea, cupped round with elm and beech and cypress, hushed in its own
scented air. Through the trees we could watch the tiny white-frothed waves far below.
They made a twinkling silver ripple in the vast blue of the harbour, a blue I had never
seen before,just as I'd never seen a sky SO deep and domed and infinite, yet SO close,
and SO unassumingly true that I had to believe it false. In fact, I turned to a peasant not
much older than I and asked him with dumb signs and grunts, Do you always have it
like this? and he nodded in the agreeable Italian manner that denotes utter bafflement.
Up here, in their own silence, there were pebbly streams, virgin cool in the
shade, winding through young woods. I bathed in one, stood naked in the middle. The
water twisted and bubbled and chuckled round the stones. I strolled through the
woods, read a book from my little library,, joked with the bombardiers, chewed grass
outside the command post, which was in a barn. I watched the pigeons on the roof and
the COWS waiting to be milked and the peasant family coming and going. There was
slush at the barn entrance and hot close wet-hay smells and the occasional decisive
stamp of a cow, and it was all a good-luck sign for me.
Of course such quiet betokens imminent attack and is easily recognised by
those whose ears are attuned. We had wind of a coming barrage which 'we' were
going to launch on the enemy. As yet we knew nothing ofits size. I wasn't even sure
what the word 'barrage' implied. Much less was I aware that the size of a barrage is
commensurate with that of the battle timed to follow it. All I knew was that we were
on Stand By, and SO was the rest ofthe division's artillery.


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
When dusk came, as I was wandering past the barn entrance, Captain H. called
to me sharply to stand by for any emergency. I nodded, my hands in my pockets.
Shells and cartridge cases lay in tall piles behind each of our four guns and the first
shift of men was standing to.
It was almost dark when he gave the order Take Post through the Tannoy
loudspeaker system. The troopers ran out to the guns. This was five minutes before
the barrage was due. I was a little bored, expecting nothing. A runner came to the
command post with a message to say that the infantry were on their start line (those
two words were later enough to make me shiver with foreboding, and they still do,
somewhat).
Captain H. looked at me from inside the command post- -Stand next to the
guns, he told me, be ready to relay my orders if the Tannoy breaks down. I took a
megaphone with me and it seemed to amuse the gunners (etiquette said that one only
used the voice).
I heard a faint order Fire! from a field to our flank, then it was taken up again
and again until it came from the loudspeakers behind me and the dark starlit night
moved and a swollen booming and crashing chasm took the place of the sky, surging
far ahead and spreading in a wide fathomless sustained deafening roar along the
whole front and I started awake at last, mouth open, stunned at the endless blue and
yellow flashes across the spaces with the earth rocking and leaping and rumbling from
the gun's detonations and the night itself shaking. I stood in this illuminated arc that
surely was the world gone mad in a last thunder of the universe and I began to feel an
exultation I had never known before, Ilet myself go in this last hour of the universe
such that God must take notice, yes, there must even at this eleventh hour be God to
take notice.


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The men were pushing the shells home with their ramrods, tight-closing the
steel doors of the breech, standing back for the mighty spout to recoil and give forth
its demon flying death while the meadow all round was lit by simultaneous flashes
(taking kindly to the light as meadows do). I was no longer a spectator, I itched to be
at one of the guns pulling the hot lever with my lanyard after the sergeant' S order
Fire!
But the silence afterwards, the way the leaves and trickling of water returned
to themselves and the acrid cordite smell gave way to the hot scent ofwild thyme, and
the way the trees stood placid and still again, was a disappointment to me. What had it
all amounted to if everything became as it had been before, with the silence, into
which all sounds die, victorious? if nothing remains recorded?
But this sudden quiet was only for us. Not yet had I cringed from the
horrifying precipitate swoop of a shell to earth and heard the screams, the ones of the
living and the ones oft the dying. Not yet had I learned that a barrage at the receiving
end changes tears of exultation to tearless ones of the deepest sorrow you have
known.
Iknew that I wouldn't be with the guns much longer, that my real job was in
the forward lines. I even knew that my song would change: very shortly I would be
guiding these very shells to their destination, I would be calling for the barrages by
radio. I would be at the spearhead of attacks. I would find myself in places where my
own fire had fallen perhaps only moments ago. And from there I would direct further
fire.
Iwould not only be in the forward lines but must be prepared to find myself
beyond those lines, in enemy ones.


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That is, I was to be a Forward Observation Officer or F.0.O. as we called him.
The army textbooks called him The Eyes of the Army.
And then these guns of mine and this command post would become for me a
haven I rarely tasted, since I would be miles ahead of them. The roar of a firing
programme -the shell slipped SO easily into the breech, the hot lever pulled to make
the gun leap forward and try to fly beyond the blocks that braked its wheels-would
be no more to me than fireworks.
We were ordered to move yet again to a town ten kilometres up from Salerno
called Cava de' Tirreni. The move was to be made in separate columns SO as to create
surprise. This was just what it didn't do. Light as their shells were, our guns still made
a hell of a racket getting hitched up and set down again.
The Germans had just vacated Cava dei Tirreni and it was obvious (though not
for us) that they had quickly taken up positions with a perfect view of the valley in
which our guns were now put down---within spitting distance of our noses, SO to
speak.
We put our four guns down, under the cover of night, in the bed of the valley,
with steep vine terraces rising ahead of us and on both flanks. Then, after putting out
sentries, we walked stealthily back into Cava de' Tirreni, where we had taken over a
big house. I shared a tiny nursery room with another junior officer. We took it in turns
to sleep in a child's cot, relieving each other every few hours for guard duty at the
guns. To get to the guns all we had to do was to take a winding path that couldn't be
observed. It all seemed sO safe. Cava de' Tirreni (meaning the quarry or mine of the
Tyrrhenian seas, on Italy's western coast) was tiny then. Its humped houses appeared


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to be piled on each other and it smelled the same as all Italian war-time towns- -sun-
dried herbs and old walls and wood smoke and sewage and chicory.
Also those vine terraces where we put the guns had a great beauty. There
were mossy statues and a fountain and green garden benches where the women who
tended the vines would sit. We started digging ourselves in during the night but by
dawn, that first morning, we were only down a few inches. We camouflaged the guns
as best we could.
Then we returned just before dawn. But the moment the sun put its first
blinding tip an inch above the horizon there was a swift hoarse breathing in the sky
and mortar-bombs crashed among the leaves, their smoke rolling flatly away, hugging
the dew. Most of the first stuff fell near the benches and statues. A splinter caught an
Italian girl. She screamed frantically. Somehow her screaming seemed to inspire the
enemy and the bombs spread to the terraces where we were and we began scrambling
up and down them, flung ourselves to the wet earth and as quickly jumped up again as
they came down in clusters and the pungent smoke got into our lungs. One of the men
shouted down at the girl Shut up! Shut up! in the illusion that she was attracting the
fire. He threw himself down by me and murmured, She's not hurt as bad as all that.
Il lost two men in that sacred green hollow. One was my own signaller, too
badly hurt to scream. We got him into a stone hut and put him face down. He had two
deep holes in his back, behind the lungs. I held him in my arms. One of the troopers
asked him ifhe'd like a smoke and he managed to raise his head. The trooper put a
cigarette between his lips and was about to light it when my signaller coughed blood
into it SO that it swelled up and fell with a plop to the cement floor. Then his head fell
forward.


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This was a man I felt closer to than anyone I had met in the army, indeed in
my whole life. He was older than I, probably no more two or three years, but it made
him seem mature to me. He was to be my chief signaller throughout the war. Both of
us had known this. There was a wonderful formality between us that strangely
reinforced the sense of a perfect, immediate understanding between us that needed
only a nod or a word for a message of eyes that would have required whole sentences
in the case of someone else. He was to accompany me on my F.0.0. missions, this
was understood between us. Just a glance conveyed all, no need for 'orders' - This in
your signaller is precious as gold. And to find your closest, most natural friend who
understood you as you understood him quite as ifyou had hitherto spent all your life
in his company.
And I was holding him in his dying. I must have known that no man could
survive such deep wounds in the rear of the chest. Tears flooded to my eyes and I held
them back because you somehow get the command to do so, from within. You get SO
many inner commands in battle, namely in a world you have never SO much as
dreamed of before.
This is the true baptism of fire, not the shock of shells or the screams or the
terrified eyes of friend or enemy but the first death and ifit is the death of someone
closer to you than almost any man has been in your life then this is a baptism deep
indeed.
It turned me into a soldier. I can't explain this. It made me determined to do
well. Doing well meant that I would look after the four men detailed to me when I
'went out'. I vowed, with my closest of friends in my arms, not as a thought at all, but
the vow simply took place, as I knew afterwards only---I silently and unawares vowed


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
that my four men would remain unharmed. And that was how it happened. You can
make VOwS in battle in such a way that you have secured the future.
And things were suddenly quiet. My face still puckered up against the tears,
you are crying for all the future ones too, the ones who are going to die, for you will
not cry again, yet they were talking to you but a second before and now they lie with
the ashen stare of shock that denotes the last breath.
A peasant woman in black stood by the hut door and moaned quietly to
herself. The gunners trod about respectfully, thinking, bitter. We cursed Jerry who had
done it because cussing gave us an outlet. The other wounded man got it in the arm
but it was a bad one just the same and he was stretchered away to hospital, and I think
died later.
In the manner of soldiers we griped and belly-ached. We asked how the hell
could anybody have thought of putting twenty-five-pounder guns into a bloody soup-
bowl like this, where we couldn't even fire the sodding things. To fire out of that hole
you would need a vertical trajectory, your own shit would fall back on you. You have
to be a madman to put artillery into the forward lines where Jerry can just look down
on you bit it was typical of superior officers (meaning those who were majors or
more) etc. etc., in that routine grumble we called 'ticking".
Afterwards there were boring hours. A death isn't forgotten. It becomes part of
that strange assembly of the men who have gone and the men who are living and
might at any minute go.
I enjoyed strolling in Cava de' Tirreni's S narrow lanes, with a silence all round
you never get in peace. One morning I looked up at a window and a man and woman
were beckoning to me to come upstairs. In sign language they were telling me to push
the downstairs door open and, stranger from another land as I was, walk up. I waved


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back and smiled and walked on because once up there, for all I knew, I might
disappear, then who would look for me? All the harmless couple wanted was to barter
for cigarettes, bully beef, sugar. In exchange perhaps for eggs. Discreetly they might
have suggested a girl.
Ihadn'tyet learned that Italians were as straight as a die, even when crooked.
Iwas impatient to get my first F.0.0. assignment over and done with. It would
have been useful to get some gen (pronounced with a soft 'g'), our word for
information. But none came. It hadn't figured in my training either. You could be
trained for surprise but not for the surprises when they came.
Iknew the bare logistics of being an F.O.0- -you take three or four men with
you, including one or two signallers. Your radio equipment has to be with you at all
times. This includes batteries and, in very rare cases of unusual proximity, a cable for
direct wire-contact with the rear. Mostly you have no chance ofrecharging the
batteries, SO while you need to be in day and night contact with your command post
back at the guns you have to be economical in radio use. Your firing orders
sometimes have to be relayed far beyond your own command post in order to engage
the guns of a whole brigade or division, and the reply has to come back down that
hierarchy, SO you need plenty ofjuice.
It was after the word Ready had been passed on to you from all the assembled
waiting guns that your final order of Fire! could be given and then almost
instantaneously you heard the baleful whirring of the shells above your head.
These twenty-five-pounder" guns of ours were, for artillery, the lightest you
could find. They were General Montgomery's favourite weapon, he being an
unusually humane commander. The shells fell in clusters and you had to be very close
to their forward blast to catch a packet. What they did do most effectively was create


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
panic---the air becomes full ofl blinding cordite smoke and the crashes are ceaseless
and relentless. The craters are the shallowest made by any form of artillery.
It was these shells that as an F.0.0. I could call up at a moment's notice but I
also had access to the other heavier artillery available both in the division and the
Corps (namely, two divisions, if they happened to be working together).
The only thing you know as a novice F.0.0. is that you will have to observe
the country carefully and consult your Intelligence map as you move across it. But
that isn't much of a training. So your state of trepidation as your first F.0.0.
assignment draws near, like mine now, came from utter bafflement as to what to
expect.
Obviously an F.0.0. must know something about the enemy that faces him.
After all, he must develop SO to speak an intimacy with him. He must know what kind
of fighters these particular enemy regiments are, and in what strength they are at the
moment, whether they are the 15th or 26th or 29th Panzer Grenadiers or a Hermann
Goring division or the 44th Austrian infantry (the most amiable of opponents).
Such a man can be a treasure for the infantry since he carries about with him
an invisible armour shield. So the tendency ofinfantry officers was therefore to treat
him with awe ifhe was good and amiably disregard him if he wasn't.
Once in a new position the F.0.0. must help consolidate it with so-called SOS
targets, which may involve a firing programme lasting the whole night. You
communicate this programme, with its timetable and intervals by radio, to your
command post, having already given your exact map reference in code.
There was one thing I looked forward to---being my own master. I would be
trusted or spurned for my decisions alone. I even felt a need to witness war at its
demented heart. And for this the role of F.0.0. seemed exactly placed.


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Before you get your first assignment the eyes of senior officers are on you
sizing you up. The respect ofyour gunners (very few of whom saw the forward lines)
is much enhanced if you go up, and it grows the more you go up. The unlucky ones
among them are those who have to accompany you. But more unlucky is that handful
oft men who become your favourites, the kind of men who, try as they might, cannot
help being reliable. Never was there a better argument for that devoutly observed
military rule- -never volunteer.
Likewise if the F.0.0. was good he was always in demand. Ifhe wasn' 't he
stayed with the guns.
The French long ago had a more precise word for the F.0.0. and that was le
sentinel perdu. He is to all intents and purposes a lonely (and frequently lost) spy.
Much of the Intelligence given to him about enemy dispositions is likely to be wrong
though his life largely depends on it being right. But it is impossible to have good
Intelligence about forward lines because they move SO fast, especially in close terrains
like those in Italy. So it is the F.0.0. who keeps the map up to the latest date. The
danger for him is that being very mobile, with at most four men, he can easily get lost,
and in enemy lines, which happened to me and mine more than once.
We entered Naples on October 1 1943, namely three weeks after the Salerno
landing. And these weeks cost us 12000 casualties, 5000 of them American, nearly
7000 British. And we were here solely because Kesselring's new defence line was
now ready for us.
But at last we had an official fleshpot where we could go for short leaves, even
half a day. There was the chance of a dance and Lilly Marlene being sung. The copper
wire laid by Fifth Army engineers for new telephone systems at once disappeared.
That hadn'tl happened under the Germans because their penalty for stealing copper


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wire had been death. There was a favourite apocryphal story that the kids of Naples,
in this new lawless democracy, unscrewed the nuts and bolts of an allied ship until
one night it sank elegantly out of sight.
I drove into Naples several times alone. I sat in a tiny restaurant tucked into a
side street with the sun blazing through the entrance. I ordered chicken but was aware
after a few bites that it was cat. Why did I order chicken after being told SO often that
it was always cat? The place became empty and I started to talk to the proprietress in
my poor army Italian which always got the accents hopelessly wrong -we called the
Rapido river the Rapeedo whereas it is accented on the first syllable as in 'rapid'. We
did the same with Taranto' and 'Brindisi', 5 both ofwhich carry their emphasis on the
first syllable. And no doubt if we had ever wanted to talk about the Medici we would
have made the same mistake (most Anglo-Saxons still do). But it was our rule and no
Italian dared correct us.
The proprietress was a large young woman with black curly hair and an easy
sisterly manner. She asked me ifl was lonely and I smiled, refusing this offer to bed
down with her. I told myself that I didn't find her attractive but in fact I was afraid of
a dose of clap. Also we were warned not to separate ourselves from our clothes, ever,
not in Naples at this present half-starved time.
She and I sat with our elbows on the table gazing into the blinding light of the
entrance and I found in myself a resolve that I would one day make this country my
own (which I later did). I left her some cigarettes, which were considered gold.
A few days later I sat with five other officers in a barracks on the city's
outskirts, the sea silver and flashing far below, the light failing.
The Battery commander said, We shall have to decide who is going up with
this one. I held my breath, my heart beat faster, I gazed at the wall and held the leg of


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the table. The day had been one of those autumn days that lazily replay the earlier
sweltering season and raise the Italian's S voice and give him a special easy walk.
Not many days after that I sat once more in an officers' conference, this time
in a room with a parquet floor and tall windows high above the deep still blue of
Naples harbour, lightly ruffled with white-flecked waves, where our battle cruisers
looked like clever intricate toys. The windows gave on to a balcony from which a
grateful evening breeze wafted in, then spent itself until the next one, in an
hallucinating rhythm I had never known a hint of in my former life.
No sounds came up to us, SO removed were we from city and sea. The captain
who had welcomed me at Salerno with a gruff but solicitous nod, Captain Maugham,
said he thought I should go up in the next show, being the freshest among us. The
major smiled at me and said he agreed it was time to break me in.
I smiled too but I was mortally afraid. Yet excitement went with it, even
increased it. I was to stand out, perform, perhaps earn better smiles- -more earnest
ones. It is wonderful what human association does for us, being able to render sane
and even orderly what our trembling limbs know to be otherwise.


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Two
Farewell
Most of the 13th day of October 1943 I leaned against a warm haystack facing
south. There were flat fields all round and a breeze intermittent like a series of broken
sighs that breathed a message to me I couldn't decipher -whether warning or solace.
I was alone, reading a novel about a youth of twenty-one (just right) who was deeply
in love, and how his love, after a long time of anguish, was requited. And since it was
thoughtfully written, taking me back to a style of speech I would never hear again
(everything pre-war was now a remote never-never land), the words melted in
nostalgically with the scented autumn day and the hush that the sound of bees and
flies only made deeper.
The silence brought a fear that awakened suddenly and died again, as if these
fields knew what lay ahead, this very night. It made me look up from the pages and as
quickly sent me back to them. It merged with the words I was reading -with the
hero's horror that he might not be loved by the girl. And this in turn helped that
southern hush to be valedictory.
Now and then and I gazed at Vesuvius in the far distance sending its straight
white volcanic smoke unresisted into the blue. It curled very slightly at the top with
such a leisurely and domestic air. Like any curling smoke you might see. There
wasn't a gun to be heard, not in the remotest distance. Yes, when an attack has been
prepared, and the enemy is waiting as you are waiting, with death in mind, all the
trees and grasses join in.


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We were to make a bridgehead over the river Volturno, a name which suggests
currents that turn in on themselves-volto with its idea of turning round, turno that
of returning. And it was the river Field Marshal Kesselring had chosen for us to break
our heads on (his words). But wait---this river was also useful for him in SO far as it
gave him time to prepare an even stronger line further north. But wait again---this
stronger line would give him time to prepare a truthfully impregnable line which
whole divisions, whole corps could decimate themselves to the point of self-
disbandment (and did), thus breaking both head and heart.
Thankfully we knew nothing of this but even if we had we would have
rejected it. As a soldier you have to believe that your enemy is confused and surprised
by your every approach.
I was to assemble with my four men at infantry battalion headquarters in a pre-
arranged area south of the river Volturno. I was to await dusk there and the time
appointed for the opening barrage from our side. The moment this barrage ceased I
was to go forward and make contact with our attacking infantry company at its start
line.
Those were my orders and I didn't have the experience to see that they didn't
make sense. Clearly my permission to move was too late, being the moment when the
company assigned to me would be committed to battle. The order thus put me far
behind the start line---into the tail, not the spearhead. Which meant that I would spend
the crucial first stage searching for my infantry commander. Without him I had no job
or place to go. Without me he had no retaliatory power against the flak.
Not only that but our army too was inexperienced. This was the first set-battle
of the Italian campaign. The Salerno operation, having been a mostly defensive action
(landing stores and equipment under fire), offered no lessons for what was coming up.


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
Jerry was in some strength now- -three divisions faced us and were
particularly lively on our sector because the main Naples-Rome highway passed just
ahead.
I was there with my men at the appointed time. I remember young woodland--
-good cover. We stood together, my men and I, five of us, waiting in the dying light.
The barrage from our guns started up to the second, a huge mounting thunder from
behind us, followed at once by the screeching of shells arching overhead into enemy
lines. The earth trembled because we weren't a great distance from the river and we
fell into the usual pre-battle elated illusion that such a shattering orchestra must leave
not a yard of enemy earth alive. The fact is that, especially in close terrain, the enemy
pops out of his holes at the first lull and starts lobbing the stuff back. And that would
be happening within moments.
It was ten o'clock and dark before my signallers and I got the order to move
and we advanced in single file, keeping to one side of a broad crowded causeway
between the trees. Then as soon as enemy shells began falling close we started
running, trying to get to the ditches which we knew to be just short of the river.
Stupidly I had eaten a late meal and started vomiting as I ran, turning my head to one
side SO that my tunic and map-case wouldn't get soiled. As we ran the enemy
launched its fearsome Nebelwerfer or Organ Grinder mortar bombs right where we
were so that hot breaths of suffocating cordite rushed into our faces. Clattering enemy
machine-gun fire opened up from the river, presumably on our men trying to cross.
A mine-detector outfit went ahead of us as always, laying white tape down as
a safe guide for us. Infantrymen were losing contact with each other, calling out to
each other between the deafening bursts, afraid ofl losing touch. Everyone was dazed,
some men were just wandering here and there, others were on the ground and calling


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for the stretchers or just screaming, sometimes a man would dash for the ditch at the
side of the causeway as if he had decided to do no more running.
Something was going very badly wrong. There were more men running
towards us than there were with us, in fact growing masses ofi infantrymen all running
in the wrong direction, away from the line. We were bumping into them and for the
life of me I couldn't understand how men running away from the line could be
obeying orders of any kind. They were calling out to us, You can't go up there! I
dashed over to one of them and grabbed him by the arm- Where are you going? He
shouted, You can't get through! Thinking I might have mistaken the route I shouted
back, Where's the river then? and he said as he ran on, Back there, there's all hell up
there, you can't get through!
Stretcher bearers were rushing past us -it seemed a whole army was on its
way out of the line. My four men were waiting for my order and I shouted into the
shattering noise Come on! and we started running forward again.
We were quickly in the thick ofit. The Nebelwerfers were concentrated here.
A Nebelwerfer puts six bombs at a time into the air and their trajectory makes a
terrifying howling noise like a vast barrel organ in the sky which turns into a dense
hungry roar close to your ear as the bombs crash to earth from their almost vertical
trajectory.
There was such a thick wall of detonation and tracer bullets and darkness and
men bumping into each other that all you could do, once you were close to the river,
was run from one deep 88mm. crater to the next until you found an empty place to
throw yourself into, elbow to elbow as the screams oft the wounded came over, that
terrible Help! Help! Help!, that imploring scream to the enemy guns to Please, please
stop! And then the shouts of the stretcher bearers, Give us a hand you blokes, for


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christsake help! but the only thing that happened in our brains was let it not be me, let
it not be me, and when at last we managed to scramble down into a crowded crater
and throw ourselves down I found myself scratching frantically with both hands into
the freshly scorched soil, trying to make a hole for myself of all grotesque idiotic
things but knowing how crazy it was didn't stop me doing it, I was clawing the hard
black earth with nails all too frail and I knew I was doing it and how crazy it was but
the hands kept doing it and I swear my men on either side of me were doing it too, the
very same silliness. I saw my actions SO clearly, stood away from myself because
these were my last moments on earth---that was how it was for me and every other
man in that crater and the screeches of Wailing Winnie over our heads and that
ghastly angry hot descent of the bombs shattered our last hopes and, as always for the
soldier, made us doubt afterwards that we did get through and weren'ti in a new
deadly life that contained a trick that made it seem life when it wasn't.
And simultaneously we were listening to the stretcher bearers and I was
thinking urgently should I take my men and help with the stretchers but that would
mean running back, wouldn'tit, running away? And because these were our last
moments on earth our thoughts were sharp and clear and intensely observant, I was
aware of my men on both sides of me and how they were living these last moments
too and they like me were silent and like me they had their eyes closed and I was sure
they too were scratching crazily into the earth because you never do anything
individual, not at the extremity of extremities.
How long we were in that crater, how and when we got out, even whether the
mortar bombs and shells were still falling when we jumped up and ran, even whether
we ran, I cannot recall and never did recall, not even right after.


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All I know of that night was being in the crater in our last moments and then,
as in a dream that jumps whole hours in a flash, I am standing in the first dawn light at
the river's edge, a few inches from al handsome German officer with thick black hair
who is saying in English with easy confidence, In Rome for Christmas? You won't be
there for months, if ever.
My Company commander was standing just to the left of me and all of us
listened to the German diffidently, disappointed that our success in breaching the river
should excite this clear-spoken well-meant smiling ridicule, and we believed him not
because we were gullible but because in such extremities one knows the truth, and
this was the truth. It was indeed many months of mostly useless costly struggle
through mud and cold, in strategic positions that spelled disaster, before we reached
Rome depleted and worn out.
Perhaps it is this preliminary dying that you go through in your last moments
which turn out not to have been your last---perhaps it is this that induces amnesia.
Perhaps amnesia is a thankful device to expunge how you got out ofthat crater SO
that you may carry on this life not half-crazed or wandering in your mind for the rest
of your days. And suddenly the German officer is there, a friend, talking without
emphasis in this bountiful dawn silence, and his very voice is a balm.
A few feet before us was the swollen fast river, the opposite bank deserted
except for four English soldiers lying side by side, faces down as if gazing into the
earth, in perfect order and neatness, their tin hats undisturbed, their weapons under
them, in an identical shared death. They must have jumped to the bank close together
and in that jump gone down in one burst of machine-gun fire. For several days they
stayed there, clean and obedient.


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
Apparently our division had been given not only the most intensely defended
but the most exposed part of the river to tackle. On our left flank was our sister
division, and on their left were the Americans, presumably the Texans we had known
at Salerno. Our sister division, the 56th, 9 hadn't got across.
Icouldn't work out, in that dawn, why my Company commander was still on
the southern shore when the opposite bank was already in our hands. I expected a
bridgehead to be something you could see right away. But Bailey bridges have to be
loaded and transported. Engineers to build them have to be available. And building a
bridge in daylight, especially in the first vulnerable hours after a battle, would be
suicide.
For the moment there was only the tired dawn silence that follows a rough
night. Both sides are taking time off to lick wounds. A cup of char reassured us, the
steam blew up into our faces with each breath.
We were lucky because the Nebelwerfer or Wailing Winnie, fearful though it
sounded, was also inaccurate. Its bombs dispersed over a large area and they took
more seconds to land than other mortar bombs. Their terrifying chorus in the sky was
thus achieved at the expense of accuracy. Their aim was to create extreme panic. This
they achieved in the case of an entire battalion ofthe US 34th division. They scattered
and it was a whole day before they reassembled. No cowardice was involved. They
just thought it was something other than war and was coming out of the sky-the
frightful Secret Weapon constantly promised by Hitler. By far the greater number of
casualties in battle come from shock and are called non-battle casualties because
wounds do not figure, SO there was reasoning behind Wailing Winnie.


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
Of course mortar bombs that fall inaccurately still fall, and they fell among us,
just short of the river. Machine-gun fire, not these bombs, was the nemesis of the
men trying at that moment to cross the river.
We all believed, as men in the first world war did, that the shell that got you
had your army number on it. The idea reassured and terrified in equal measure.
That bridgehead was at the cost of a thousand casualties in one night.
As for our sister division it was pinned down by shellfire. Its Ox and Bucks
battalion disguised themselves as peasants but the moment they broke cover to
approach the river they had 80 casualties in a few seconds. They tried to cross in boats
but most of these were at once destroyed, this time with 40 casualties.
Really the American Fifth army was in no position to cross that river. Its
divisions only had boats enough for one battalion, namely two companies of about
sixty men each. And that was hopelessly inadequate for a whole front.
Inever learned how the men I saw running away from the line that night re-
joined their units, or ifthey did. To my mind they were deserters and would have
been rounded up as such. You just can't rejoin your unit a whole night late. There
were no officers among them as far as I could see. Which made desertion even more
likely.
In fact, though we didn't know it then, the Fifth army had a desertion problem.
The Naples stroll', 9 as it was called, started about this time -some Americans just
walked out of the line and went to town. Mark Clark sensibly accommodated himself
to this by organising rest areas close to the line, to which the tired and shocked could
be sent. You could hardly throw men into prison for suffering the results of the


AW WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
pressure you were putting on them, such as tackling water without something to float
The British were less wise. We now know, as a result of the publication (in
1994) of the courts- martial of that time, that 197 soldiers mutinied 'at Salerno' . 179
of these were put in prison for a year or SO while the ringleaders were given five
years.
They mutinied because their officers had told them they were going from North
Africa not to Salerno but Sicily, where there was no fighting. The men were already
battle exhausted and considered this a calculated lie which exposed their officers as
unfit to lead. I never heard of any mutinies on the Salerno beach. It would have been
difficult to mutiny and get arrested within earshot of the Germans. So I am inclined to
believe that those men I saw running in the wrong direction were those who were
court- martialled.
The fact that we heard no more of those men meant nothing. No battle events
were ever, in my memory, discussed afterwards. Also we were used to
disappearances. Soldiers, in groups or singly, were posted off constantly. There was
never a better application of the divide-and-rule axiom. Unwanted elements could be
dissolved into thin air. And this, by the law of war, is how it has to be. The comfort of
being in an army is its delegation of moral choice to staff officers remote from
scrutiny, which helps one sleep at night, it being the case that what the eye doesn't see
the heart doesn't grieve after.


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
Three
The weather changed and I was back with the guns. We found ourselves
camped out behind thick hedges in a mist of warm rain under a reluctant low lazy sky.
The sunshine was SO dazzling it made the thick rain clouds a white fluffy sheet, and
our gun site, within its green walls, began to feel immune to war, especially as sounds
were muffled too.
You never heard SO much laughter. Laughing was the most of what we did, it
being one of the many unknown features of battle that it stirs laughter pure and
spontaneous. It isn'tin spite of the dying, nor is it the beckoning death, nor is it a
defence against the screams. Laughter is an accessory to both, just as in the funeral
wake the dead are present even as you drink and sing, they being the silent
provocateurs of this unexpected joy. We were children again, Captain H. no less than
the rest of us.
Army commanders were astonished at SO much laughter in the forward lines
and I think they put it down to grit, which it had nothing to do with. Army
commanders are remote from their armies because they have to deal with the big
scenario and turn it into individual actions on the ground, and they don't laugh about
the dead. It makes them cautious and strangely it makes them reckless, and there was
in our particular army commander something of the latter, and that didn't promote
laughter.
We were awaiting orders, meaning we could pass the day as we chose. The
guns were snugly camouflaged and out of action. The distant boom of big artillery
was muffled, spread out comfortably, conferring death on others- -and on us a sense
of reprieve.


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
For me 'the guns' were already another way of saying safe haven. They were
pinpointed sometimes by enemy artillery but on the whole shells fell wide of us,
though not always SO wide that we could forget them.
Our all-day and sometimes all-night firing programmes were no more
disturbing to me than the so-called dags with which we recharged our radio batteries.
Their engines were going all night and made a deafening noise, and some of us (I was
one) liked to put our beds close to a dag in order, of all things, to sleep soundly. That
way, too, you wouldn't hear the rush of the shell that had your number on it.
Captain H. and I got hold of a bottle of gin and began drinking close to my
bivouac one late afternoon. I passed out and woke up twenty-four hours later with my
bivouac collapsed over me and my legs outside. I thought the dusk was the previous
dawn. I only woke because I was starting to suffocate. Captain H. must have tripped
over my bivouac pegs as he staggered away, unless he pulled them out for fun.
We had a laugh afterwards and resolved never to touch gin again. But we didn't ask
ourselves why we had drunk to unconsciousness. Sometimes we talked about
Churchill---how we of the Struggle against Fascism had put him where he was---
hoisted on our sole shoulders (his own party would never have put him there) he was
at our beck and call, leased from the 'reactionaries' solely for the duration of the war.
The thought that Churchill was acting entirely on his own never once occurred to us.
We sat and drank numberless sobering mugs of char and I had a letter from
home saying Well son we had our windows blown out today' - I never wrote home
any but the vaguest footnotes to my present life since I didn't wish to suggest heroics
to people under nightly bombardment from the air, without choice of fight or flight,
no medals posthumous or otherwise, no extra rations or rest periods or worst of all
any personal encounter with the enemy, who remained at a great inaccessible height


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
and were hated because their deaths could not be seen. I heard from my parents that
Len, my middle brother's S closest friend, had fallen from the sky over Germany, with
no time or perhaps strength to activate his parachute.
We got wind of another show coming up -a wopper this time. We were
again to punch a hole in the enemy defences but this time our armoured division
would 'pass through' it (an expression that took on, in the course ofthe Italian
campaign, a certain tragic drollness).
Having secured the northern banks of the river Volturno we were now to face
Field Marshal Kesselring' S Gustav or Winter line, which he was even now preparing
for us. To protect his busy engineers he began building a makeshift line (the
Bernhardt) which stretched from Minturno on the Mediterranean coast across a range
of peaks called the Aurunci, SO we would first have to hop this lesser hurdle.
It was these peaks we were now invited to tackle. Anyone could see that we
were neither trained nor equipped for mountain warfare but Kesselring had devised
the trap and it seemed our destiny to adapt ourselves to his design, in other words
walk smack into it.
The Aurunci went east towards the centre of the Italian peninsula and stopped
abruptly and briefly at the narrow defile in which was contained the road to Rome.
This was called in dull military phrasing Highway 6 and it was accompanied by the
enchanting Liri river, which gave its name to the defile.
Thus the road to Rome could be overseen from formidable heights---which
also presented a deadly insurmountable natural barrier to any commanders bent on
frontal assault, as ours were.


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
This was not all. On the other (eastern) side of the defile there was another
range of peaks almost as formidable. And even this wasn't the worst news. Within
touching distance ofthe defile, SO to speak, there lay a smaller but steep hill and on
this sprawled, in the sweetest manner, a slumbering medieval town called Cassino
which thus looked benignly down not only on the mouth of the defile with its precious
road to Rome but on the plains that stretched before it in a southerly direction. This
town was the central nut of the Gustav Line, a nut snug and smug for its defenders,
with wriggling lanes and humped houses clutched together in a centuries-old solitude,
but a nut which even ifyou destroyed it stone by stone and tile by tile would remain--
-indeed assert itself infinitely---as the nut too deadly to approach, and beyond human
powers to infiltrate.
And not even this was enough. The sleepy nut was accompanied, even
dominated, by a greater and more imposing and especially reinforced one that covered
the summit of the hill and would require an arsenal of nutcrackers to break it, yet was
just as sweet as Cassino, indeed the origin of her sweetness- more, the very cause of
her lazy presence here, being no less than a vast abbey dedicated to Saint Benedict, its
founder, and built to serve its spiritual end by resisting foreign invaders from the
south, a Keeper of the Vatican' S Southern Gate, SO to speak.
And this abbey's windows gazed down on the plain before it SO frankly that it
must put a shiver down the spines of any infantrymen trying to cross in front ofit, and
later it did. In fact the whole ensemble of that hill serenely begged us to throw
ourselves at it and if necessary break heads and hearts on it, and in the hardest of
winters, and the stupefying thing is that this was precisely what we did.


AWAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
And all this hardly twenty miles north of the river Volturno. By the time we
crossed that river the enemy's Gustav Line had already been fully manned, its supply
lines (always difficult on heights) secured. Our first trip wire, the Bernhardt line that
lay in front ofit, stretched along the Garigliano river in its Mediterranean reaches to
its tributaries in the east, the Liri and the Rapido, close to Cassino. Namely a defence
position set there by nature with such deft attention to detail that the Benedictine
monks were no more in need of arms than archangels were.
Often they weren't even there. Once they were absent for a century and a half,
SO confident was this place that one look at it from below would discourage attack.
Only one man decided to do SO and he was turned back by a dream in which
St. Benedict spoke to him advisedly. So there you were---a spiritual stronghold that
only atheists in the deepest sense would, and did, try not only to attack head-on but
destroy for ever.
No wonder St. Benedict his temple in such a way that even ifit was destroyed
would become all the stronger for it (and this we witnessed it do).
It was now November, a decisive month for us all in that Hitler decided,
having observed the success ofl Kesselring's disengagement-when-ready policy, to
give him full command of Italian operations. And not only this. He undertook to
increase Kesselring's strength with what remained of Rommel's army in North
Africa.
Hitler made his decision on November 21st 1943,just as we were preparing to
move up from the Volturno area.
This time it wasn't a matter of crossing water without boats. We were now to
fight in mountains with no mountain equipment, no adequate clothing, not even
special rations. Polyglot as an army we might be the uncrackable nuts before us


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
required not mass but prowess. And this was something missing from allied guidance
at the political top- and therefore at the bottom where we foot soldiers were.
The Big Show was to take place between December 15th 1943 and 15th
January 1944, and to prepare for this we moved fifteen miles up from the northern
banks of the Volturno to a tiny hill-top town called Sessa Aurunca, which took its
name from the Aurunci mountains that placidly gazed at it across a valley of flat
green land.
From Sessa, as we came to call it, you had a bird' s eye view of that range's
foothills, with the broad Garigliano, the Gustav Line's watery protector, running
before it and reduced from our point of view to a curling thread of mirror.
It was a cosy town, cobbled and clean. And that mountain barrier north of us
became familiar, being a pleasure to watch for its mists and changing degrees of
colour and shade.
With SO much leisure and the heavy rains that had been predicted we also
came to know our hosts, we tasted home-cooked food, exchanged bully beef and
cigarettes for eggs and, in the case of us officers, took over their best rooms. The
houses that lay on each side of the narrow main street were ours, just as ifwe were the
town's elected administrators.
Strictly speaking there was a non-fraternity rule between us and them. We
were to look on Italians as ex-fascists and ex-enemy, and to be watchful of our speech
in their hearing. An army booklet warned us that, while a people of great affability,
they could on occasion be treacherous.
What the booklet didn't tell us was that Italians had fraternity planted in them
at birth, whatever disprezzo or malicious aforethought lurked in them. In Sessa


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
betrothals were discussed, the marriages to take place when it was all over. Kisses and
smiles were exchanged and anything more secret was presumably snatched in remote
corners ofthe cellars because of the presence of elders and us commissioned officers.
We officers only heard reports- -the girls were at first hesitant with us and only
began coming up to us in the street and passing the time of day with us when they saw
we didn't bite and were exactly like those vile Germans, namely cosy and cheerful
and humane. You could see the relief on their faces.
Among the tantalising cries of joy that came up from the cellars in Sessa
Aurunca there was sometimes the busy hushed sound of commercial transaction. The
Italians were hungry.
Since we led a healthy life in the open, eating like pigs, you would have
thought we officers might have suffered from this daily prevalence of women and the
lack of them in bed. But the genitals were strangely non-combatant. We put it down to
'the bromide they put in your tea' . Only later in the brothels of Egypt and Beirut and
Palestine during our first rest period did we use the contraceptives we were supplied
with (which you could explain by the fact that we took tea out).
In that little town of Sessa I felt sad to be an officer. I rarely saw my men
unless they were on duty, SO deep were they in surrogate family life. And, though
nothing was said (in the army nothing is said about almost everything), a second
lieutenant came quickly to realise that he must never become loquacious with Other
Ranks or join in their pranks and peccadilloes. I sat in my room yearning for the
laughter I heard coming from the cellars. And my men told me their adventures (that
was the right conduct for an officer -to listen).
I still preferred to be an officer, though. I wanted to lead because I felt that in a
dangerous spot I could bring things to a good conclusion. I thought that under


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
someone else's guidance my instincts would dry up, I might be dragged into someone
else's slowness of response.
One of the bitterest aspects of losing my signaller at Cava de' Tirreni was that
I felt responsible for his death. Had I not been So helpless a novice I would have
briskly shouted my men to cover, and shown them where that cover was. And in the
Volturno attack I had led my men into hell (at the double) not that there had been
any choice but I still taxed myself with this unjust idea. It was the beginning in me of
the guilt that goes, for better or for worse, with self-training.
I hoped earnestly that my signaller's S death hadn't been an omen for the
future -that I didn't carry a magnet in my pocket that would attract fatal enemy fire
(this was how I described it to myself). I hoped the men I chose for my missions
wouldn't look askance at me as the one who took them by a nasty turn of fate into the
thickest shit of all. And of course I feared this in myself too. It just seemed to me that
the omens SO far weren't good. It was a tic of worry I was never without.
One morning I walked down to the foot of Sessa' S steep hill in the bracing
early sunlight. Here, in a small group of houses at Ponte Ronaco, which bridged a
little rivulet from the Garigliano, we had put our guns and installed a kind of
command post. The guns were under camouflage nets and out of use.
And suddenly I turned and saw a close school-friend of mine walking towards
me with his characteristic slim-lipped smile as if about to laugh. He said, I saw your
name in an officer-list and thought I'd drive over and see how you were. We stood
gazing at each other, confused, rather shy. I remembered how he used to spend his
days listening to Wagner on scratchy records and reading the plays and prefaces of
George Bernard Shaw in a church-house belonging to his future in-laws in the


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
Hampshire hills. He and I had found our first loves in the same village, at the same
time. It was surely the most marvellous of bonds at this moment.
We watched a dog fight high above us. The two planes dived and circled
spraying bullets at each other. There was the muffled whine oftheir engines and the
tiny-toy echo of their machine guns. The war was rendered cosy for a moment as we
stood there, quite as if Sessa's steep hill was one of southern Hampshire's.
This war had brought Gordon and me a lot of good. We would never have
seen the Hampshire hills at the age of seventeen had we not been evacuated from
London because of the bombing. It gave us our first taste of wholesome air and
silence. For the first time I started doing well in exams. They got me to Oxford. And
Gordon got to Cambridge. His first love was already his wife. Of course he knew my
girlfriend K. and I pulled out the photo. He looked at it with what I took to be
momentary misgiving. Perhaps he knew the truth, or thought I didn't.
The planes above suddenly broke from each other and flew in opposite
directions -two lives saved. Gordon and I said good bye. I watched him drive away,
south. I discovered it wasn't lovely memories that his visit filled me with. My
memories had lost all the warmth of the recent. That was the trouble. They were
simply images. As if, though they had happened, they hadn't happened to me. That
was what Gordon's visit made me understand- -you haven't got a past, it happened
but it extinguished itself. It no longer needed me.
Later that same morning a bombardier in my troop came running over and
said, I've just had a horrible time. How's that? I asked him. It concerned a girl in the
village. They were in love with each other. She was a lively girl with a romping
manner and strong thighs and a firm chin and provocative eyes. And early that same
morning they had kissed seriously for the first time. And it had disgusted him. Her


A WAR BETWEEN FRIENDS
mouth had tasted horrible, he said. Her breath was abominable. His face wobbled with
dismay. I listened, shrugged. I knew her and guessed that the undrinkable ersatz
coffee and her half-starved state had something to do with it. I gazed at the
bombardier' S face wobbling with disillusion. He thought girls were nice and fresh and
stinks belonged to him. It occurred to me that he hadn't seen action yet. He was to do
SO later. The girl had a wonderful bright directness but he would have none of her. He
was lucky, I suppose, to have kept his Civvy Street disgusts. They were due to be
blown away.


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namely when all class had disappeared from it! What was actually being found
was an exclusivity which had been inherited from former Oxford generations as
the way to behave. Oxford was a much more bitterly forlorn place for a vast
number of its British students than it ever was for its Americans.
Tambimuttu the founding editor of Poetry London urged I when he was
fifteen to run away from school. Ifelt he had long since done this---by switching
off during all lessons. Also he considered that a university was the greatest
distance from his ghetto as you could get---free of charge and without any need for
the tiresome (and vulgar) social mobility 'upward' (as if it really was upward).
One might, with luck, get the 'upper' people, who invariably had little upper in
their manners or comportment, to employ moblity in reaching him. His school
results were horrifying and everyone (both upper and lower) laughed when he told
them he was going to Oxford. But the miracle happened. Sudden transference to
the countryside had the effect of plunging him into study and he got a distinction
in the Higher School Certificate, as it was called---and thereby the right to enter
for a university scholarship. He tried for Peterhouse, Cambridge, because he
liked a book on Napoleon written by the history man there, Professor Butterfield.
He missed by one-- Butterfield wrote to him saying that his name came 'just under
the line'. He got int by the skin of his teeth at Keble, Oxford, figuring that the
competition for this clerics' college would be slight, while that for Balliol, which
was in the same group, would be heavy with class indeed! This doesn't mean that
Id considered his own class to be against him---he didn't think of himself as in a


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Subj: War in my eyes
Date: 8/6/2003 2:00:16 PM Eastern Daylight Time
From: "Proffitt, Stuart" <Stuart.Proffitt@penguin.co.uk>
"rowdoxy@aol.com". <rowdoxy@aol.com>
Sent from the Internet (Details)
Dear Mr Rowdon,
Thank you for your letter of the 28th July. It's difficult to know
exactly
what to recommend from the short description in your letter, but it
sounds
to me as if the most appropriate person here to look at your book
would be
Eleo Gordon, who is for example the editor of Geoffrey Wellum's
recent FIRST
LIGHT. The best of luck in interesting her, or finding the right
house
elsewhere.
Yours sincerely,
Stuart Proffitt
This email may contain confidential material. If you were not an
intended recipient, please notify the sender and delete all copies.
We may monitor email to and from our network.
De Suuv Poppu.
euat
uek Jo uu c 4 V
Hue UK I picher Ah
Juice ls
1o1l
lo ( t
nte LS
ug how,
fec
Goda i
do -
Bleo
Imm.
ume V R.
UH no
1ofl


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Subj: RE: war in my eyes
Date: 8/12/2003 10:29:51 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: "Julian Loose" <julianl@faber.co.uk>
<Rowdoxy@aol.com>
Sent from the Internet (Details)
Dear Maurice,
Many thanks for those remaining chapters. I do think you write
beautifully and with a wonderful honestly, and the narrative is
compelling and (in a good sense) novelistic. So I'm very impressed,
though I confess I've no idea what the market might be or how well
Faber might be placed to publish such a book. Really, I'd like to
show it to colleagues here. But before I do, I wonder whether you'd
contemplate more work on the text. Put crudely, I'd like to see you
extend the more immediate passages of local detail and scene-setting
description, the stuff of being a FOO, and give us less meditation
on 'the myth of world war two' which - while your points are in
themselves hard to argue with I to my mind is material which rather
diffuses the impact of the memoir, and perhaps belongs to a
different book. (Those brief wry comments that come within the
narrative seem much more powerful.)
Do you see what I mean, and does this make any sense? I look
forward to hearing from you.
With best wishes,
Julian
-Original Message-
From: Rowdoxy@aol.com (mailto:Rowdoxy@aol.com]
Sent: Monday, August 04, 2003 4:00 PM
To: Julian Loose
Subject: Re: war in my eyes
Dear Julian: Thank you for your email and quick response. Of the
twelve or so
books I've published one dealth with WW2--it was a cri de coeur I
wrote V.
soon afrter the events, and which I publoished in 1955. I've of
course applied
to the publisher for the reversion of rights to myself, and there
are no
difficulties here.
In the other chaps I am sending you I enclose a page of snippet
reviews Weid.
used on their blurbs, to give you an idea of how far my other books
have been
from war. This will dispel your idea that I'm a military
1of2


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commentator. All the
best, Maurice.
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delivered
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2of2


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has ever had. And when he or she speaks ofthis a rapt crowd gradually draws near--
suddenly 'bound together' in a strange new consensus. Law and order' are maintained
naturally and without éffort becausé théré is â silént sharéd corisciéricé. This is why thé
moment the religion fails the civilisation fails too---and 'law and order' with it.
OUR YEARNINGS, DISTRESSES
Of coursé such a créaturé grows old [XX BREATHTAKING MOMENTS (forthcoming)]
usually at a time when his body is remarkably able to throw off diseases it would never have
béen ablé to handlé in youth.
What élsé cân bé thé lot of a créaturé tosséd bétween yéàrnings and distréssés thât strugglé
with each and draw energy from each other, that between them make the body tired SO that it
almost welcomes aches and pains which the doctors will readily confirm as old age? How
could such an animal live to its full span incapable ofbreathing except in stentorian gasps and
grabs, ignorarit of thé function of thé nosé, unablé to sày when hé must havé his mouth open
to admit the oxygen and when not, unable even to perceive that his breathing is regulated by
muscles, and what these muscles are?
In évéryday practical térms, oncé wé uriderstand that our beleaguered staté is colléctivé and
not at all a personal distress we can stop trying to make an entirely false life based, at best,
on daydréam.
For the first time we can look squarely at ourselves because life on the earth is near doomed,
we are told-- -or SO threatened as to make it clear that unless we do something about it there
will soon bé no lifé for ariy of us soon. THE MAD APE Thé Animal That Said It Wasn't
dismantles the false, self-destructive systems we have inside us. Once these systems are
known to us we can explore who we really are and find genuine well-being instead of
clutching at futile panaceas.
We now know that we and the plight ofthe earth are linked. Ifthe weather isn't straight, if
the weather's crazy, who invented that weather? Not the other animals, for sure. Get
ourselvés straight and thé rést naturally follows.
We can talk about our atmospheric carbon gasses until we're blue in the face with them---it's
the self that made them we need to know. And until we know it the gasses will stay.
THE FALSE HUMAN PERSONA
For céntury aftér céntury thé idéas of àn ancient Gréek, Aristôtlé, havé dominatéd first thé
Christian world, then the West and now the whole world. In the Middle Ages (which were by
no méans 'dark' ---in fact théy scintillatéd with néw thought ànd wonder) his téxts wéré
regarded as the highest wisdom ever known, such that several popes tried hard to play him
down---but each had to give it up as a bad job.
Ofcourse--- -Aristôtle's méssage wàs all too flattéring to résist. Hé could pull thé wool ovér
our eyes SO sweetly and lullingly that we could altogether lose touch with our real selves. And
his thought continués to do so todày---without most of us évén knowing it---and in évéry part
ofthe world.


His advice that we must suppress 'the animal within' in order to become human in the highest
sense was the quack medicine that no one could resist.
Orily whén I bégan writing a book about animal intélligéncé (two dogs who could cônvéy
clear messages to humans by means of a paw-tapping system) did I begin to see that only
when wé know wé aré animals can wé possibly réach thé trith aboit oursélves.
It startéd to bécome very cléar to mé that d créature which has planned for hurdreds ofyéars
not only the extinction ofits own food and breathing sources but practiced regular mutual
extinction in thej form of 'war' (a great human institution with its special shared laws and
glory) is, compared with other animals, a species that has lost the way and perhaps risks
never find it again. ,
PORTRAIT OF THIS BELEAGUERED ANIMAL
What is this human I call a "béléaguéréd animal'? Hé is oné Who has bécomé â stranger tô
his original fixed' habitat--"fixed' meaning that his nervous system was perfectly attuned to
it. That original habitat may have been removed by terrifying weather changes or by
predators. So he must for ever be searching for that true habitat again, until he becomes
mastér ofall krowni habitats on thé éarth, and is furthér from finding it than hé évér was
millions of years ago.' 9
But how did hé managé to travél so far---uritil hé knéw évéry habitat in thé world? Aftér all,
he had to adjust his diet and daily habits to each new one in turn. It called for quite
extraordinary acts of self-mastery, and these acts we call his mutations and adaptations.
They are his record of how he adjusted his nervous system to ever new places, until he
possésséd himsélf of all and évéry one.
'In my work I have studied this extraordinary nervous system. It is the job I've undertaken in
my plays, in my novels, in my biographies of historical figures, in my hands-on breath-
guidarcé séssions. It is always the same story---the human effort to overcome the distortions
that lie within and he is obliged to act out.
OUR. AUTOMATIC GRANDIOSE THINKING
Automatic grandiosé thinking makés us dréarmérs---just as Wë aré dréaming, all of us, ât this
moment! We have been told our true position: if within ten years we don't clean up the planet
then it will dié under our féét. A proféssor of sustainablé énérgy at Nottingham university
argues (September 4, 2006) that the prevailing 'scientific opinion' is that we (human and
other spéciés of animal) can béar a maximum of440 parts pér million of atmosphéric carbon,
and that the 'tipping point' (his euphemism for the end of all biological life) will be reached
in 20 years from now, which gives us 10 years to clean up all our self-deceiving acts.
But this is moré éasily said than done!
There is a vast difficulty here.
It is this: we all live on carbon emissions.
Wé aré, almost éach and évéry oné of us, gluttons ofelectrical consumption.
Are we to close down the very electrical appliances by means of which we live, are we to stop
driving to work?


How can we suddenly dismantle the huge electrical empire we have been building up
painstakingly and proudly, since the Middle Ages?---yes, our mediaeval Christian thinkers
déscribéd (XX MAD APE) thé 'marvels' of submarines, planés in thé air, sélf-moving
carriages or cars, which they dreamed about.
But thé much gréatér dangér is that our automatic grandiosé thinking will také ovér---will
seize us and mesmerise and paralyse us again---and we shall fill the air with our inherited
claptrap. Plenty of it is already going around---viz. ifthe earth seizes up we can always fly to
another planet'!
The serenity we find in other animals, in eyes SO wide and unblinking, in a stealth and
vigour and expertise of movement that require neither forethought nor afterthought, means
nothing short a pérféct inhéritancé of facultiés which has been déniéd thé human.'
Is there any good in philosophy at all? The very meaning of the word ("lover-of-wisdom')
suggests a make-believe human. Socrates has been quite wrongly called a philosopher. He
never was. That is, he talked from his life, not his thoughts. He chose death to being gagged.
And this was because he acknowledged human madness---both the madness that energises
the human to vast sacrifices and the madness that haunts his darkest hours.
MAURICE ROWDON HAS PUBLISHED WITH
Chatto and Windus; Heinemann, Constable, Weidenfeld, Barrie and Rockcliffe, Gollancz and
Macmillan in London;
Praeger; Putnam and St.Martin' s Press in the USA;
S.Fischer Verlag in Germany. [XX to Amazon, Abebooks,
His first play Eskimo Trace was performed at the Stoke on Trent theatre-in-the-round; he
directed it later at the Mermaid theatre, London. He produced his play Mahler (about the
déspairing lové bétwéen Mahler ând his wifé Alma) ât thé Arts Théatré, London, despité thé
efforts of Mahler's daughter to get it off the stage. He later became director of British plays at
the Studio Teater in Munich. His forthcoming plays are Lucretia (how the pope's daughter
lovingly obeyed her father in the political marriages he arranged for her, and all but died of
déspair), Carmagnola (thé mércénary soldiér who schéméd his way to thé courts ofItaly, but
fell foul of treacherous Venice), I want Marigold (a therapist goes fatally too deep with his
clients, two oft them hermaphrodites), Genes (a geneticist begins to observe and love and
caress his rats designed for experiment), Boy Sees Red (a retarded boy and girl fall into the
hands of an overwheening social worker named Emily but, together with the girl's parents,
turn Emily into an awed spectator of their family happiness), Daddy won't buy me a bow
wow (bittér wàr mémories all but wréck a family twénty yéars aftér WW2), Thé Vic on thé
Strand (a three-character backstage play in which a well-known actor and an unknown
actress create within moments of meeting a world of love, lying and bitter mutual contempt---
to an unseen audience), Suddenly One Evening (strangers take refuge from an overpowering
flood, ànd considér thésé hours of darknéss their last), Alma Phoénix (Alma Mahlér's story
with the painter Kokoshka after Gustav's death).
MAURICE ROWDON'S CAREER


His last year at school was interrupted by World War 11. He was in the Italian campaign
1943-45 with one ofthe most dangerous jobs in the army as Forward Obseryation Officer
(déscribed in his forthicoming Forward Into Déath). Hé résumed his studiés at Oxford from
1945, this time in philosophy for three years, specialising in Kant's Critique of Puré Reason,
with a special interest in theology under his tutor Donald Mackinnon (author of The
Borderlines of Theology).
After Oxford he took up a post at Baghdad university teaching English literature. There he
wrote his first novel, Hellebore the Clown. Later he returned to Europe by boat from Beirut
to Naples, drawni back to Italy by his mémory of thé Italians during battlé---honiest, open,
humane to both sides without exciting resentment on either. He resolved to live there but first
returned to London where he wrote three books Of Sins and Winter, an account of a stay in
Austria still haunted by the war, Perimeter West about the Berlin ruins, familiar to him from
his post-wàr stày in thât city, and Aftérwards about an Américan publicity-agénit who sées
Hiroshima as dividing history into the Before-The-Bomb and the Afterwards, and dreams of
the exploitation of space, thus foretelling fifty years of space-experiment by the USA and
Britain.
Rowdon returned to Italy and began living in Rome, where he wrote his first two books qn
Italian life, Italian Sketches and A Roman Street, both of which gave him a serious literary
following. The Times Litérary Supplément gavé him à warm ànd génerous réviéw, adding
that the author's prediction that there would one day be a (green) party devoted solely to the
staté of thé éarth was his orily signi of crankiness. Hé léft Romé and séttléd on farm in thé
Sienese Hills where he wrote The Companion Guide to Umbria, The Fall ofVenice, The
Spanish Terror, Leonardo da Vinci and Lorenzo the Magnificent. In the Seventies he kept
a diary of the media events he was daily involved in---Hitler's Showbiz Diary (forthcoming).
Hé oftén visitéd thé USA, notably Néw York---this léd to his novel Night Févérs, Two
Englishwomen in New York (forthcoming). He also wrote his first animal-intelligence book
Thé Talking Dogs, which was published simultanéously in London and Néw York.
Back at the Italian farm he came across some fascinating books published in Berkeley, Ca.,
more especially a book called Kundalini or Psychosis' by the opthamologist Lee
Sarella and Thé Dancing Wu Li Masters by thé physicist Gàry Zukav. By this time Rowdon
had been doing daily pranayama or yoga breathing over a period of at least seventeen years.
I wàs fortunaté to récéivé my irstruction from an Indian Guru. It rémains my firm conviction
that this special weaning of the breathing system can be only be done under Indian tutelage
because the understanding of prana or the divine element within oxygen is simply not a part
of Western culture. In India this teaching has been passed down through many generations.
ROWDON'S OXYGENETIC BREATH SYSTEM
Pranayama prompted him to develop a breathing system which began from the breathing
musclés, not from thé breath itsélf, so thaf tétanus and hyperveritilation, curréntly thé basis of
many other breathing systems such as rebirth, were avoided. Oxygenesis says that as the
human is â béléaguéréd and strésséd animal hé has of coursé lost his capacity to bréathé in a
natural way which brings him into his own inner wisdom and integrates him into the habitat in
his proper function. It isn'ta question ofshallow or deep breathing but wholly revising the
breath.
He took his breathing system to Berkeley Ca. and established aj practice which in the end
brought him hundreds of clients and eventually offices in San Francisco. This led to his


writing Breathtaking Moments (forthcoming). Study of the breath also made him realise
why most people experience old age, which he now saw as pure medical indoctrination that
cuts décadés off thé human's cellular or biological span of 120 yéars. His séssions dwélléd
not on the breath but the breathing muscles (the thoracic and abdominal), and thus the
movement of the diaphragm. All injunctions from doctors and practitioners to 'breathe
normally' or 'take a deep breath' are useless when the muscles in play simply didn't know
whât théy wéré doing or What they weré théré for.
'In all my yéars of bréath guidanicé I camé across only two cliérits whosé breath
was not distorted. They were both born within sight and sound of the sea.'
Rowdon is married to Téxas writér Dachiéll Rowdon ànd résides in London.
contact: MauriceRowdon
BOOKS Publishers
London:
Chatto ànd Windus
Heinemann
Victor Gollancz
Collins
Barrié and Rockcliff
Constable
Weidenfeld and Nicolson
Macmillan
USA:
Praégér
St.Martin's s Press
Putnam
Gérmany:
S.Fischér Vérlag
NOVELS
Hélléboré thé Clown (Châtto and Windus)
Perimeter West (Heinemann)
Afterwards (Barrie and Rockcliffe)
Dead Sunday A Journey into the Underworld (forthcoming)
Night Fevers Two Englishwomen in New York (forthcoming)
INTELLIGENCE
The Talking Dogs (Macmillan)


human--
Mad Ape The animal that said it wasn' 't (forthcoming)
(a book drawn not from the human's stories about himself, least of all his
histories, but from his far more spectacular, far more ardent and painstaking
mutations and adaptations).
ITALIAN LIFE
Italian Sketches (Victor Gollancz)
A Roman Street (Victor Gollancz)
Collins Companion Guidé to Umbria (Collins)
The Fall ofVenice (Weidenfeld and Nicolson)
Lorénzo thé Magnificent (Weideriféld and Nicolson/Praeger)
Leonardo da Vinci (Weidenfeld and Nicolson)
WAR
Of Sins and Winter (Chatto and Windus)
Forward to the Death (forthcoming)
BREATH GUIDANCE/OLD AGE
Breathtaking Moments (forthcoming)
Proper breathing means the right breath in the right place at the right
momént. It is probablé that thé bulk of mankind havé thé wrong bréath for
every place and every moment, i.e. the least efficient one for the requirements
of the nervous system at any given time. The phantasm of old age, that is the
breakdown of the human body many decades before man's cellular or
biological capacity of 120 yéars, is a spécific résult of inefféctivé breathing,
in air already much depleted in oxygen-content compared with the air
available a thousand years ago (as found in amber-tests). It was not many
decades ago that the so-called Pulmonary Association was teaching that
breath comes naturally.'
PHILOSOPHY-what good is it?
Philosophy begins and ends with doubts about what is real. It finds
that reality is simply a conviction, not what we can prove or
demonstrate. Only one philosopher has squarely faced human dementia
ànd that was Socrates. Indeed all the later philosophy, from Aristotlein
ancient Greece to Kant and Nietzche in the nineteenth century, was a
doomed effort to fairy-tale the dementia away. This fairy tale is best
personified by the meaning of the word philosophy itself ('the love of
wisdom')---in an animal which has consistently shown en entire lack


Maurice Rowdon took two degrees at Oxford, the first in Modern History (one year) and the
other in Modern Greats (philosophy, politics and economics), specialising in Kant's Critique
of Pure Réason (threé yéars).
He has published with Chatto and Windus, Heinemann, Constable, Weidenfeld, Barrie and
Rockcliffe, Gollancz and Macmillan in London; Praeger, Putnam and St.Martin's Press in the
USA; S.Fischér Vérlag in Gérmany. [doublé click to Amazon, Abebooks été].
His first play Eskimo Trace was performed at the Stoke on Trent theatre-in-the-round; he
directed it later at the Mermaid theatre, London. He produced his play Mahler (about the
déspairing lové betwéen Mahlér and his wife Alma) at thé Arts Theatre, London, ànd latér
became director of British plays at the Studio Teater in Munich. His forthcoming plays are
Lucrétia (how thé pope's daughtér lovingly obéyéd hér fathér in thé political marriagés hé
arranged for her, and all but died of despair), Carmagnola (the mercenary soldier who
schemed his way to the courts of Italy, but fell foul of treacherous Venice), I want Marigold
(a therapist goes fatally too deep with his clients, two of them hermaphrodites), Genes (a
généticist bégins to obsérvé ànd lové and caréss his rats désignéd for éxpérimént), Boy Séés
Red (a retarded boy and girl fall into the hands of an overwheening social worker but,
together with the girl's parents, turn her into an awed spectator of their happiness), Daddy
won't buy me a bow wow (bitter war memories that all but wreck a family twenty years after
WW2), Siege (a thrée-character backstage plày in which â wéll-krown actor and an unknown
actress live in an exciting world of love, lying and contempt---to an unseen audience).
Rowdon' S last yéar at school was intérruptéd by World War 11. Hé was in the Italian
campaign 1943-45 with one of the most dangerous jobs in the army as Forward Observation
Officer (described in his forthcoming Forward Into Death). He resumed his studies at
Oxford from 1945, this time in philosophy for three years, specialising in Kant's Critique of
Puré Réason, with a spécial intérest in theology undér his tutor Donald Mackinnon (author of
The Borderlines of Theology).
Aftér Oxford hé took up a post ât Baghdad univérsity téaching English litératuré. Théré hé
wrote his first novel, Hellebore the Clown. Later he returned to Europe by boat from Beirut
to Naples, drawn back to Italy by his memory of the Italians during battle--honest, open,
humane to both sides without exciting resentment on either. He resolved to live there but first
returned to London where he wrote three books Of Sins and Winter, an account of a stay in
Austria still haunted by the war, Perimeter West about the Berlin ruins, familiar to him from
his post-wàr stày in thàt city, ànd Aftérwards about an Américan publicity-agént who séés
Hiroshima as dividing history into the Before-The-Bomb and the Afterwards, and dreams of
the exploitation of space, thus foretelling fifty years of space-experiment by the USA and
Britain.
Rowdon returned to Italy and began living in Rome, where he wrote his first two books on
Italian life, Italian Sketches and A Roman Street. These gave him a serious literary
following. Thé Timés Litérary Suppléménit gavé him â warm and générous réviéw, adding
that the author's prediction that there would one day be a (green) party devoted solely to the
state of the earth was his only sign of crankiness. His new status as writer opened the way to
many commissions such as The Companion Guide to Umbria, The Fall ofVenice, The
Spanish Térror, Léonardo da Vinci ànd Lorénizo thé Magnificént. In thé Sévéritiés hé képt
a diary of the media events he was daily involved in, called Hitler's Showbiz Diary
(forthcoming).
He visited the USA frequently and he got to know New York well---which led to his novel
Brain Fevers, Two Englishwomen in New York (forthcoming). He also wrote his first


animal-intelligence book The Talking Dogs, which was published simultaneously in London
and New York. [XX to 'animal intelligence'].
Back at thé Italian farm hé camé across some fascinating books publishéd in Berkeley, Cà.,
more especially a book by the opthamologist Lee Sanella Kundalini or psychosis?" By this
time Rowdon had been doing daily pranayama or yoga breathing over a period of at least
seventeen years. This prompted him to develop a breathing system which avoided all aspects
of tetanus and hyperventilation. He first taught his system to composers and musicians at the
Music Festival of Assisi.
At his Sàn Francisco officés hé mét Dachiéll, a Téxàn writer, who bécamé his wifé and
remains SO. They took up life together in San Anselmo, Ca. Here he began work on the
most ambitious projéct ofhis lifé, THE MAD APE Thé animal that said it wasn't
(forthcoming). This book describes the human not in terms of his own stories, his
'histories' of himself, but his mutations and adaptations, demonstrating with example after
example that the human is a valiant because eroded creature, his religions and civilisations
being a cléar réfléction of his constanit and dééply nécéssary sélf-révisionis, as if only hermetic
practices give him sanity, in sometimes small and sometimes great measure.
Réviews: HELLEBORE THE CLOWN
Oné ofthé truest novels I havé évér read. .An éxquisité story.' 7 Nigel Nicolson.
'A remarkably assured performance. Here is a fresh, vigorous and altogether unusual talent. 9
John O'London' S.
'It reveals more than a dash of originality and takes the reader to the heart of an unhackneyed
émotional situation.' Birmingham Post.
ITALIAN SKETCHES
It is a réal pleasuré to comé across a quité original book éntitléd Italian Skétches.
Mr.Rowdon is astonishingly acute in recognising in the Italians a quality which impels them
to spare foreigners embarrassment or mortification. .It is a relief to read this factual book
about Italy... I derived much pleasure from this book and recommend it warmly. {Sir Harold
Nicolson, Observer)
Recalls Lawrence's Twilight in Italy almost uncannily. The perfect antidote to the effusive
outsidér' S travél book. Thé résults âré supérficially glum, but in rétrospéct, and artistically,
exhilarating, because SO often piercingly accurate and so far under the skin ofeveryday
appearances that it is really a new reappraisal almost ofa new country. Extreme spiritual
delicacy as well as physical sensibility. (Isabel Quigly, Guardian).
'A néw writér of importaricé. Within â féw pagés hé has éstablishéd a strong litérary
personality. ' R.G.G. Price (Punch)
He brings a scene instantly and enduringly to life. He is full of variety. His style is
extremely simple: short words and short sentences, yet every now and then he takes off in a
purely literary flight of fancy that carries the reader with it in hilarious or tender acceptance. >
(Times Literary Supplement)
Thé délightéd réadér forgivés him all his préjudicés. Endowed with a sharp réportér's éyé.'
John Raymond (Sunday Times)
Ifit were possible to explain why Mr.Rowdon' s ideas are SO acceptable, it would be possible
to explain Italy--and if this were possible, nobody would write books about Italy any more.
All books about Itâly aré frantic attémpts to try ànd uniderstand thé naturé ofthé fascination,
and if Mr.Rowdon' s book is one of the best attempts that has been made for many years, this


is because he tries SO deeply to understand and must excite the sympathy of a anyone else
who has tried to do so.' Nigel Dennis (Sunday Telegraph)
'A loving, sunlit account. something of Lawrence's travel books, something of Durrell's
island books. like asti spumanti, effervescent and intoxicating out of a bottle.' > (New
Statesman)
A ROMAN STREET
THE COLLINS COMPANION GUIDE TO UMBRIA
Mr. Rowdonh has written an éxceptionally well-informéd and entertaining guide. This is an
outstanding travel book. 9
THE FALL OF VENICE
stylish ànd haurting' New Yorker
THE TALKING DOGS
Oné ofthe most remarkable animal books éver Written. Some accept it. Others rejéct it. But
nobody can put it down unfinished." Stanley Dangerfield (Evening News)


There is a feud between the Sicilian woman who lives next door to us and the plump, black-
eyed woman two floors down, and at one of the condominio meetings recently the latter
announced that she would obstruct anything suggested by our Sicilian neighbour even ifs she
liked the idea secretly. She struck her breast with the side of an outstretched hand and shouted
with her eyes blazing, 'Lei mi sta quil'--which means something like 'You stick in my
throat!' or worse. Whereupon our Sicilian neighbour, who is a younger woman with a cool
temper and the Sicilian reserve, said, Take some bicarbonate of soda, then.'
*At one time I bought our wine and mineral water in a busy side-street behind the Corso. But
about four years ago I took my custom to a tiny shop two or three doors away from our own.
In the hot weather I can phone down and Sergio brings the bottesup himself. He is a pale
young man with light-blue, worried eyes, and has been running thelshop alone since his father
died a year or SO ago. He isn't satisfied; one can see that. The tiny place is no longer used as a
drinking parlour with tables and chairs, as it used to be under his father. I remember the men
shouting and singing there until after midnight. And Sergio seems to want to get beyond that,
to a kinder world. Now he deals out wine from the cask, and oil and vinegar; and he tries to
sell the more expensive bottles that come from the same vineyard as his father did---outside
Rome at one of the castelli. It tastes like a cross between caramel water and piss, and
produces a blinding headache. How they make it I don't know, but the grape certainly doesn't
enter into it. These days--according to the real wine-growers, who rarely send out their wine-
--all kinds of chemicals and colouring matter are used: "water goes in one end and wine
comes out at the other.' >> Sergio himself knows nothing about wine. And he doesn't drink it.
The mildest form of drunkenness disgusts him. He leans against the shop-entrance looking
sadly across the street in the afternoon. He has a northern face---you might think he was
German or Swiss. He always likes to hear me talk about the countries we've been to. He
wants to know the exact route we took. His mother sits in the shop, in a dark corner, a tiny,
shrivelled woman with a wall-eye, hardly ever speaking. All she does is to call out "Sergio'
quietly if someone comes in: usually he is in the back part of the shop, where the ice and
wine-casks are kept, in almost total darkness.'
Excerpts THE TALKING DOGS:
When I met Elke 11, the standard poodle bitch, and Belam, the saluki male, on a hot
September afternoon in 1975 at Salzburg airport, they were sitting leashed at the entrance
with their teacher, too shy at first to offer me their paws in greeting. Elke's white fur was
dazzling in the remarkably clear, mountain-reflected sunlight, her eyes round and black and
vivaciously attentive as she sat waiting rather stiffly for my arrival. At her side, Belam, taller
and bonier, seemed the shyer of the two, with his long sensitive nose and gazelle-eyes, and
deliciously straggling fur. He simply gazed away when I bent down to take Elke's paw. But at
a word from his teacher he too shook hands.
They'd heard a lot about me. I'd been asked to write a book about them and helpmake
their intelligence knwn to the world, but for the moment that was forgotten. It was a hot,
exhilarating day, and we were about to drive across the Austrian border to Berchtesgaden, one
of the most pleasant of Bavaria's medieval resort towns, once notorious as Hitler's mountain
hide-out: well-known to skiers in the winter, and in the summer to those taking the saline
waters of Bad Reichenhall.
I knew Berchtesgaden well but had little thought on my previous visits that I would
one day be returning to witness two dogs 'talking'. All that summer I'd been studying the
notes made by the dogs' teacher on her daily lessons with them, and was already convinced
that Elke and Belam could add and subtract and tap out, not onloy answers to spoken
questions, but messages of their own. But it was still a 'mental' conviction, not very deep.


Ic certainly felt in awe of them on the way from the airport, as ifthey deserved more
formal behaviour from me than I would give to other animals. I'd always had a dog of my
own, but here were Elke and Belam gazing at me with a special penetrating force. Or was that
myi imagination? How did they see me? I found this the uppermost question in my mind.
Later that evening, when I'd seen them 'talk', I realised that this awe of mine had
nothing to do with a real recognition of animal intelligence. And what I witnessed in the next
few days was to change my life as it had changed that of their teacher, Dorothy Meyer, but
less suddenly than hers. After all, she'd started from scratch, with only printed records of
previous tapping animals, from fifty or sO years before, to go on. For weeks she'd worked in
the dark, doubting her capacities as an animal-teacher and all the less prepared for the shock
of discovery when it came. Like me she'd been ready enough to accept animal intelligence as
an idea, but not to accept the reality of animals as equal beings. The discovery that in many
respects animals have a moral integrity, truthfulness and compassion superior to our own was
an even greater shock.
From the back ofthe car where she sat, Elke sniffed my ear, while Dorothy Meyer
and I talked about her. I happened to turn and say something to Belam: he flashed me a glance
and looked out of the window again rather haughtily. 'He doesn't like Elke's forwardness
with new people, 9 Dorothy told me. 'He's always like that. 9 I noticed that he kept giving Elke
little glances, and finally turned his back on her, almost toppling off the seat with his vast
haunches.. That evening, I met Frau Hilde Heilmaier, the owner of the dogs and the founder
ofthe 'dog-school' She is an affable if reserved woman, small and compact with a cheerful
healthy face and all the marks of someone who lives an orderly and intensely disciplined life
For some years she had been a breeder of dogs which she frequently raced at the local
stadium. We settled down to coffee and cake and cream, in armchairs round a splendidly laid
table, and the dogs began tapping their first greetings' messages for me.
Each letter ofthe alphabet was represented by a certain number of paw-taps. First
Dorothy handed me the tapping code with the letters of the German alphabet and their tapping
equivalents. Then she held out her hand for the dogs to tap into. Elke's message for me was
firm and unhesitating. First came nine, ten and three taps which, 1 found on consulting the
alphabet-list, made DER. This was followed by thirteen, twenty, sixteen, for IZS. Then
twenty and three, for ZR. And lastly five, thirteen, seven, for LIB. Put together, the sentence
ran DER ISZ ZR LIB. Dorothy's method was to enquire ofthe dog after each word whether
he or she meant what Dorothy thought. The dog than tapped YES or NO. If the answer was
NO, Dorothy asked for the word to be tapped again. It was generally clear when a word had
been completed, because the dog would make some movement of relief or excitement, or
pause for longer than usual.
After reminding me that the dogs spelt out their words phonetically on the whole,
Dorothy asked Elke, Do you mean der ist sehr lieb (he is very nice)?'
YES came the answer (three taps of the right paw).
Looking back on my records ofthat first encounter, I realise that, once written out on
paper in their phonetic form, the tappings aren't nearly as clear and immediately
understandable as I remember them at the time. It was the dogs themselves who carried
conviction, rather as children, bubbling over with something to say, and too excited to
compose it properly, supply with their eyes and expressions what their words are short of. I
realise too that a bare account of the tappings cannot in itself convey the impression both dogs
give of desperately wanting to communicate with human beings. They tell their teacher they
have something to say by turning to her in a certain way, or by an excited look in the eye
which she understands, or a barely susceptible way of lowering the haunches without actually
sitting.' '
Some weeks before, a Swiss producer had become interested in the dogs, with the
intention of one day presenting them on television. He felt, however, that the act of tapping


into a teacher's hand would confuse an audience and make them doubt the authenticity ofthe
experiment. There had to be a surer way of verifying the taps.
He advised the use of a tambourine which would make a clear sound every time the
dogs touched it. This would also discourage the criticism that hidden messages were passing
from Dorothy's hands to the animals.
Dorothy bought a tambourine and showed it to Elke.
"From now on you must tap on this and not my hand.' 9>
She put Elke's paw on the instrument, holding it in such a way that the bells jingled
merrily.
Elke seemed quite un-alarmed by the noise, but refused to tap on it. As for Belam, he
was clearly shocked. He would have nothing to do with it. But she decided that this was only
because of the novelty. In time they'd get used to it.
Only after the visitor had left the room did Belam calm down and tell her what the
trouble was.
He tapped BAN and then, after a pause in which he seemed to lose himself, MDL.
"Which of these last three letters is correct?'
He tapped D, SO that the word became BAND ('ring', 'hoop'). He went on with
LAOS.
'Is this last S correct?'
NO. As a substitute he tapped T, making LAOT, which was clearly a phonetic
rendering ofLAUT ("loud"). This the sentence ran 'hoop loud'.
"Does the word 'hoop' mean the tambourine I showed you yesterday?
The tambourine was banished from the class-room. Dorothy hoped that once the dogs
were accustomed to this she could give up coaxing them with caresses and sweet phrases
during a tapping. After all, they couldn' 't expect this kind of treatment in front of millions of
television-viewers..
"Tap me 254," she told Elke, "but this time without caresses and hugs."
Elke tapped 200, but then 60 instead of 50. On Dorothy's spoken correction she tried
again, but got it wrong. One a third try she was successful, but seemed none too happy at the
non-touching order'
The journalist, Robert Barrat from Paris Match, wanted to set Elke some
mathematical problems.. He wrote on the blackboard (3 X 9)-(12 + 4) and, after some hesitant
raising ofthe right paw, Elke gave 24. For (4, x 8) + (9 : 3) she wrongly tapped 33. Dorothy
cried out, No!' but was in fact calculating the plus sign as a minus, showing perhaps that
both pupil and teacher were in a nervous state. Elke tried again, but was wrong a second time
with 29, which was precisely the figure the sum would have given had Dorothy's mistake
been correct. ..Here M. Barrat said, No!' Elke now tapped the correct 35, for which she was
much praised and given biscuits.. .M. Barrat then set Elke two problems: 4 x 8 -3 + 2: and 7- -
4+ 2+4. Belam's answers were correct in both cases. Barrat then bracketed the problems as
Dorothy had done with Elke, and the answers were correct here too..
Mme. Barrat was present at all the lessons next day. Dorothy asked Elke to tap
something for the lady and she gave LIB BARA ZUHOREN, for liebe Barrat zuhoren (*dear
Barrat listen").
"You must complete that sentence with 'shall', 'will', 'must', 2 'wants to' or something
like that. What word is missing?"
KAN for kann (*can', 'may").
Mme. Barrat was there for Belam's lesson too.. .He tapped more and more
enthusiastically as the lesson proceeded.
Dorothy chalked up RENNEN ("to race') and FRESSEN (*to eat', 'to feed").
Who does the first one?' she asked him. Who runs?"


BELAM, he tapped.
Where does he do it?'
PARK.
Mme. Barrat wanted to know what park that was, and Dorothy passed the question to
him. With great warmth he tapped SALZBURK for Salzburg'. He tapped SO hard into
Dorothy's hand that she was almost pushed to the ground.
'Do you mean the racecourse there or the ZOO where you lived?
ZO, for Zoo.
Elke did exceptionally well in mathematics that day, with Mme. Barrat watching.
I'm thinking of a number, 3 times which is 21,' Dorothy told her.
She tapped 7 at once.
'Another number the fifth part of which is the same as 5 times 2.'
Elke tapped once left, hesitated, then gave the correct answer, 50.
I'm thinking of a number, 6 times which minus 1 dozen is 54.
She tapped 11 without hesitation.
'A number of which 20 + 4 is one half.'
She tapped 10.
Mme. Barrat could hardly believe it, and Dorothy was hardly less astonished. She told
her visitor that that she herself was never sure what the dogs knew, or whether they would do
well or badly in a tapping..
I shall never forget my visit to Hellbrunn ZOO in Frau Heilmaier's company. Not
until I saw this lady speak to the animals was I really and truly aware of them as equal beings.
It was a matter not ofbelieving or thinking, but ofi immediate awareness. I saw the
chimpanzee leap down from his perch to the bars of the cage as ifs starved of conversation, to
greet and chatter to her with funny little movements of the mouth. The vast tawny-maned lion
roared from his mountain-seat and slowly wandered down towards us; the tiger rolled himself
against the bars, his eyes closed with delight, to be tickled; and the Australian dingoes set up
their howl ofjoy long before she came in sight'.
Excerpts FORWARD TO THE DEATH:
We were dropped off at the Salerno beaches south ofNaples by an American landing
craft in the late afternoon, as close to dusk as possible and in a calm sea silence and a soft still
warmth. We were reinforcements---urgently needed. It was September 1943 and I was
twenty.
We landed on D+8, which in army parlance meant eight days after the original
landing. Since that time the Germans had pushed us back to the very edge oft the water.
As darkness gathered I walked uphill to where the trees began. A large hushed group
of men standing close together. As I came nearer I noticed that a Brigadier was at their centre,
addressing them. I could see the red tabs on his shoulders. He was talking in a low voice. I
thought it remarkable that a brigadier should be addressing Other Ranks man to man. That
was a lieutenant's or captain s job, a major's at most.
The Brigadier was saying in his careful murmur, almost a whisper (we had to gather
closer to hear), Jerry's right behind me on the other side of this lane (it lay between trees a
few feet away). He said, you're going to stop him crossing this road and whatever happens,
chaps, you're not going to move, understood? Whatever happens you don't move. You stay
where you are. There were nods in the deep dusk.
But nothing happened that night. In the morning, still sleepy, I wandered away from
our command post up the hill to where Texan infantrymen huddled in their hastily dug slit
trenches. They seemed surprised to see me, watching me from below---as who wouldn'tto
witness a youth strolling about an observed area. Istood talking to them, looking down at


their heads level with my boots. It didn't occur to me that I made a perfect target, with all six
feet of me exposed. They said, You British must have war in your blood, it's like you're on
holiday. Charitably, they didn'ttell me I was a bloody fool. Yet I had already, quite unawares,
learned something. The evening before, I'd seen men throw themselves to the ground when a
big one came over. So now, when one fell pretty close, I did the same, though it was still a
kind of drill for me, with a touch of tomfoolery. Then I stood up again and the Texans went
on talking affably. I was glad to be thought a pre-packaged soldier. I listened to their soft,
low, strangely consoling Southern voices. I think probably none of them survived. I was to
meet them for the last time just before the last unthinkable hell that did for them..
I was impatient to get my first assignment as Forward Observation Officer over
and done with. It would have been useful to get some gen (pronounced with a soft 'g), our
word for information. But none came. It hadn't figured in my training either. You could be
trained for surprise but not for the surprises when they actually came.
I knew the bare logistics for F.O.Os- you took three or four men with you,
including one or two signallers. You ventured into enemy territory when necessary. That is,
you were forward ofyour most forward troops.
Your radio equipment had to be with you at all times. This included batteries and, in
very rare cases of unusual proximity, a cable for direct wire contact with the rear. Mostly you
would have no chance of recharging the batteries SO while you needed to be in day and night
contact with your command post back at the guns you had to be economical in radio use.
Your firing orders had sometimes to go far beyond your own command post to engage the
guns of a whole brigade or division, and the reply had to come back down that hierarchy, SO
you needed plenty ofjuice. It was after the word Ready had been passed to you from all the
assembled waiting guns that your final order of Fire! went through and then, almost
instantaneously, you heard the baleful whirring of the shells above your head.
It was these shells that as an F.0.0. I could call up at a moment's notice but I also
had access to the other heavier artillery available both in the division and the Corps (two
divisions, when they happened to be working together).
The only thing you know as a novice F.0.0. is that you will have to observe the
country carefully and consult your Intelligence map as you move across it. But that isn't much
of a training. So your state of trepidation as your first F.O.O. assignment draws near, like
mine now, came from utter bafflement as to what to expect.
Obviously an F.O.O. must know something about the enemy that faces him. After all,
he must develop SO to speak an intimacy with him. He must know what kind of fighters these
particular enemy regiments are, and in what strength they are at the moment, whether they are
the 15th or 26th or 29th Panzer Grenadiers or a Hermann Goring division or the 44th Austrian
infantry (the most amiable of opponents).
Such a man can be a treasure for the infantry since he carries about with him an
invisible armour shield. So the tendency of infantry officers was therefore to treat him with
awe ifhe was good and amiably disregard him ifhe wasn't.
Once in a new position the F.0.0. must help consolidate it with so-called SOS
targets, which may involve a firing programme lasting the whole night. You communicate
this programme, with its timetable and intervals by radio, to your command post, having
already given your exact map reference in code.
There was one thing I looked forward to---being my own master. I would be trusted
or spurned for my decisions alone. I even felt a need to witness war at its demented heart. And
for this the role of F.0.0. seemed exactly placed.
Before you get your first assignment the eyes of senior officers are on you sizing you
up. The respect ofyour gunners (very few of whom saw the forward lines) is much enhanced
ifyou go up, and it grows the more you go up. The unlucky ones among them are those who
have to accompany you. But more unlucky is that handful of men who become your


favourites, the kind of men who, try as they might, cannot help being reliable. Never was
there a better argument for that devoutly observed military rule -never volunteer.
Likewise ifthe F.0.0. was good he was always in demand. Ifhe wasn't he stayed
with the guns.
The French long ago had a more precise word for the F.0.0. and that was le sentinel
perdu. He is to all intents and purposes a lonely (and frequently lost) spy. Much ofthe
Intelligence given to him about enemy dispositions is likely to be wrong though his life
largely depends on it being right. But it is impossible to have good Intelligence about forward
lines because they move SO fast, especially in close terrains like those in Italy. So it is the
F.O.O. who keeps the map up to the latest date. The danger for him is that being very mobile,
with at most four men, he can easily get lost, and in enemy lines, which happened to me and
mine more than once.
We entered Naples on October 1 1943, namely three weeks after the Salerno landing.
And these weeks cost us 12000 casualties, 5000 of them American, nearly 7000 British. And
we were here solely because Kesseiring's new defence line was now ready for us.
A few days later I sat with five other officers in a barracks on the city's outskirts, the
sea silver and flashing far below, the light failing.
The Battery commander said, We shall have to decide who is going up with this one.
I held my breath, my heart beat faster, I gazed at the wall and held the leg of the table. The
day had been one of those autumn days that lazily replay the earlier sweltering season and
raise the Italian's voice and give him a special easy walk.
Not many days after that I sat once more in an officers' conference, this time in a
room with a parquet floor and tall windows high above the deep still blue of Naples harbour,
lightly ruffled with white-flecked waves, where our battle cruisers looked like clever intricate
toys. The windows gave on to a balcony from which a grateful evening breeze wafted in, then
spent itself until the next one, in an hallucinating rhythm I had never known a hint of in my
former life.
No sounds came up to us, SO removed were we from city and sea. The captain who
had welcomed me at Salerno with a gruffbut solicitous nod, Captain Maugham, said he
thought I 1 should go up in the next show, being the freshest among us. The major smiled at me
and said he agreed it was time to break me in.
I smiled too but I was mortally afraid. Yet excitement went with it, even increased it.
I was to stand out, perform, perhaps earn better smiles more earnest ones. It is wonderful
what human association does for us, being able to render sane and even orderly what our
trembling limbs know to be otherwise..
Something was going very badly wrong. There were more men running towards us
than there were with us, in fact growing masses ofinfantrymen all running in the wrong
direction, away from the line. We were bumping into them and for the life of me I couldn't
understand how men running away from the line could be obeying orders of any kind. They
were calling out to us, You can't go up there! I dashed over to one ofthem and grabbed him
by the arm- Where are you going? He shouted, You can't get through! Thinking I might
have mistaken the route I shouted back, Where's the river then? and he said as he ran on,
Back there, there's all hell up there, you can't get through!
Stretcher bearers were rushing past us -it seemed a whole army was on its way out
of the line. My four men were waiting for my order and I shouted into the shattering noise
Come on! and we started running forward again.
We were quickly in the thick ofit. The Nebelwerfers were concentrated here. A
Nebelwerfer puts six bombs at a time into the air and their trajectory makes a terrifying
howling noise like a vast barrel organ in the sky which turns into a dense hungry roar close to
your ear as the bombs crash to earth from their almost vertical trajectory.


There was such a thick wall of detonation and tracer bullets and darkness and men
bumping into each other that all you could do, once you were close to the river, was run from
one deep 88mm. crater to the next until you found an empty place to throw yourself into,
elbow to elbow as the screams of the wounded came over, that terrible Help! Help! Help!, that
imploring scream to the enemy guns to Please, please stop! And then the shouts ofthe
stretcher bearers, Give us a hand you blokes, for christsake help! but the only thing that
happened in our brains was let it not be me, let it not be me, and when at last we managed to
scramble down into a crowded crater and throw ourselves down I found myself scratching
frantically with both hands into the freshly scorched soil, trying to make a hole for myself of
all grotesque idiotic things but knowing how crazy it was didn'tstop me doing it, I was
clawing the hard black earth with nails all too frail and I knew I was doing it and how crazy it
was but the hands kept doing it and I swear my men on either side of me were doing it too, the
very same silliness. I saw my actions SO clearly, stood away from myselfbecause these were
my last moments on earth---that was how it was for me and every other man in that crater and
the screeches of Wailing Winnie over our heads and that ghastly angry hot descent ofthe
bombs shattered our last hopes and, as always for the soldier, made us doubt afterwards that
we did get through and weren't in a new deadly life that contained a trick that made it seem
life when it wasn't.
And simultaneously we were listening to the stretcher bearers and I was thinking
urgently should I take my men and help with the stretchers but that would mean running back,
wouldn't it, running away? And because these were our last moments on earth our thoughts
were sharp and clear and intensely observant, I was aware of my men on both sides of me and
how they were living these last moments too and they like me were silent and like me they
had their eyes closed and I was sure they too were scratching crazily into the earth because
you never do anything individual, not at the extremity of extremities.
How long we were in that crater, how and when we got out, even whether the mortar
bombs and shells were still falling when we jumped up and ran, even whether we ran, I
cannot recall and never did recall, not even right after.
AllIknow of that night was being in the crater in our last moments and then, as in a
dream that jumps whole hours in a flash, I am standing in the first dawn light at the river's
edge, a few inches from a handsome German officer with thick black hair who is saying in
English with easy confidence, In Rome for Christmas? You won'ti be there for months, if
ever.
My Company commander was standing just to the left of me and all of us listened to
the German diffidently, disappointed that our success in breaching the river should excite this
clear-spoken well-meant smiling ridicule, and we believed him not because we were gullible
but because in such extremities one knows the truth, and this was the truth. It was indeed
many months of mostly useless costly struggle through mud and cold, in strategic positions
that spelled disaster, before we reached Rome depleted and worn out.
Perhaps it is this preliminary dying that you go through, in your last moments which
turn out not to have been your last- - perhaps it is this that induces amnesia. Perhaps amnesia
is a thankful device to expunge how you got out ofthat crater SO that you may carry on this
life not half-crazed or wandering in your mind for the rest of your days. And suddenly the
German officer is there, a friend, talking without emphasis in this bountiful dawn silence, and
his very voice is a balm.
A few feet before us was the swollen fast river, the opposite bank deserted except for
four English soldiers lying side by side, faces down as if gazing into the earth, in perfect order
and neatness, their tin hats undisturbed, their weapons under them, in an identical shared
death. They must havej jumped to the bank close together and in that jump gone down in one
burst of machine-gun fire. For several days they stayed there, clean and obedient.
Apparently our division had been given not only the most intensely defended but the
most exposed part of the river to tackle. On our left flank was our sister division, and on their


left were the Americans, presumably the Texans we had known at Salerno. Our sister
division, the 56, hadn't got across.
Icouldn't work out, in that dawn, why my Company commander was still on the
southern shore when the opposite bank was already in our hands. I expected a bridgehead to
be something you could see right away. But Bailey bridges have to be loaded and transported.
Engineers to build them have to be available. And building a bridge in daylight, especially in
the first vulnerable hours after a battle, would be suicide.
For the moment there was only the tired dawn silence that follows a rough night. Both
sides are taking time off to lick wounds. A cup of char reassured us, the steam blew up into
our faces with each breath..
We were lucky because the Nebelwerfer or Wailing Winnie, fearful though it
sounded, was also inaccurate. Its bombs dispersed over a large area and they took more
seconds to land than other mortar bombs. Their terrifying chorus in the sky was thus achieved
at the expense of accuracy. Their aim was to create extreme panic. This they achieved in the
case of an entire battalion ofthe US 34th division. They scattered and it was a whole day
before they reassembled. No cowardice was involved. Theyjust thought it was something
other than war and was coming out of the sky- the frightful Secret Weapon constantly
promised by Hitler. By far the greater number of casualties in battle come from shock and are
called non-battle casualties because wounds do not figure, SO there was reasoning behind
Wailing Winnie.
Of course mortar bombs that fall inaccurately still fall, and they fell among us, just
short of the river. Machine-gun fire, not these bombs, was the nemesis of the men trying at
that moment to cross the river.
We all believed, as men in the first world war did, that the shell that got you had your
army number on it. The idea reassured and terrified in equal measure.
That bridgehead was at the cost of a thousand casualties in one night.
As for our sister division it was pinned down by shellfire. Its Ox and Bucks battalion
disguised themselves as peasants but the moment they broke cover to approach the river they
had 80 casualties in a few seconds. They tried to cross in boats but most of these were at once
destroyed, this time with 40 casualties.
Really the American Fifth army was in no position to cross that river. Its divisions
only had boats enough for one battalion, namely two companies of about sixty men each. And
that was hopelessly inadequate for a whole front.
I never learned how the men I saw running away from the line that night re-joined
their units, or if they did. To my mind they were deserters and would have been rounded up as
such. You just can't rejoin your unit a whole night late. There were no officers among them as
far as I could see. Which made desertion even more likely.
In fact, though we didn't know it then, the Fifth Army had a desertion problem. The
Naples stroll', , as it was called, started about this time some Americans just walked out of
the line and went to town. Mark Clark, our army commander, sensibly accommodated himself
to this by organising rest areas close to the line, to which the tired and shocked could be sent.
You could hardly throw men into prison for suffering the results ofthe pressure you were
putting on them, such as tackling water without something to float on.
That bridgehead was at the cost ofa thousand casualties in one night. As for our sister
division it was pinned down by shellfire. Its Ox and Bucks battalion disguised themselves as
peasants but the moment they broke cover to approach the river they had 80 casualties in a
few seconds. They tried to cross in boats but most of these were at once destroyed, this time
with 40 casualties.
Really the American Fifth Army (as we its members called it---its official name was
Allied Fifth Army) was in no position to cross that river. Its divisions only had boats enough


for one battalion, namely two companies of about sixty men each. And that was hopelessly
inadequate for a whole front.
Inever learned how the British men I saw running away from the line that night re-
joined their units, or if they did. To my mind they were deserters and would have been
rounded up as such. You just can't rejoin your unit a whole night late. There were no officers
among them as far as I could see. Which made desertion even more likely.
In fact, though we didn't know it then, the Fifth army had a desertion problem. The
Naples stroll', 9 as it was called, started about this time some Americans just walked out of
the line and went to town. Mark Clark sensibly accommodated himself to this by organising
rest areas close to the line, to which the tired and shocked could be sent. You could hardly
throw men into prison for suffering the results of the pressure you were putting on them, such
as tackling water without something to float on.
The British were less wise. We now know, as a result of the publication (in 1994) of
the courts-martial ofthat time, that 197 soldiers mutinied 'at Salerno' - 179 of these were put
in prison for a year or SO while the ringleaders were given five years. They mutinied because
their officers had told them they were going from North Africa not to Salerno but Sicily,
where there was no fighting. The men were already battle exhausted and considered this a
calculated lie which exposed their officers as unfit to lead. I never heard of any mutinies on
the Salerno beach. It would have been difficult to mutiny and get arrested within earshot of
the Germans. So I am inclined to believe that those men I saw running in the wrong direction
were those who were court-martialled.
The fact that we heard no more of those men meant nothing. No battle events were
ever, in my memory, discussed afterwards. Also we were used to disappearances. Soldiers, in
groups or singly, were posted off constantly. There was never a better application of the
divide-and-rule axiom. Unwanted elements could be dissolved into thin air. And this, by the
law of war, is how it has to be. The comfort of being in an army is its delegation of moral
choice to staff officers remote from scrutiny, which helps one sleep at night, it being the case
that what the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve after.
We moved beyond the castle to yet another farmhouse. I had just told my signaller to start
up radio contact. I heard him acknowledging the first signals and then he said to me, handing
me the mike, Officer to speak. I got the order to leave The Major at once. I was to find
another Company which would be going into attack at precisely eight o'clock that evening.
The Major looked at me in surprise, presumably at having his F.0.0. snatched away.
I told my signaller to close down. Then I called out to my other men, Prepare to move. The
itinerary I had been given was the vaguest possible. I had little daylight left to find my way. It
meant crossing to the other Company at a flank, without any of us in the forward lines being
clear as to what was happening on that flank. But I didn't get into a grumbling mood- -it
appeared those days were firmly over. And in any case we never questioned vague orders.
Everyone -including the officer giving you orders -had to rely on the latest scratch
Intelligence which could be flat wrong.
The house we had just moved into was on the southern slope of a valley that stretched
magnificently before us, with woodland on its right side. We were to take a path through
those woods -it lay clear before us in the deepening dusk and nothing could appear safer.
We walked with the usual clinking of metal from our belts and packs. We were sharp
and taut, alert for every sound. There was a burst of very loud machine-gun fire to our left, the
sound amplified to an extraordinary deafening echo by the valley. I couldn'tt tell from which
side it was coming. Which told me that the path we were taking was in the direction of the
enemy, not a friendly battalion. That was my first thought but I put it aside as absurd.
thought we would soon find white tapes, those infallible guides portending and
attending battle. But there was no sign of them. I was used to piecemeal Intelligence. It could
come from false intelligence or an exhausted officer. And as always in this kind of terrain the
words 'front line' were a euphemism for what could in minutes become a semicircle.


The only trouble was that I was to accompany an attack going in at 20.00 hrs. I made
up my mind to stop at the first house and ask where Jerry was. The Italians always knew.
When we came to one, at the edge of a clearing, about half way up the slope, I thumped
quietly at the door. There was an instant hush at my knock, then nothing. This time I thumped
more insistently but not more loudly and at once the door opened an inch or two. I could see
the man' 's eyes. He was scared but when I pushed firmly on the door to indicate that I wished
to speak to him, whether he liked it or not, he opened up SO that I could see all ofhim. I asked
him in our awful clipped gibberish, Inglesi? dove? It didn' 't occur to me to ask, more to the
point, where the Germans were. He made one of those Italian shrugs with the eyes turned up,
that denote ignorance ofjust about everything. I put my foot further in the door and repeated
my question and perhaps he grew more scared ofbeing ignorant than of cooperating with me
because he pointed quickly behind him, up the hill. Are you sure? sicuro? are the inglesi up
there? and he made a noncommittal nod and was about to close the door when I said, OK, you
take me there, you. At first he refused and began to back up but I advanced my boot a little
and repeated, You, voi, voi, take me to the inglesi. He pulled on a coat quickly and came
outside, not even telling his wife or whomever was there. It was really dark now.
Ihad him with me at the head ofthe column, close sO that Icould grab him ifhe tried
to run, and we all tramped through the steep woods in silence. How was it that the Company
we had left was a mile back and still neither battle nor white tape were in sight, for it was past
eight by now? There was a chance that the forward line was on a loop or bulge. And there was
also the thought that we might at any moment walk smack into crossfire.
We reached the crest at last and stopped just short of a gravel road crossing from left
to right. It was a moonless night and we could hardly see to the other side of that road and
how lucky that was. But opposite us appeared to be a tall white house with a drive, though it
was impossible to be sure. A soft breeze played in the leaves around us. The man said in an
urgent whisper, Inglesi, inglesi, pointing across, and at once a shout, more a scream, came
from the other side of the road, HALT! and it was German not British.
I caught hold ofthe Italian' 's sleeve and hissed, You've got us in the Bosch line!
and he tore himself free and with the most miraculous leap Ihave ever heard (for we saw
nothing) he jumped high in an arc and landed SO far down the slope behind us, and SO softly,
that you couldn't hear the impact of fall. I stood for a swift moment undecided and then
dashed across the road diagonally to the right of the sentry's voice onto the road' s soft
shoulder, fearful that the racket of our boots would make us easy targets. And then I started
running faster than my legs had ever carried me -along that soft shoulder. God alone knows
what made me choose to run right instead ofleft. I could hear my men panting and stumbling
behind me and in a matter of a second or SO as I glanced down I saw phosphorus-painted
notices sticking out ofthe earth and they were marked in big letters MINEN, with a skull and
crossbones. They stood every few yards and began leaping over them one by one, unable to
leave the soft shoulder because Jerry would target the sound of our boots while, this way,
silent on the soft earth, the chances were that the sentry was confused or terrified and that we
wouldn't set the mines off. But with the first few leaps it went all right, otherwise we would
all be finished by now. So Ijumped higher and higher and hoped that my men were doing the
same. My batman was immediately behind me (on his first F.O.O. mission) and he kept
saying frantically, trying to keep his voice down, Sir, sir, it's too heavy, it's too heavy, I can't
keep up! But keep up he did and I wasn't about to stop for any man. I reckoned he would
keep up with twice the load ifhe had to. And he did. And all of a sudden I saw a vast barn on
the other side of the road and veered towards it. Clattering across the road we rushed into that
barn and in a moment were lying breathless in the straw, the radios and batteries and maps
and belts thrown down, and all we could hear for the next few minutes were our heavy choked
breaths. And very gradually we began to hear the beloved silence of the night and saw the
clement merciful stars through the tall open barn door, and we sank further and thankfully
into the straw feeling almost merriment but still wary because ofJerry's closeness, with the
thought that he might send a patrol out any minute. We didn't like those Schmeizers oftheirs,


fired from the hip with a deadly rapid spray of bullets. But the silence went on closing its
arms round us and there was another better thought- that equally Jerry might want a
peaceful night too. As for the mines we thought about them but we didn't, then or thereafter,
talk about them. To think, there had been five pairs ofboots jumping over each sign. But we
banished it from our minds because we had a superstitious horror of ever mentioning again an
escape beyond belief. Only now can I see that the live mines were directly under the
phosphorus signs and that they had been put there to deter an unlikely attack from where we
had come from.
And then other moods encroached on us as we lay on the quickly warming hay. My
batman at my side murmured to me, I wouldn't have thought that of you sir, leaving me with
all that stuff. And Ihissed back, I've got all the forward positions on my map, do you think
I'm going to get myself captured? But I didn't convince myself. He had sewn the thought in
me, coward. And it wouldn' l't leave me, interfering with the other thoughts Ihad in my
head- that we were in enemy lines and I would have to move on and I didn' t teven know if
the direction I'd taken was right, and perhaps we were now even deeper in Jerry lines. We
listened in case a tank started up with its hungry crushing roar, and we waited for a headlight
to be shone into the barn. I told myself, All I did was run. My feet did it for me. What else do
you do with a German sentry a few feet away? do you stand arguing the toss about who's
going to carry what? What was my batman blaming me for? After all, he'd got here, hadn't
he, he was alive and well? he hadn' 't been taken prisoner or shot dead had he? He said nothing
more. Perhaps he had already made peace with me. But I couldn't shake it off this shame
that set in like a nausea just when we'd had a reprieve. Happily for soldiers, moods die the
quickest death of all. I rarely consulted my signallers about what was to be done in a tight
spot. They were with me for the radio signals after all, not the decisions. Usually I let a
decision develop inside me -I left it alone waited for it to settle. What else could you do?
IfI had taken the wrong direction I was committed to it now, up to my eyeballs. I might be
even deeper into enemy lines. And going further in. Because I knew I was going to stay near
that road, and keep in the same direction. We might end up as prisoners and in that case it
would be the end ofthe war for us. These were my thoughts. But none of us wanted to be
taken prisoner. The idea brought a peculiar foreboding inside, a strangeness too terrible. So I
had to be sure ofthe right direction. You couldn't have conferences about it. I had to get us
out of this. I relied on my decision just as they did, and still I didn't know what it would be.
I walked to the barn door and looked out and standing there I realised we had got to
walk straight on. At a little signal from me they quickly gathered at the door behind me. I took
them parallel to the road, which lay on our left now. Our boots made hardly any noise. The
marvellously unrushed orbs of the sky continued to be there. After about a hundred yards we
came to a path veering to the right and I decided to take it, stepping carefully, as it was
narrow. In a few moments I stopped, hushed the others with a sign. We pressed ourselves
against a wall. There was a man standing close to me, in the tiny garden ofa house. You
couldn't say in this degree of darkness whether his clothes were a uniform or not- -he was in
shirt sleeves, hatless. And he was sharpening a long knife. He began walking up and down.
Sometimes he came within inches of us. Now and then he looked up at the sky, his face large
and round and seemingly pale a German, an Italian? Whenever he looked up he appeared
to be smiling but it wasn' 't a smile. Then he swiftly turned and went back to the house behind
him soundlessly. He went in, closing the door. We crept on, still hugging the wall to our side.
In a few minutes we emerged close to the road we had abandoned further back, only it was
wider now, more important.
A burst of machine-gun fire echoed to the left, that is the north. I couldn't tell ifit
was a Bren or a Spandau but opted for the Bren and told the others SO. It shed a little hope.
Burst after burst went into the sky. Then there were rifle shots and the tiny muffled thump of
mortar bombs. It seemed there might be a valley on the other side of the road. It would
explain the muffled nature of the sounds. Suddenly mortar bombs were exploding right
behind us and we threw ourselves to the ground. Most of them fell on the road. Ahead of us


there was a field full of craters and as soon as the mortar-firing died down we dashed to the
biggest and deepest one.
We lit cigarettes under our blouses. We heard a track vehicle on the road, just a few
yards away, not a tank. Inching myself up to the edge of the crater I saw a mansion-size house
on the other side ofthe road. In its forecourt were vehicles. But the more I stared the less I
saw. You can't stay mute for ever and I whispered to the others that the house must be an
HQ -come and have a look, I said, is it ours or Jerry's? can you recognise the trucks? are
they armoured carriers? They all peeked over the crater's edge and like me got nowhere.
Sometimes the vehicles looked like jeeps, sometimes they seemed German. We watched that
place on and off for an hour or more. Sometimes it was obvious that the house was British
held, sometimes more obvious that Jerry was there. In that case, ifi it was German, we had
simply walked deeper into their line and were in cross-fire land. So where was the attack? Our
people must already be far beyond their start lines. Ifso, where had the opening barrage got
to? and surely shouldn't that barrage be falling right where we were? We stared at the house,
studied it. All we saw were our fancies. Not a sound came from that courtyard. We could
detect no armed sentry there, no one walking about. The moment I was certain I had
identified a vehicle it became floating shadows again. I knew I would walk over to that house
sooner or later. I would have to. The only other option was to roam all night and the
consequences might be worse than capture. IfI found the vehicles to be German was I going
to walk into that house just the same? I couldn't answer that one. All I wanted now was for
this to end, and I think the men did too, we were sick of the waiting game, our nerves weren't
up to it any more. But we still didn't know if our fatigue was the sort that would make us
want to give ourselves up.
It was in that moment of wanting the suspense to end that I felt a spasm of
confidence. Ijumped up and beckoned to them and waited for them to form up behind me.
Without troubling to be stealthy- -who gave a shit now?-I walked across the road and
among the vehicles. There wasn't a jeep among them but there were 5-cwt. trucks and
armoured carriers and they were British. I pushed open the door and we beheld a huge room,
brilliantly lit by dags, full ofinfantrymen, some on sleeping bags, others sitting round. To the
left as we went..
Captain Maugham came into my command post back at the guns and told me he
was off on an F.O.O. assignment. He had lost his helmet and could he borrow mine? He
smiled in that diffident yet self-possessed way of his and I said, Of course you can, I never
use one anyway, never have. Are you sure? he said. I pulled out the tin hat and gave it to him
and as he turned to leave I said, Come back, in the half-joking way we all had. He stopped.I
hope sO, he said with a moment's diffident blink. And then he went off
He didn't come back. I heard he died complaining about a pain in his arm, everyone
thought he was all right, no wounds visible. I thought of his wife. He never talked about her
but you get a feeling of how it is with some couples -lost unless they're close by, missing
the precious one like life always beckoning from another place to where the life and light is,
leaving you incomplete...
A new second lieutenant joined my troop and we shared my dugout. It wasn' 't good
that he came straight into relentless shelling like this. It was too much of a blind fall. Even the
boom of our own heavy artillery way back made him jump and then he would half-smile in
frightened apology. One day a shell came within yards of the dugout and we threw ourselves
down in a corner close to the fire and I found myself on top ofhim. He was trembling all over
with an unusual violence like that of a fever more than fright.
To have your nerves go at the start means you can't get your self-navigation in proper
shape thereafter. We were very lucky that one time, favoured by the fact that the blast went
forward of us. But he couldn't take account ofdegree and nuance. He had a pale soft skin,
still a boy, and we used to sit and talk quietly in the lulls but I think he couldn't accommodate


himself to the idea of people blowing each other up. I think it deeply contradicted the life he'd
had before, perhaps a village life where everything was ordered and familiar. Even in the lulls
he was on guard inside himself. In this state he was sent out on his first F.O.0. mission and
was killed almost at once..
But in the meantime, while we waited, I had a secret debt to settle, in Cassino. I
didn' t know what it was, only that I must pay that town a visit. I stood in the great hush. The
sound of my Jeep engine died as ifit had been sucked into the dead earth. Not a living
creature was here, not a bird or footstep. The hill which had contained the town was covered
with quick-lime to hide the stench of the dead and it lay like a white shroud fallen on the
slope and full of soft mounds. At the top where the Abbey had stood was a formidable
glowering mass ofjagged sullen stone which gave no messages except I am dead.
Istood in the great hush. The sound of my Jeep engine died as ifit had been sucked
into the dead earth. Not a living creature was here, not a bird or footstep. The hill which had
contained the town was covered with quick-lime to hide the stench of the dead and it lay like
a white shroud fallen on the slope and full of soft mounds. At the top where the abbey had
stood was a formidable glowering mass ofjagged sullen stone which gave no messages
except I am dead.
The moment battles end the Field Hygiene unit (part ofthe Medical Corps) moves in
to count and remove for burial the dead, military and civilian. The Field Hygiene people who
moved into Cassino, accustomed though they were to the sight of the fallen, stood in shock
and bafflement at what they saw before them. The road to Rome went silently north into its
valley. Iheard a slight grating sound and an old lady in black, head covered, came pushing a
wheelbarrow along a sad ruined road at the lower eastern point ofthis hill of debris and dust.
She came within yards of me, looking to neither left nor right, her gaze bitter and mute and
closed, her lips pursed in a deeply pallid face. She stared at the rubble before her, looking for
whatever she could rescue. Standing at her side, just lately from Beirut, I must have looked an
unworthily agile member of that monstrous assembly that was able to bomb monks and
monasteries and lay entirely waste a slumbering town that wasn't even on its rightful target
programme, and which I had observed daily for a week or more, reporting like many
observers before me, from an eerie within the German lines, declaring--like they---that the
Abbey gave no sign of life within.
And try as I might to solicit a glance or a smile from her she remained set on her
quest for crushed mementoes of her home. I wanted to say something about how senseless
war was but I was in uniform, namely war itself. Yet I didn'treally understand her bitterness.
With the forbidding insensitivity ofyouth, on which wars wisely depend, I expected her to
mourn this vast white shroud together with me, to look up from the death of her town to
interest herself in my youthful khaki-clothed aspiration that all this should come to an end
soon.
Worse, I couldn't genuinely perceive what had happened to her. I accepted that all
this was dead without knowing what exactly that meant- -what the death was that I was
always trying to-escape, the death that the other second lieutenant, the shuddering one I had
thrown myself into a corner of a dugout with, hadn't escaped.
It wasn't that I didn't know what she had lost, all her family perhaps, certainly the
home that had been hers since birth,j just that I thought it a bagatelle and she knew this. I was
dizzy, standing there, with the dizziness of my own incomprehension. It was as ifl had
entered this great concourse ofthe dead and yet remained lively and loquacious in its midst. I
felt numbed and the numbness was in every bone and I couldn't return to an earlier time when
this numbness was absent because I couldn't remember it, especially that laughing boy our
almost daily self-taunting chant was about.
No wonder I had long ago drawn a line under my past, written finis under it. I knew
exactly what I was doing then, wouldn'tyou say? IfI was now pondering suicide -an active
vigorous and spectacular suicide- -wasn't that just one more logical step?


The Italian light brings the most forlorn of scenes to life but it could do nothing for
Cassino. The sky, usually SO close, SO part of everything you did, laid heavy mourning hands
on this hill, deepening the silence of the numberless dead under their quick-lime winding
sheet.
I didn'tyet know that I had come to terrible decisions. Least of all that my thought of
graduating as a soldier had only one meaning. Only slowly did I come to know that I had
resolved to die in the campaign that awaited us.
And I would make a mark, I would go out with glory. I didn't know what the glory
was to be. But one thing was clear that my present fitness and stamina were at the service
of trying to die.
It would have to be done quickly- I knew we were about to enter the last stage of
the Italian operations- - needed to seize my chance and I knew this chance would come, I
knew life would fit in with my resolve because that resolve was SO deep and sure and
unhesitating..


Nauls
Reviews: HELLEBORE THE CLOWN
'One ofthe truest novels I have ever read. .An exquisite story.' Nigel Nicolson.
'A remarkably assured performance. Here is a fresh, vigorous and altogether unusual talent. 9
John O'London's.
'It reveals more than a dash of originality and takes the reader to the heart of an unhackneyed
emotional situation." 2 Birmingham Post.
ITALIAN SKETCHES
'It is a real pleasure to come across a quite original book entitled Italian Sketches.
Mr.Rowdon is astonishingly acute in recognising in the Italians a quality which impels them
to spare foreigners embarrassment or mortification. .It is a reliefto read this factual book
about Italy... derived much pleasure from this book and recommend it warmly. {Sir Harold
Nicolson, Observer
Recalls Lawrence's' Twilight in Italy almost uncannily. The perfect antidote to the effusive
outsider's travel book.. The results are superficially glum, but in retrospect, and artistically,
exhilarating, because SO often piercingly accurate and so far under the skin of everyday
appearances that it is really a new reappraisal almost of a new country. Extreme spiritual
delicacy as well as physical sensibility.' ' (Isabel Quigly, Guardian).
'A new writer of importance.. Within a few pages he has established a strong literary
personality. ' R.G.G. Price (Punch)
'He brings a scene instantly and enduringly to life. He is full of variety. His style is
extremely simple: short words and short sentences, yet every now and then he takes off in a
purely literary flight of fancy that carries the reader with it in hilarious or tender acceptance.
(Times Literary Supplement)
The delighted reader forgives him all his prejudices. Endowed with a sharp reporter's eye.'
John Raymond (Sunday Times)
Ifit were possible to explain why Mr.Rowdon's ideas are SO acceptable, it would be possible
to explain Italy---and ift this were possible, nobody would write books about Italy any more.
All books about Italy are frantic attempts to try and understand the nature of the fascination,
and ifMr.Rowdon' s book is one of the best attempts that has been made for many years, this
is because he tries SO deeply to understand and must excite the sympathy of a anyone else
who has tried to do so.'1 Nigel Dennis (Sunday Telegraph)
'A loving, sunlit account. something ofl Lawrence's travel books, something of Durrell's
island books.. like asti spumanti, effervescent and intoxicating out of a bottle.' (New
Statesman)
A ROMAN STREET
THE COLLINS COMPANION GUIDE TO UMBRIA
Mr. Rowdon has written an exceptionally well-informed and entertaining guide. This is an
outstanding travel book.'


THE FALL OF VENICE
'stylish and haunting' New Yorker
THE TALKING DOGS
'One ofthe most remarkable animal books ever written. Some accept it. Others reject it. But
nobody can put it down unfinished. 9 Stanley Dangerfield (Evening News)


Excerpts HELLBORE THE CLOWN:
Excerpts OF SINS AND WINTER:
Excerpts PERIMETER WEST (a parable of the Berlin ruins)
During these three years General Dessman had been Mayor, and he more than anyone was
responsible for the building of the new city out of the ruins, for the electricity supply, for the
cleaning ofthe sewers, for the quick demolitions, for the opening of schools and the
university, for the institution of poor relief, for the charity camps in the forest at Lake End, for
the opening of theatres and cinemas along Main Street, and for the restoration of the vast
Technics factory on the east side of the canal. The new city, much smaller than its
predecessor, extended only to within a mile or SO ofthe frontier-posts---no one like to go
nearer---with the result that it was encircled by a wide belt of ruins, seldom visited and always
silent, which made a kind of protective no man's s land, cutting the city off from its true rulers
and giving people the illusion of safety. This was the Perimeter.
The survivors wore the look of people who did not quite believe in their own existence and
were continually on the alert for a fresh catastrophe. Most of the citizens nowadays were pale,
grey-haired too soon, mute, watchful, thin, and it was as if none of them believed in the
possibility any more of warmth and mercy, in life going on safely, even though they knew
there was no immediate danger of another war
Half the car crashes in the city could have been prevented by braking in time or swerving a
little. But the drivers went towards each other fascinated, gripping their wheels, staring before
them, just as ifthey had always been under an unspoken sentence of death and this at last was
what they had been waiting for SO long, the moment of execution. They seemed not merely to
accept an unnecessary death but to welcome it, as ifthe daily bombardments, the lack of food
afterwards, the horrible occupation, had taught them that they could not be worthy of life,
having attracted to themselves SO much punishment.
At the same time they were cautious to the point of hysteria. Mothers tugged their
children back from the kerb when there was hardly a vehicle in sight. Crowd gathered on the


pavement waiting for the lights to change, then one man in a strange abandon ofwill darted
over to the other side, another followed, then another, until all the crowd was undecided and
began to move this way and that, and the traffic became equally undecided, skidding and
swerving, SO that a disaster came about and the crowd was suddenly fascinated, stilled by the
peculiar silence of death all round them, death whose favourites they were, and the police cars
began to come from the distance sound their bells..
The sight of Perrial with a new girl, standing near the French windows with her, laughing,
touching her hand, leading her out on to the lawn down to the lake's edge, used to make a
certain quick pain come into her stomach, at the very pit. So now, when she had rung
Roquande a second time and there was no answer, this pain came again, and she knew at that
moment, quite positively knew, that the awe she felt for him---her excitement whenever she
was about to meet him---were undeserved and must soon be snatched away from her as
everything else had been since the time of the bombardments. She saw quite clearly, too, that
Jeanie was his equal, not herself. His brown skin, the slim hips and the eyes under which she
felt safer than ever before in her life must return to their tragic elements, as ordained by the
city, proceeding from a husband who did not understand her to disease, to screams, to
sterility, turning from griefto grief. She felt the city as a living presence on the other side of
the lake and hated it for a moment as she might hate a person, for owning her, for having her
as part of its furniture, like the ruins themselves.
and h slipse 8 apt oe
amomerin
Excerpts AFTERWARDS:
T'dj just like to say this, Glen', he murmured, suddenly moving close to me with
energy, I wrote this book Afterwards to save humanity in the event of a nuclear war, and that
went all over the world as my advocating nuclear war. Now I wouldn't mind if people knew
what I meant by the Afterwards but they don't. They think I mean after the bomb falls---in the
future. But I don't! I mean now. Remember what Macbeth said after his first murder--"*From
this instant there's nothing serious in mortality"? And then he says, "All is but toys, grace
and renown is dead" (they weren'ttoo hot on their grammar in those days), "the wine oflife
is drawn". . Think of that, Glen! It's happened to us too! Our murder was Hiroshima. We ate
the apple ofknowledge! We murdered respect for men and women! We're living in the
Afterwards ofthat! Hitler started breaking this respect for human life down with his
extermination camps but that was only a beginning. Now we're right there. We're his children
OK! And we've still got to go on and on, like Macbeth. The murders can'tstop. I'm only
facing facts, trying to see some chance of survival in all this, and even some hope! Old
Macbeth had to murder his friends, we've got to do the same--- we may say we don't want to
but we'll have to, for the same reasons! Macbeth had to create a secret service that spanned all
of Scotland, which was the universe as far as he was concerned. And that's hell! He created
hell. And that's s what we're living in now---hell! And people don't know it. Leastways they
have a hunch about it but very privately. They prefer acting! They try and think they're still in
the Before, and everything's nice and cosy and being looked after like it used to be. Now my
book, he said, out of breath now, 'tries to make 'em face up to hell, rationally. That's what I
mean by the rationalisation of hell. But people won't listen. They'd rather call me a nuclear
nut. Since 1945 the human' s being' s been dead. That's my message, Glen. Print that, ifyou
like. >
'By the way,' 9 Palermo told me, 'your boss still wants to see you for tea this
afternoon."
You mean Grigg?


That's right. At the Northumberland. He looked ready to chew your balls off too.
Anyway, ifhe cuts up rough about a story not appearing tell him in our trade if fyou hire a dog
to bark you don't do the barking for him. That'll knock him to the floor.' :
I felt no apprehension at meeting Grigg SO soon again: it was good to be wanted, even
if they only wanted to wring your neck.
Soon after three I took a taxi to the Northumberland and found him waiting in the tea
lounge over an evening paper. I was certainly getting into the stride of this job---or rather two
jobs.
He faced me with a rigid frown, his chin pushed forward, and said, No morning
story. Why?
You said a story a week. 3
1 said at least a story a week. You might listen to me, if it's no bother.
You'll have to let me work in my own time and my own way,' I [said. They say in
the trade, don't employ a dog to bark and then do the barking yourself.'
The effect was extraordinary. 'OK, do it your own way, Glen, > he said mildly. But
I'm following Palermo's advice, which is to keep on your tail, otherwise you'll sell your soul
all over again to the next buyer.'
'Oh, he said that?"
'But since you've lost your soul, Glen, it don't matter how many times you sell it. A
soul's a played-out luxury, anyway. That's what I appreciate in you, your sheer damned
ability to survive---help yourself to tea, Glen, and if you want to make notes just go ahead.
Now l'm a phenomenon at present struggling between jealousy over my wife and the urge on
my side not only to have a damned good time myself but make her jealous as well, I'm
juggling with these possibilities. And I'm working the problem out to survive. That is, I don't
want to go mad, to lose my wife, to murder anybody. I want my. job, my home, my
satisfactions. So Ijuggle with the possibilities, I'm a survivor. Now I'm talking to you about
this, Glen, because I've given a whole lecture called The Survivor. In a way, he said with a
modest glance at me while I poured myself a cup of tea. 'that's a sort of visionary concept,
it's an idea oft the whole man, a new man. I mean, what the hell have we got at present that
we'd like to keep? Our wives are unfaithful, we feel damned insecure all the time and this
makes us do insecure things, we're slopping and hanging on to each other and pushing each
other down, we wake up in the morning like dead men and go to sleep at night wanting to kill
ourselves, and just as your clever boss says we do succeed, we kill ourselves every day, and
some people are brave enough to go the whole hog and cut their wrists or something, like the
Mouse. By the way,' he said, stopping suddenly, 'how's she making out today?'
'Oh, all right. 9
Won't that interfere with the weather?" I asked him. T've noticed in Italy---
Terrestrial weather, you mean?' he asked with a clever look.
Well, that's the weather we have,' I said.
Why, yes, it could be. It seems that just about anything you do two hundred miles up,
even a mild fart, has some effect the earth is going to feel sooner or later. These are problems,
they mean changes---mostly in people's concepts, and that's what I've chosen as my. job, to
help do the changing. Ifyou can mess up terrestrial weather, you can make it good too! These
things come slowly, Glen, but not So damn slowly as all that, seeing what we've done in the
last twenty years.'
'But what's the point of going to the moon?' I asked him.
The moon?' he said. I ought to charge you tuition fees! What you don't know is wonderful!
Listen, when you put all those smears in the paper about me and mine, do you believe 'em?
Of course you don't! Do I? Of course I don't! Yet you believe any crap they put out to keep
you dazed about heroes getting to the moon and dancing about in space and wondering if
Dante was right and there are white souls up there, whiter than the white ofthe moon!' He
laughed. Yes, I should think not! Oh, you could send someone there. A station maybe, in


time. But damned expensive. A radio telescope can tell you more or less all you need to
know. At least, SO I should guess. No, Glen, the real thing is a laboratory with a panel of men
inside who can see every aspect of the earth from a military point of view, who can prevent
nuclear explosions wherever somebody's mad enough to try, and produce one too, if
it's a case of do-or-die! That's the security I was talking about! That's your "moon"!
Moonshine, more like it! You've got to moonshine for the millions of crumbs all over
the earth sitting on their lazy fat arses watching television. Apparently, they need
moon stories!'
'You mean those flying laboratories are going to have nuclear bombs in them, too?
'What else would I mean?'
'But what' s that got to do with being on the stars talking philosophy and things like
that?' I asked him.
'A hell of a lot, Glen---why don'ty you tackle that cake there?---it's the same thing!
Like you have drugs and splints and transfusions and sterilised air to keep the body going, SO
you've got a system of surveillance in the skies, to keep the earth going! You must imagine
stellar research-groups working and analysing and talking, throwing out their ideas in a kind
of a glorious mess that brings up an absolute cinch ofa theory every now and then, SO that we
land the whole of the universe, or at least our part ofit, in a rethink ofits whole position!
That's science. You can't have science without security. You've got to make things safe for
research, Glen. Ifyou're lax about these things you'll have all these people from the Arabs to
the Indonesians coming out of their caves and using their spears again and scrapping like they
used to over some damned boundary or oilfield or piece of dried up desert that should have
been irrigated a century ago. It's a kind of Greek age all over again, Glen, with Socrates and
those boyfriends ofhis sitting around and talking things out, but doing something about it this
Socrates committed suicide, don't forget.'
Because the State was scared of ideas, that's why! They had no security. They
thought, ifhe's allowed to go swinging around with these new ideas, what's going to happen
to the people, there'll be a revolution! but with security that's no danger. You see what I
mean? In a way, Glen, we've finished with the earth. It was too small for us. Instead of
talking about Ideals and Absolutes and sort of trailing about in the sky (except you couldn't
damn-well see 'em!), we'll actually be there, we'll be sitting there, we'll be able to see it all,
the whole damned universe laid out in front of us! Now ifthat doesn't excite you, Glen, what
Isuggest is you don't fit up to the measurements of present-day life.'
'Oh, well, > I said, aware ofthe sadness in my voice, 'we'll see. >
Excerpts ITALIAN SKETCHES
'He was a small, plump, harassed man, untidily dressed, with frightened eyes, while
his wife was sallow and robust-looking, with a dark and level gaze. They both came from the
Abruzzi, in the mountains. There was an odd cultivation about him, something delicate and
ancient, though fallen into softness and degeneracy. It was difficult to know which of them
governed the household. She had the bigger mouth, and the strong arm. There was something
mocking and relentless in her. But he went on in his soft and mild way, working fast, getting
more and more commissions, and seemed never to take her advice or even listen. He would
shake his head and say, 'Le donne, le donne---!" Women, women, they're wicked, all of
them! She was always saying how she would ask for a deposit, ifshe were making
somebody's clothes for them, or how she wouldn't work late just because some slip of a girl
wanted a ballroom-dress for the following night, or a young man tutto pettinato---and she
would smooth down her hair in an exaggerated way, laughing-wanted to air himself on the
beach at Sorrento for a couple of weeks in a bright summer suit! But he went on letting people
run up bills, confident that, since most of them were foreigners, they were reliable.. .She


would sit leaning on the table in rather a slovenly way, talking about weird and wonderful
things, such as why warts and birth-marks appeared on babies; she said it was due to the
mother's s thoughts before she gave birth. For instance, she herself had thought one day when
her eldest child was six months in the womb, How I would love some strawberries!" and just
at that moment she had happened to scratch herself on the nape of her neck, under her hair;
and her child was born with a mark the shape of a strawberry in that very place, and it was
still there! Guarda--and she showed it to us. Also she had a friend whose mother had thought
about figs while scratching her legs during pregnancy, and this friend had a fig-mark in the
exact place. It was better, she said, not to have too many strong desires when carrying a child,
and to be careful where you scratched. Which may well be true.
She would sit there with a smile, sallow and deep-voiced, and seem to be talking
about known facts that had been established long before life had ever begun; it was always in
the same level, rather hushed voice, with her dark relentlessness at the edge, as ifto say that
life was grim and negative underneath however you looked at it.
Sometimes the tailor would nod silently I agreement, or else he would make a mild,
'No, no!', which she would pounce on at once, giving him examples, What about that
Giorgio Agnello, then, the cousin ofMarco? or Ask Claudia, she'll tell you!' or You heard
that fellow, what was his name, that Alfredo, he said exactly the same, when you were all
playing cards---0, God! don'tyou remember? That night when my sister came in with the
baby!' And he would look across at us with a soft smile, his mouth full of pins, and say,
Queste donne!', his huge tailor's scissors poised to cursome cloth.
Everywhere there were shaved men with dark glasses, seeming to stand or sit in
areas of no time, fixed in their own putrefaction, unaware of anything outside them and
deathly within. All the time we were there I never lost this plague-feeling. Whenever I saw a
man it was like a symbol of the whole putrefaction for me, its very face and image.
In our little square, happily, we didn't get this feeling at all. The owner of the house
showed us into it courteously, then left, asking us to leave the cellar open SO that he would get
to his wood and the wine vats. Then a little festive crowd, mostly women and children,
gathered under our window, talking excitedly. They were very proud and happy. That was on
the evening of our arrival. The children pushed each other, and the women called out across
the square. This was the very end of the town, and its highest point, really a village ofits own.
And perhaps it was the most ancient part, too. The people still had ancient ways. Down below
the rock, where the main street of the town went and where there was a café with a television-
set, people had a more conscious and disabused look. The town stretched across the brow of
an entire hill, and our square was a tiny square on its own. All the time we lived there we kept
meeting people from other parts oft the town who hadn't heard of our arrival, though a
foreigner was hardly ever seen there, even for a brief visit..
At first we used to go down and bathe at a deserted part of the beach, where there was
clear sand, with rough bushes behind and a pebbly roadway. We had to undress behind one of
the bushes. At first hardly anyone else was there. Men passing in lorries and small vans on the
pathway turned their sad, black eyes towards us, with the familiar numbed sexual curiosity---
the curiosity of prisoners. Hardly anywhere in Italy can men keep their eyes off women
women; they follow every part oft their body, as the women expose themselves more. The
gaze is desperate, like that of someone behind barbed wire; it has the same dumb and bleak
curiosity--ofthe: starved individual. It isn'tat all sensuous, really. Sometimes it's deliberately
insulting---a man may approach a woman, go to within a foot of her, and stare flatly between
her breasts---almost toluching her, in desperation. But it is always sad in some way. Even
when a man jeers at a woman, or baits her, he has something defeated in him, as ifshe must
overcome him in the end. On our second and third day at the beach there were youths on
bicycles, passing to and fro along the path. But we paid no attention to them, and never
connected their presence with our bathing. Then on a Saturday we decided to undress near the
car, under some trees, a few yards from the path inland, and not on the beach. Only after we


denorphyo: dhabicfhu
undressed did we begin to feel the strange nakedness of being surrounded by countryside. Yet
we only had to walk a few yards to the edge of the sea, where we wouold no longer feel at all
naked. This tiny difference made something of a stir nearby. A youth passed on a motor-cycle
just as Annette was pulling her costume over her breasts. He slowed up, in the blind Italian
fashion, not quite thinking ofhimself as present or a spectator in any way, not really part of
the scene but hidden, and stared slowly towards us. Then he took a path inland to get closer,
and stared again. Once more he went along the main path, and brought back a friend as we
were walking towards the beach. We felt all this at the edge of our consciousness, being used
b t.stares and also to staring at other people in our turn. But in this staring there was a certain
gloating morbidity and disgust- as ift they were masturbating and using our bodies, or rather
Annette's. The youths passed in front of us several times. They would naturally think of
Annette as flaunting herself deliberately. Among the peasants, on the whole, it is still
unthinkable for a girl to show her body publicly. And that censure remains, a lurking verdict
at the back of the mind, even on the beaches, part of the excitement of seeing a woman in a
bathing dress. Then as we got up to go, towards the path, another youth drew out of the
bushes, as ifhe'd been waiting there for some time, close to where we usually changed,
hidden. Perhaps he'd been watching us on the previous day, waiting for the precise moment
when Annette lowered the straps of her bathing dress! But we didn't draw back in
embarrassment. He simply stared at us as if we weren't present.
Excerpts A ROMAN STREET:
We got back four or five months ago and it already feels like years. The flat always seems
bare when we come into it at first. The corridor gives the immediate bare impression, its
floor-tiles uncovered, with the hot weather in mind. And then the big room overlooking the
courtyard at the back seems large and empty, too, at first: in winter the thick blue carpet is
down, covering the whole floor, and there are the long yellow curtains; but in the summer we
gradually get used to the bare floors, with their black, grey and terracotta tiles fro0m the
fifteenth century, shaped like cubes, with five sides...
'Being on the top floor, the rooms burn in the summer and either freeze or leak in the winter.
This winter we had quite a bad leak from the roof upstairs where the water-tanks are kept and
where the tenants hang out their washing. It made a grey, black-green mark of fungus on our
white wall,just above the curtain, and we asked the man in charge of the whole house-- -the
leader ofthe condominio, a committee of owners---to look after us. The condominio is
supposed to see to all repairs, and to pay the portiera who sits in her tiny office close to the
massive wooden entrance. There used to be no condominio when our landlady owned the
whole house: she left everything to Fate, which worked out well because you did all your own
repairs without asking. She is a fine old woman in her nineties who wears a wig of flaming
red hair and speaks with a remarkable clarity and assurance, like an eighteenth-century book.
Her flat was in the eighteenth-century style, too: she received one in a small armchair with a
rounded but very upright back, just big enough to sit in, and she would make you feel like a
character in The School for Scandal.
The view from the roof is marvellous, when you have anything to do up there: you can see
St. Peter's S just across the river like a pencil drawing, with the Vatican radio-mast behind it on
the hill, blinking red; and there are the thick, dark-green trees of the Gianiculum 9 which
would make a nice park ifthere wasn' 't a road running through it; then the pastel shades of the
new quarter of Monte Mario, the highest hill in Rome, with, close by, most curious and
fascinating of all, because they look like a natural landscape in the sun---a sort of desert---the
numberless tiled roofs all round, the colour of sun-bleached sand, and the arched brick walls,
the little balconies and terraces jutting out everywhere.


Books to date at 12/01/10
http:/webmail.aol.com/30361-111/aol-1/en-us/mail/PrintMessage.aspx
Caduceus,Simon Best, 9 Nine Acres MIDHURST GU29 9EP United Kingdom
Spirit & Destiny, Sandra Walsh, Academic House 24-28 Oval Road LONDON NW1 7DT United Kingdom
Penny Gray, Ed, Healtcare Counselling and Psychotherapy Journal. The Old Music Hall, 106-108 Cowley Road, Oxford
OX4 1JE
GENERAL
Ben Hoare, Ed, BBC Wildlife Magazine, 14 Floor, Tower House, Fairfax St, Bristol BS1 3BN (received, but won't be
'reviewing)
Caspar Melville New Humanist. 1 Gower St London WC1E 6HD (REVIEW)
David Lorimer Scientific and Medical Network Gibliston Mill Colinsburgh Leven Fife KY9 1JS (REVIEW)
Geordie Torr, Ed., Geographical Magazine 1 Victoria Villas Richmond Surrey TW9 2GW
Pèter Furtado:Ed., History Today 20 Old Compton St London W1D 4TW
Ji Chamary, Books Ed FOCUS:Magazine Origin Publishing 14th Floor, Tower House Fairfax St Bristol BS1 3BN
Matthew Iredale Philosophers Magazine, 346 Gosbrook Road, Caversham, Reading RG4 8EG
Sue Wingrove, Books Ed., BBC History Magazine Origin Publishing Tower House, 5rh Floor Fairfax
St BristolBS1 3BN
Emily Read Books Review'Ed., Standpoint Magazine 11 Manchester Square London W1V 3PW
Prospect Magazine; Hilly Janes
Dr Leslie Jones, Ed, Quarterly Review, The Lodge, 199 South Ealing Road, London W5 4RH
Fiametta Rocco, Economist (REVIEW??)
Hilly Janes, Prospect
David Musgrove,BBC History Magazine
RELIGION- emailed: all these.
Steve Tomkins Dep Ed, Third Way Magazine 13-17 Long Lane Barbican London EC1A 9PN
Dr. Jonathan Bartley, Ekklesia 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John St London EC1V 4PY
Science and Christian Belief Denis Alexander 77 Beaumont Rd Cambridge CB1 8PX
The Revd Dr Rodney Holder, Science and Christian Belief 48 Oxford Road
Cambridge CB4 3PW
Sally Fraser Church Times (GJ Palmer), 13-17 Long Lane, London EC1A9PN
Revd Anthony Freeman Man Ed, Journal of Consciousness Studies Imprint Academic Chapel Road Brampford
Speke Exeter EN5 5HE
Sue Gaisford The Tablet 1 King St Cloisters Clifton Walk London W6 OQZ
Dinah Livingstone Ed, Sea of Faith Magazine 10'St Martins Close London NW1 OHR
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks clo Mr Zaki Cooper Office of the Chief Rabbi Adler House 735 High Road London N12 OUS
Kindred Spirit Richard Beaumont Foxhole Dartington Totnes TQ9 6EB
BBC R 4, producer of Something Understood
PHILOSOPHY emailed all
Julian Baggini The Philosophers Magazine 26 Alma Court Bristol BS28 2HH (UNLIKELY REVIEW)
Denise Winn Editor, Human Givens 11 Dewsbury Road London NW10 1EL (SHORT REVIEW)
LITERARY EDITORS -
Boyd Tonkin Literary Editor'ndependentNorthcliffe House 2 Derry St London W8 5TT
Claire Armitstead Literary Editor The. Guardian 90 York Way London N1 9GU
Joanna Biggs Editor London Review of Books 28-30 Little Russell St London WC1A 2HN (received)
Rosie Blau Literary Editor The Financial Times 1 Southwark Bridge London SE1 9HL
Suzi Feay Literary Editor Independent on Sunday Northcliffe House 2 Derry St London W8 5TT
Andrew Holgate Literary EditorSunday' Times 1 Pennington St London E1 9XN
Jonathan Derbyshire. Culture Editor New Statesman 91-93 Charterhouse St London EC1M 6HR
Jenny Mayer Books Ed- Nature Macmillan Building 4-6 Crinan St London N1 9XW
Maren Meinhardt Editor Times Literary Supplement Times House 1 Pennington St London E98 1BS
Michael Prodger Literary Editor The Sunday Telegraph 111 Buckingham Palace Road London SW1
Karen Shook Times Higher Education 26 Red Lion Square London WC1R 4HQ
William Skidelsky Literary Editor The Observer 90 York Way London N1 9GU
Nancy Sladek Literary Review 44 Lexiington St London W1F OLW
Erica Wagner Literary Editor The Times 1 Pennington St London E1 9XN
Eleanor Harris, Books Ed., New Scientist Lacon House 84 Theobalds Road London WC1X 8NS
SCIENCE CORRESPONDENTS national press don't think this is for them but will follow up in my own way soon.


Books to date at 12/01/10
http://webmail.aol.com/30361-111/aol-1/en-us/mail/PrintMessage.aspx
FURTHER IDEAS from sleuthing on the internet:
At James Martin Institute for Science and Civilization on Biodiversity: Science and Religion on 2 November 2009:
Dame Jessica Rawson Chinese approach to religion and biodiversity (Warden, Merton College)
Ms Claire Foster - enhancing respect for biodiversity within the Church of England (National Adviser on Environmental
Affairs, Church of England)
Dri Mary Colwell Roman Catholic approach - through religion that behavioural changes were likely to start. (Natural
History Unit, BBC)
Dr Fazlun Khalid, Director, Islamic Foundation for Ecology and Environmental Sciences "only religion to have held out
against Puritanism (banking, industrialisation)
Mr Alex Kirby Journalist
Neil Norman, Susannah Macmillan and Shura Shihvarg (all knew Maurice and his work very well) are helping me with a list
of people to whom the book should go and a list for the launch. To give you some examples, they say the book should
interest
Annabel Huxley
Science Programming and PR
annabel.huxey@googlemail.com
4. of4


Books to date at 12/01/10
htp:/webmail.aol.com/30361-111/aol-1/en-us/mail/PrintMessage.aspx
From: Annabel Huxley <annabel.huxle@googlemail.com>
To: edhill@glartists.com; rowdluce@aol.com
Subject: Books to date at 12/01/10
Date: Tue, Jan 12, 2010 4:55 pm
THE APE OF SORROWS
çopies sent to date are in blue/bold; @ 12. Jan 1 2010
Prof Richard Fortey, Palaeontologist, Natural History Museum, Cromwell Road, London SW7 5BD.
i.fortey@nhm.ac.uk-
SirDavid'Attenborough,51 Park Road, Richmond, TW10 6NS, received with letter of thanks
Karen Armstrong 21 Charlton Place London N1 8AQ
Richard Chartres Bishop of London The Old Deanery Deans Court London EC4U 5AA, environmentalist too.
Received with letter of thanks
Roger Scruton, philosopher, Sunday Hill Farm, Brinkworth , Wiltshire SN15 5AS
Prof Simon Conway Morris FRS Department of Earth Sciences J University of Cambridge , Downing Street,
ÇAMBRIDGE ,, CB2 3EQ
Pr Chris Stringer, Paleontology Dept, Natural History Museum, Cromwell Rd, SW7 5BD email:
b.stringer@hm.ac.uk
Paul Robertson, The Old Farm House, Hermongers, Rudgwick, W. Sussex, RH12 3AL. musician and writer,
medieval mind (Music Mind Spirit)
A N Wilson
Bryan Appleyard, 29 Kensington Heights, 91-95 Campden Hill Rd, W8 7BD, received with thanks
Kenan Malik, (author of Man, Beast and Zombie), received with thanks,
Richard Dawkins, 24 Bradmore Rd Oxford
'lan Hislop Ed., Private Eye, 6 Carlisle Street, London W1D 3BN
Ruth Padell, poet and writer,
A.C. Grayling Dept of Philosophy Birkbeck College University of London 14 Gower St London WC1E 6DP
(by hand)
F October Gallery, for the library emailed their thanks.
TO DO
Archbishop of Canterbury, Lambeth Palace, SE1 7JU
Theodore Zeldin The Oxford Muse, School Buildings - Ferry Hinksey Road, Oxford OX2 OBY
Rupert Sheldrake, PhD., 20 Willow Rd, London NW3 1TJ (emailed, no response)
Peter Russell, author, website "The Spirit of Now", 3020 Bridgeway, PMB 307,
Sausalito, CA 94965
Prof Richard Schoch History and Culture Queen Mary, University ofl London Mile End Rd London E1 4NS (emailed, no
response)
Philip Blond, political thinker
Desmond Morris
Emailed all following. Not intending to follow up.
Prof Raymond Tallis, humanist and philosopher (too busy to review)
Dr. Jonathan Miller, 63 Gloucester Cresent, London NW1 7EG (PR and letter)
John Carey emailed pr and offered book for review
ASI Byatt 37 Rusholme Rd Putney London Sw15 3LS (emailed, no response)
AS Byatt, 37 Rusholme Rd Putney London Sw15 3LS
Dr Susan Blackmore 31 Berkeley Road Bristol BS7 8HF
Prof Colin Blakemore University Laboratory ofl Physiology Parks Road Oxford OX1 3PT
Moyra Bremner 1 Lambourne Avenue London Sw19 7DW
John Cornwell Home Farm House Draughton Northampton NN6 9JQ
Prof David Papineau 48 Montpelier Grove London NW5 2XG
Fern Elsdon-Baker, writer and scientist
Philip Frances Schumacher college for the library
ENVIRONMENT CORRESPONDENTS
Richard Girling, Primrose Fram, The Street, Hindringham,. Fakenham, Norfolk NR1 OPR
Mark Anslow and Laura Sevier, Ecologist Mag Unit 102, Lana House Studios 116-118 Commercial St London
E1 6NF email: reviews@theecologist.org
"Ms Fiona Harvey Environmental Correspondent, Financial Times
l0 of4


Books to date at 12/01/10
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Louise Gray Environment Correspondent Daily Telegraph 111 Buckingham Palace Rd London SW1
Charles. Clover Sunday Times/crhclover@gmail.com
Michael McCarthy, Environment Editor, Independent, Northcliffe House, 2 Derry St, Kensington, London W8 5TT
Richardi Mabey, Mazzard, Snow Street, Roydon, DISS, Norfolk IP22 5SB
Paul Heiney, 6 Arthur St, Oxford OX2 OAS - Farmer and environmentalist
ENVIRONMENT VIPs AND ACTMSTS
Rt Hon. John:Gummer MP, Director, Quality of Life Policy Group, House of Commons , London SW1A OAA Email:
info@qualityoflifechallenge.com
Zac Goldsmith, as above
George Moribiot, Y Goeden Eirin, Newtown Rd, Machynlleth, Powys SY20 8EY
Jonathan' Porritt Forum for the Future, Overseas House19-23 Ironmonger Row
London EC1V 3QN (Forum for the Future) "looks fascinating!"
Prince Charles, Prince's Trust, received with letter of thanks
Friends of the Earth, Publications Manager, 26-28 Underwood Street, London N1 7JQ
James Lovelock(Biologist)clo Kate Farquhar-Thomson, Publicity Director, Oxford University Press, Great
Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP
Michael Meacher'MP at House of Commons
Caroline Lucas (Green Party MEP)Caroline Lucas, MEP Green Party Suite 58, The Hop Exchange ,24 Southwark
Street, London SE1 1TY
James Lovelock, Coombe Mill, St Giles on the Heath, Launceston, PL15 9RY
ANIMAL RIGHTS send with literary eds in Jan
Programme Director, Animal Aid," The Old Chapel, Bradford Street, Tonbridge, Kent TN9 1AW
Animal Concern - anti vivisection. email: animals@ifrobins.force9.co.uk
Scientific Coordinator, Dr Katy"Taylor, BUAV , 16a Crane Grove, London, N7 8NN, Telephone: +44(0)20 7700 4888,
Email: info@buav.org (British Union for the Abol of Vivisection)
Jan Creamer 5 Chief Executive of the National Anti-Vivisection Society, Millbank Tower Millbank, LONDON, SW1P
Advocates for Animals, 10 Queensferry Street, Edinburgh, Scotland, EH2 4PG, Telephone: +44 (0)131 225 6039
Dr'Hadwen Trust for Humane Research, 18 Market Place, Hitchin, Herts SG5 1DS
DrSebastien Farnaud, Scientific Director, Dr HAdwen Trust, School of Biosciences, University of Westminster,
London.
World Wildlife Foundation Tom Dillon, Senior Vice Presdient Field Programmes, and Judy Oglethorpe, MD,
People and Conscervation: WortdWildlife.Fund 1250 Twenty-Fourth Street, N.W. P.O. Box 97180 Washington, DC
Publications Director, Sea Shepherd UK, Argyle House, 1 Dee Road, Richmond-Upon-Thames, Surrey TW9 2JN
RSPCA, Elaine Deloran Ed., Animal Life, RSPCA Wilberforce Way, Southwater, Horsham, W Sussex RH13 9RS
Richard Leakey, Roverside Drive, PO Box 24467, Nairobi, Kenya
Director, Respect For Animals, PO Box 6500, Nottingham, NG4 3GB : emailed them.
David Shepherd CBE DSWF 61 Smithbrook Kilns, Cranleigh, Surrey GU6 8JJ
Joanna Lumley, clo Conway Van Gelder, Ltd. 18-21 Jermyn Street. 3rd Floor. London, SW1Y 6HP (Patron Dr
Hadwen Trust)
John Humphries, Today programme, BBC R 4, Portland Place, London W1A 1AA (patron Dr Hadwen Trust)
Stella McCartney Ltd, Chalegrove House 34-36 Perrymount Road 9 Haywards Heath , West Sussex RH16 3DN
(vegetarian and patron, Dr Hadwen Trust)
Professor JM Coetzee, English Department, University of Adelaide, SA 5005, AUSTRALIA
Alèx Pacheco, Co-Founder, PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) 501 Front St., Norfolk, VA 23510
Stephen Budiansky, Black Sheep Farm, 14605 Chapel Lane, Leesburg, Virginia VA 22076 emailed him, no
answer
Jane Goodall, emailed the Institute in USA
IDA Africa sent email (In Defense of Animals)
YOu are doing: Prof Peter Singer, University Center for Human Values, Princeton University, 5 Ivy Lane, Princeton, NJ
MONTHLY/MAGAZINES
HEALTH/PSYCHOLOGY emailed them,. will follow up
Kate Osborne, Kindred Spirit, Unit 2 Lynher House, 3 Bush park Plymouth PL6 7RG
Rebecca Smith, Psychologies Magazine, 64 North Row, London W1K 7LL


Re: books sent to date
http://webmail.aol.com/30361-111/aol-1/en-us/mail/PrintMessage.aspx
Dearest Dachiell,
Thanks for the list.
Irena is still woozy, but is feeling better. She & I (mostly her) suggest trying:
BBC Radio Four
'Moral Maze' with Michael Buerk, Melanie Philips, Roger Saruton etc. 'Front Row' with Mark Lawson, Kirsty Lang
'In Our Time' with Melvyn Bragg
'Beyond Belief religious & spiritual issues
'Something Understood' religious & spiritual issues
People:
'Franny. Armstrong, Director of 'Age of Stupid' & creator of 10:10 initiative
: Pete Postlethwaite, star of "Age of Stupid'
David: Béllamy-environmentalist
Anthropologists, apart from Desmond Morris We will contact Caterina, who is in Boston doing research at the Harvard
Medical School, to see if she can give us some names from the anthropology world in Cambridge University where she
studied it.
Anthropology is certainly a part of what Maurice is writing about.
The wikipedia definition is: 'Anthropology's basic questions concemn: "What defines Homo sapiens?" "Who are the ancestors
of modem Homo sapiens?" "What are humans' physical traits?" "How do humans behave?" "Why are there variations and
differences among different groups of humans?" "How has the evolutionary past of Homo sapiens influenced its social
organization and culture?" and SO forth.'
We are starting a list of others who we know personally to send invitations for the launch. Do you know yet
approximately what will be the form of the launch?
Will reply tomorrow to your second email
Very best wishes ...Edward and Irena
rowdluce@aol.com wrote:
Dear Edward, the names in bold received books before Christmas. >
Annabel has yet to send me a list for those she sent afterwards. I am > contacting her again tomorrow if it doesn't come by
then.
--Original Message--
From: Annabel Huxley <annabel.huxley@googlemail.com>
To: rowdluce@aol.com
Sent: Thu, Dec 10, 2009 5:08 am
Subject: books sent to date
Dear Dachiell, I'm sorry not to have got this sent off yesterday.
Here >> we are to date. There is more to do with regard to animal > behaviourists - I can send them but they aren't usually
in a position > to review. I'll do some more phone calls in person this week and > update, especially on the literary editors.
all the best, Annabel
THE APE OF SORROWS
copies sent to date; @ 10 Dec 09
of10


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
SYNOPSIS/FORWARD TO THE DEATH
Why another WW2 book?
Because this is not a standard or usual military
history in any way. Military histories are reasonable
and ordered. That is already a falsification of
every moment of frontline warfare.
Just as the war poets gave the only truthful,
live account of frontline warfare in World War One,
SO it is that the second 1939-45 genocide also
requires a literary pen.
My script, while as accurate in its details as a
military history, is an eye-witness account of the
Italian campaign from a literary author whose
published non-fiction titles have specialised in
Italian subjects.
My job in the two-year Italian campaign (from my
20th to 22nd year) was that of a Forward Observation
Officer required to be at the spearhead of attacks
and even beyond them at times, with the possibility
of getting lost in enemy lines, which happened to me
and my handful of men more than once.
In living fact the front line is devoid of any
reason whatever. Shock renders reason out of the
question. The 'advances' and 'retreats', 'victories'
and 'cowardice' and 'courage' of military language
are therefore illusory concepts used to dress up the
corpse and temper the scream. They are the progeny of
press-room and military academy. Shock in the front
line is responsible for the highest proportion of
casualties, despite being called 'non-battle' in
nature. These men must be withdrawn. The state of


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
shock cannot be spoofed. At its extreme (of total
muscular paralysis) it is called shellshock'.
Thus my account the Italian campaign from the
receiving end. The wanton sacrifice involved in that
campaign, its simply staggering body-count, is
witnessed here---felt, not totted up afterwards as a
round figure which will never reach public view. This
'sacrifice' was not imposed on us soldiers by our
army commanders. It was imposed on the commanders.
This is why the commander chiefly responsible for our
high body-count constantly urged his superiors to end
the Italian campaign---right from its beginning.
Every 'fact' we have inherited about WW2 falls
away in my account not under the weight of argument
but that of events, as if the war itself were anxious
to achieve self-demolition, being only words and
attitudes.
The most elementary current 'truth' about that
war, such as that it was a war against Hitler and
nazism, is seen off in my book not as a lie but as
simply impossible given the events.
The Italian campaign
When the Hygiene Unit of the Royal Medical
Corps, whose duty it was to clean up after a battle,
walked into Cassino they were appalled to
speechlessness by the carnage. There was nothing to
do but cover the corpses in quicklime.
I describe in my account how I stand alone in
that town, surrounded by this ghostly hillside pall,
and how I plan a suicide 'with glory' in a future
battle. And indeed that battle did take place.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Not that my decision was in the least unique.
One of the bestsellers of the early war years was
Richard Hillary's book The Last Enemy. He was a
fighter pilot and wrote of his wish to defeat that
last enemy, death. He was shot to his death soon
afterwards.
His was a simple psychological response at a
certain point of battle maturity. But it is a body
sensation, not a thought. Once you have So to speak
broken the code of shock it seems obvious to you that
you should now offer your own life.
The Italian terrain was in its nature designed
for maximum shock---sudden little chasms, sharp hills
and streams, copses and slopes and unexpected open
plains, all in a narrow peninsula through which whole
armies and their supply echelons had to pass. They
made it possible for absurdly small forces of Germans
to face without alarm our (press term) 'shattering'
bombardments (a thousand tons was a trifle) plus the
head-on divisional or two-divisional attacks that we
followed them up with.
The worst carnage at Cassino, disposing of
several divisions (the New Zealanders were
disbanded), was inflicted by two German battalions.
Such a terrain would naturally call for small
bodies of men to infiltrate it with simultaneous
flank actions. No such thing in the Italian campaign.
The strategy adopted from the bottom of the peninsula
to the top was heavy armoured frontal attacks which
committed to battle the maximum forces-- -and if these
were defeated the strategy was simply repeated, and


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
this for two long years, as if self-immolation on the
grandest scale was the Italian campaign's sole
function.
Only in the second half of that campaign, from
Tuscany up, when we on the ground begin to have more
control of events, could small-scale engagements take
place, and the fronts move fast.
In such a terrain it was absurdly easy for the
wily German commander Kesselring to prepare his traps
for us. He could build his defence lines at leisure
while we were still pounding away at his last
previous one.
Hitler at first wanted to abandon Italy but once
he recognised, watching Kesselring's performace, that
frightful casualties could be inflicted on us at very
little cost in men and material he concurred with
warmth.
The narrative
The army textbooks referred to us F.0.0.S as
'the eyes of the army'. That is, we provided up-to-
the-moment intelligence about where the front line
was (always a puzzle when an attack is under way),
and what enemy dispositions we were facing, and how
formidable or otherwise they were.
But my practical importance for the infantry was
very different---I could call up artillery support at
a moment's notice by radio. That is, all F.0.0.S were
gunner officers.
My account is the story of how I mastered the
work of F.0.0. by slow degree, that is learned to
manage and even utilise states of shock in a terrain


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
that made it impossible to pre-empt or foresee the
nature of a new engagement. Also these states could
at any time turn into shellshock, of which they are a
sustainable version. Both are a state of alienation,
only related to madness.
There lies the wisdom of committing the very
young to the front lines. Only they can accept the
journey into death and out again with equanimity
because life has not yet spelled itself out to them
as it has to older men. They have not yet been told
that they are rational.
So their nervous systems quickly attune to
conditions that might drive older men to run
screaming at enemy positions and be mown down at once
(I mention two such).
The frontline soldier's first experiences will
shake his very conviction that he is alive. The
miraculous escapes which happen if he does survive
convince him that this is not an earthly process.
Only the youthful nervous system can withstand this
disruption of what we call reality. Again, body
sensations, not thoughts, are involved.
When the 'suicide' battle I planned for myself
at Cassino came to pass (you await with perfect
certainty the fulfilment of your previews) I had to
take command of over sixty men when their commanding
officer succumbed to shellshock. We were in an
untenable position, sticking out into enemy
territory, their tanks at very close range.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
For this action I was cited for gallantry and
felt an embarrassed pride struggling with the deepest
shame inside me. The wish for death had failed.
Preparation/background
I published an account of these battles (Chatto
and Windus, rights now reverted) in the years
immediately after the war. It was a confused cri de
coeur against 'the murder', without awareness (as I
see it now) of what really went on inside me. I tried
to convey my thoughts, troubled or horrified, but
thoughts have little importance in the front line
except as the froth on top of body sensations.
Certainly that earlier book has been a useful
basis of recall for me. It gives me a graphic account
of some things I remember only vaguely, while there
are also scenes and nuances I remember clearly which
it omitted.
In the late Sixties and Seventies I picked up
every book I could find that dealt with the events of
WW2 with serious scholarship---and soon an entire
literature was available. And since I had an Oxford
war-time degree in Modern History and a post-war one
in PPE (philosophy, politics and economics) I felt
well equipped to research my subject swiftly and
deeply.
It was in that period that I became for
publishers something of a specialist on Italy, where
I mostly lived. My books were about many aspects of
Italy---the art, history, people. And through these I
became a specialist of the Italian terrain, which in
turn gave me growing insight into exactly what the


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
war experience was about. For more than twenty years
I had a farm producing wine and oil. And slowly,
through years of Italian talk and transaction, I came
to know the civilisation we had made war in. And this
perhaps was the greatest help of all.
Conclusion
This narrative offers no easy conclusion about
the nature of war. It says that to go out on the
streets for or against war is like going out on the
streets for or against thunderstorms.
Wars cannot be launched easily when governments
are under close press surveillance, as in the case of
the present Iraq war. Yet this war is no different
from any other. It was only presented with unusual
carelessness. The press rooms were simply not
supplied with usable material (I describe press-rooms
as 'the engines of war'). They were therefore reduced
to their manly 'I/we am/aren't against war as such
but..' cliché. It is silly to say that war is based on
lies. Truth is simply not its business.
It does seem in the course of my narrative that
the sole place to look for war is the human mind.
What could possibly create a demented scene but
dementia?
And, naturally, only when this dementia is
properly observed can it be named---and perhaps
examined.
Length: 70.000 words.


The Host
Who is the host
who in morning ablutions
secures your happiness,
brings news ofs serpents to unsuspecting husbands
working in the garden,
and ordains that at table,
among the chink of glass,
you shall not grow old?
Who is the host that tunes the voice
to sweetly differentiate in evening dialogue
the male and the female?
Who shakes the earth like a head ofhair
Who wanders with the bear
Who signals at night to the lost
and comes to the window
uninvited like the sound of leaves
who lies down by lovers
and rises with the dead
who rouses old men with a morning cup of tea
engaging them with whispers
full of a wit that we would think black
who drives at speed in strange vehicles
and is seen for a moment
and then denied
and dances sometimes under trees
without apparent awareness of audience
who hugs an old friend
and later reveals that they never met
who is my lover
who is my father


who dances for me
who recognises me
who floods the house with light
and will if he is lost return
whose touch is SO much
I complain ofi its not
being there on the sheet
turned back at night
and whose touch is sO slight
it fills my lonely court
so perfectly with light
that no host is sought


Maurice Rowdon
'A new writer ofimportance' - Punch
'Endowed with a sharp reporter'scye'
i Sunday Times
'He can describe what he sees and hears
with an unpretentious immediacy that
brings a scene: instantly and enduringlyto
life' - Times Literary Supplement
"All books about Italy are frantic attempts
to try and understand the nature ofits
fascination, and if Mr Rowdon's book
(Italian Sketches) is one ofthe best attempts
that has been made for many years, thisis
because he tries SO deeply to understand and
must excite the sympathy ofanyone else
who has tried to do so' -w Suniay Telegraph
'A loving, sunlit account - C something of
Lawrence's travel books, something of
Durrell's island books . a like the chatter of
an opera recitative, like asti. spumare
gurgling effervescent and intoxicating out
ofa bottle ' New Statesman


Maurice Rowdon, a Londoner, has livedfor
many. years in Italy and his books on that country
have won wide critical acclaim.
THE FALL OF VENICE
The new book is a bold and vigorous one, and
though true to its title is written with such
enthusiasm that one cannot help concluding
that to fall is happier than to rise.'
NIGEL DENNIS Sunday Telegraph
Mr Rowdon is fortunate, because after reading
his enthralling essays one can still return to
Venice and see SO much that has survived the
CYRIL CONNOLLY Sunday Times
'Stylish and haunting'
New Yorker
ITALIAN SKETCHES
'Itis a real pleasure to come across a quite
original book on Italy . I derived much
pleasure from it.'
SIR HAROLD NICOLSON The Observer
'So often piercingly accurate and so far under
the skin ofe everyday appearances that iti is really
a new appraisal almost ofa new country'
ISABEL QUIGLEY The Guardian
Within a couple of pages he has established a
strong literary personality'
Punch
A ROMAN STREET
I am quite delighted with it. It catches the very
voice and breath ofl Rome'
J.I. M. STEWART
'A first-class daily-life writer and all the
Romanists will want to read him.. - Every word
ofit rings true . reminds us ofLawrence'
BERNARD WALL The Observer
THE COMPANION GUIDE TO
UMBRIA
Mr Rowdon has written an exceptionally well-
informed and entertaining guide. This is an
outstanding travel book.'
Eastern Daily Press


Profile Books
58A Hatton Gardens
London EC1N 8LX
Maurice Rowdon
44 Brookwood Road
London SW18 5BY


Maurice Rowdon
44 Brookwood Road London SW18 5BY U.K.
e-mail: rowdoxy@aol.com
Andrew Franklin
Profile Books
58A Hatton Gardens
London EC1N 8LX
THE LIES WE DIE FOR [working title]
Notes on a lying time 1939-45
Dear Andrew Franklin:
My function between the ages of 20 and 22, after
I had ' done my first year at Oxford, was that of an
FOO or Forward Observation Officer in the Italian
campaign, namely a gunner officer who accompanied
forward troops and was described in the manuals as
'the eyes of the army'. The FOO is perhaps best seen
as a kind of sentinel perdu who easily gets lost in
enemy lines, being nose to nose with the enemy on a
front that changes too fast for Intelligence reports
of even an hour aggto be accurate.
My book, while,wholly an account of battle, is
an analysis of what war is-I believe the first to
refuse war the status of an institution, namely a
habit with a legitimate place in human life. I-accord
war-no dignity, no serious or useful quality.
Accounts of battle that are essays in heroism (I was
decorated) or suspense or rightness are simply more
deception. Battle is more connected to dementia than
to any of the many surrogate ideals used to conceal
this connection. Battle is a story of shock in its
many variations, the cataleptic one being the rarest,
namely shell-shock.
uhs ueg ng w ar,
World War 2 was created with lies
transparent
that I conclude that their transparency
what made
pfas
them convincing: just as Gobbels said. The lies
within Churchill's famous 'beaches' speech were So
shameless that of course it 'rallied' no one. Would
you read this?i enclose some reviews and SAE.
Length:75.000 words.
With best wishes
sth


aw To:
rutlomit J
TTi
dern
buitt :srl
lo; 1orro?.
iy S
suer rr't
Bre i is Hre accptaies 2li n -
deafu levrl than Hue
suphin,
u all hv mahe ww
seltaal dimplen i 1 uies


die Maurice Rowdon, a Londoner, has livedfor
manyyearsin Italy and his books on that country'
have won wide critical acclaim.
Maurice Rowdon
THE FALL OF VENICE
'A new writer ofimportance' - Punch
'The new book : is a bold and vigorous one, and
'Endowed with a sharp reporter's eye'
though true to its title is written with such
- Sunday Times
enthusiasm that one cannot help concluding
that to fall is
than
'He can describe what he sees and hears
happier to rise.'
NIGEL DENNIS Sunday Telegraph
with an unpretentious immediacy that
brings a scenei instantly and enduringly to
'Mr Rowdon is fortunate, because after reading
life' - Times Literary Supplement
his enthralling essays one can still return to
Venice and see SO much that has survived the
'All books about Italy are frantic attempts
to try and understand the nature ofits
CYRIL CONNOLLY Sunday Times
fascination, and ifMr Rowdon's book
Stylish and haunting' New Yorker
(Italian Sketches)is one of thel best attempts
that has been made for many years, this is
ITALIAN SKETCHES
because he tries so deeply to understand and
'Itis a real pleasure to come across a
quite
must excite the sympathy ofanyone else
original book on Italy I derived much
who has tried to do so' - Sunday Telegraph
pleasure from it.'.
'A loving, sunlit account something of
SIR HAROLD NICOLSON The Observer
Lawrence's travel books, something of
So often piercingly accurate and so far under
Durrell's island books like the chatter of
the skin of feveryday appearances that it is really
a new appraisal almost ofa new country'
an opera recitative, like asti. spumante
ISABEL QUIGLEY The Guardian
gurgling effervescent and intoxicating out
ofal bottle '-1 New Statesman
Within a couple ofp pages he has established a
strong literary personality'
Punch
A ROMAN STREET
I am quite delighted with it. It catches the very
voice and breath ofl Rome'
J.I. M. STEWART
'A first-class daily-life writer and all the
Romanists will want to read him Every word
ofit rings true reminds us ofLawrence'
BERNARD WALL The Observer
THE COMPANION GUIDE TO
UMBRIA
'Mr Rowdon has written an exceptionally. .well-
informed land entertaining guide. This is an
outstanding travel book.'
Eastern Daily Press
Weidenfeld and Nicolson :
II St John's Hill, London SWII
- rT
ISBNO297 765760
: tore 15R9N6EXXXRXRT M


I remember leaving a dance hall one evening and
going across to a wooden, dimly lit restaurant among the
pine trees, and I,remember suddenly looking across to my
left and seeing. the inside of the dance-hall again. They
were still dancing. I know now why I felt a faint horror
at myself and vould not look across to the left again; I
know why I wanted to get back into tha t hall as soon as
possible. They were dancing, but now there was no music,
there was no hea t and no sound of human voices, no laughter
and the glances of people were hidden to me. They were
si imply figures without significance moving in an ofd,
jerky way, slow too, close together, from window to
window. They were ridiculous. And that is what happens
to the world when we withdraw, And that is what we have
all done, - withdrawn, so that we the ghosts have turned
man into classes and phenomena, love into gex, feelings
into emotlons, God into interesting myth, they sky into
an abstract vacuum governed by mechanical laws 9 and
when we fight we fight not men but The Enemy. We have
murdered our world. That is why murder 1s the key-word
of our epoch, our genius and eccentricity, because in all
things we have to murder in order to keep our position as
exiles, in order, that is to say, to remain free. And
to say that we are crucified into abstraction means only
that we are in all things dedicated to that act of murder,
and at the same time trying to run back, as I ran back
and. forth during the war, and am still doing so, dinding
the dancers ridiculous yet wanting to reject that and to
run back into the hall. And all I have done here in
Austria is to trace for myself, in the War I knew and the
childhood I survived, that same necessity for murde er, tha t
same history of the exile, stunted yet also happy in. his
freed dom.


FORWARD TO THE DEATH
MAURICE ROWDON 2004


MAURICE ROWDON Forward To The Death
CONTENTS
Figs
Crater
Laughter
Apparition
Prayer
Shudder
Byzantium
Detonation
Hush
Unforsaken
Flames
Kamarad
Nerves
Defeat


Paper -
Seldo An was besh
2 enval opes


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
SUBMISSION HISTORY OF FORWARD TO THE DEATH
Faber and Faber
I approached Faber and Faber with a phone-call to
Julian Loose the non-fiction editor and he agreed to
see a sample. He responded to this within a few days
and in a matter of ten days or SO he had read the
whole book. We then had a meeting. He asked me if I
would work with him to bring out certain features of
the book which he felt should be expanded (such as
the descriptions of Italians and Italy during the
Italian campaign) . And I said yes.
Then followed a seven-month review of the book during
which we exchanged constant emails and attachments on
the book as it developed. The book-production manager
(Gavin Cargil) was also involved, and the blurb for
the book jacket was prepared.
But when at the end of the period, when all seemed
ready, Julian and he presented the book to the rest
of the Faber and Faber board they voted it down.
Julian in his email to me said he was 'utterly
baffled' by this. He was deeply upset and offered me
all the help he could.
Viking/Penguin
I had kept the book on a back burner with
Viking/Penguin, to cover me in the eventuality of
surprises. Eleo Gordon now read it and wrote the
following: 'It is a very powerful story and the way
you tell it 1 simply - is most affecting. That whole
period of the war I going up through Italy, the rest
and recuperation in Cairo and Palestine and the
return to the war front is very well written and
evoked. You well describe the everyday aspects of
life, how it is affecting you and the way you and
other soldiers had to grow up overnight.
'In the end sadly we don't think we can take it on.
We already have a number of WW2 books on our list and
there is only SO much room. I am sure though that
someone will like it...'


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Pen and Sword
After a warm and immediate same-day reception of my
synopsis turned the book down as a 'personal' and
therefore a subjective memoir outside the area of
military history, which was surely clear from the
synopsis.
Doubleday/Transworld
A friend of mine on the Sunday Times proposed that
she should get a copy to a friend of hers in charge
of the Doubleday imprint. But since, with one foot in
LA and the other in London, she failed to make the
key phone-call to her friend it went into Transworld
as an unsolicited submission.
A sorry mix-up in which, as I proved to Doubleday,
the ms. was not in fact read by the party it was
intended for. (Both Canongate and Viking/Penguin had
urged me to go to Transworld which, to my sorrow, had
it not been for this incident I could and would have
done. In fact I had already started the necessary
editorial approach).
Canongate (sample only)
I had also sent a short sample to Canongate and
received the following comment from them: 'Your work
displays a literary style of great eloquence with
astounding moments of brilliance and terrifying
insight. In light of the high quality of writing and
the subject matter exposed, I am convinced your work
should be published, but do not feel we are the best
publishers to ensure it receives the full attention
it deserves. She then goes on to recommend
Transworld.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
SYNOPSIS/FORWARD TO THE DEATH
Why another WW2 book?
Because this is not a standard or usual military
history in any way. It is certainly as accurate as
any military history of the Italian campaign but it
is an eye-witness account, and it is from a literary
author whose published non-fiction titles have
specialised in Italian subjects.
Military histories are reasonable and ordered.
That is already a falsification of every moment of
frontline life---in my case, that of a Forward
Observation Officer required to be at the spearhead
of attacks and even beyond them at times, with the
possibility of getting lost in enemy lines, which
happened to me and my handful of men more than once.
In living fact the front line is devoid of any
reason whatever. Shock renders reason out of the
question. The 'advances' and 'retreats', 'victories'
and 'cowardice' and 'courage' of military language
are therefore illusory concepts used to dress up the
corpse and temper the scream. They are the progeny of
press room and military academy. Shock in the front
line is responsible for the highest proportion of
casualties, despite being called 'non-battle' in
nature. These men must be withdrawn. The state of
shock cannot be spoofed. At its extreme (of total
muscular paralysis) it is called 'shellshock'.
Thus my account accurately describes the Italian
campaign but from the receiving end. The wanton
sacrifice involved in that campaign, its simply
staggering body-count, is witnessed here, felt, not


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
totted up afterwards as a round figure which will
never reach public view. This 'sacrifice' was not
imposed on us soldiers by our army commanders. It was
imposed on the commanders. This is why the commander
chiefly responsible for our high body-count
constantly urged his superiors to end the Italian
campaign---right from its beginning.
Every 'fact' we have inherited about WW2 falls
away in my account not under the weight of argument
but that of events, as if the war itself were anxious
to achieve self-demolition, being only words and
attitudes.
The most elementary current 'truth' about that
war, such as that it was a war against Hitler and
nazism, is seen off in my book not as a lie but as
simply impossible given the events.
The Italian campaign
When the Hygiene Unit of the Royal Medical
Corps, whose duty it was to clean up after a battle,
walked into Cassino they were appalled to
speechlessness by the carnage. There was nothing to
do but cover the corpses in quicklime.
I describe in my account how I stand alone in
that town, surrounded by this ghostly hillside pall,
and how I plan a suicide 'with glory' in a future
battle. And indeed that battle did take place.
Not that my decision was in the least unique.
One of the bestsellers of the early war years was
Richard Hillary's book The Last Enemy. He was a
fighter pilot and wrote of his wish to defeat that


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
last enemy, death. He was shot to his death soon
afterwards.
His was a simple psychological response at a
certain point of battle maturity. But it is a body
sensation, not a thought. Once you have SO to speak
broken the code of shock it seems obvious to you that
you should now offer your own life.
The Italian terrain was in its nature designed
for maximum shock---sudden little chasms, sharp hills
and streams, copses and slopes and unexpected open
plains, all in a narrow peninsula through which whole
armies and their supply echelons had to pass. They
made it possible for absurdly small forces of Germans
to face without alarm our (press term) shattering'
bombardments (a thousand tons was a trifle) plus the
head-on divisional or two-divisional attacks that we
followed them up with.
The worst carnage at Cassino, disposing of
several divisions (the New Zealanders were
disbanded), was inflicted by two German battalions.
Such a terrain would naturally call for small
bodies of men to infiltrate it with simultaneous
flank actions. No such thing in the Italian campaign.
The strategy adopted from the bottom of the peninsula
to the top was heavy armoured frontal attacks which
committed to battle the maximum forces---and if these
were defeated the strategy was simply repeated, and
this for two long years, as if self-immolation on the
grandest scale was the Italian campaign's sole
function.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Only in the second half of that campaign, from
Tuscany up, when we on the ground begin to have more
control of events, could small-scale engagements take
place, and the fronts move fast.
In such a terrain it was absurdly easy for the
wily German commander Kesselring to prepare his traps
for us. He could build his defence lines at leisure
while we were still pounding away at his last
previous one.
Hitler at first wanted to abandon Italy but once
he recognised, watching Kesselring's performace, that
frightful casualties could be inflicted on us at very
little cost in men and material he concurred with
warmth.
The narrative
The army textbooks referred to us F.0.0.S as
'the eyes of the army'. That is, we provided up-to-
the-moment intelligence about where the front line
was (always a puzzle when an attack is under way),
and what enemy dispositions we were facing, and how
formidable or otherwise they were.
But my practical importance for the infantry was
very different---I could call up artillery support at
a moment's notice by radio. That is, all F.0.0.S were
gunner officers.
My account is the story of how I mastered the
work of F.0.0. by slow degree, that is learned to
manage and even utilise states of shock in a terrain
that made it impossible to pre-empt or foresee the
nature of a new engagement. Also these states could
at any time turn into shellshock, of which they are a


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
sustainable version. Both are a state of alienation,
only related to madness.
There lies the wisdom of committing the very
young to the front lines. Only they can accept the
journey into death and out again with equanimity
because life has not yet spelled itself out to them
as it has to older men. They have not yet been told
that they are rational.
So their nervous systems quickly attune to
conditions that might drive older men to run
screaming at enemy positions and be mown down at once
(I mention two such).
The frontline soldier's first experiences will
shake his very conviction that he is alive. The
miraculous escapes which happen if he does survive
convince him that this is not an earthly process.
Only the youthful nervous system can withstand this
disruption of what we call reality. Again, body
sensations, not thoughts, are involved.
When the 'suicide' battle I planned for myself
at Cassino came to pass (you await with perfect
certainty the fulfilment of your previews) I had to
take command of over sixty men when their commanding
officer succumbed to shellshock. We were in an
untenable position, sticking out into enemy
territory, their tanks at very close range.
For this action I was cited for gallantry and
felt an embarrassed pride struggling with the deepest
shame inside me. The wish for death had failed.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Preparation/background
I published an account of these battles (Chatto
and Windus, rights now reverted) in the years
immediately after the war. It was a confused cri de
coeur against 'the murder', without awareness (as I
see it now) of what really went on inside me. I tried
to convey my thoughts, troubled or horrified, but
thoughts have little importance in the front line
except as the froth on top of body sensations.
Certainly that earlier book has been a useful
basis of recall for me. It gives me a graphic account
of some things I remember only vaguely, while there
are also scenes and nuances I remember clearly which
it omitted.
In the late Sixties and Seventies I picked up
every book I could find that dealt with the events of
WW2 with serious scholarship---and soon an entire
literature was available. And since I had an Oxford
war-time degree in Modern History and a post-war one
in PPE (philosophy, politics and economics) I felt
well equipped to research my subject swiftly and
deeply.
It was in that period that I became for
publishers something of a specialist on Italy, where
I mostly lived. My books were about many aspects of
Italy---the art, history, people. And through these I
became a specialist of the Italian terrain, which in
turn gave me growing insight into exactly what the
war experience was about. For more than twenty years
I had a farm producing wine and oil. And slowly,
through years of Italian talk and transaction, I came


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
to know the civilisation we had made war in. And this
perhaps was the greatest help of all.
Conclusion
This narrative offers no easy conclusion about
the nature of war. It says that to go out on the
streets for or against war is like going out on the
streets for or against thunderstorms.
Wars cannot be launched easily when governments
are under close press surveillance, as in the case of
the present Iraq war. Yet this war is no different
from any other. It was only presented with unusual
carelessness. The press rooms were simply not
supplied with usable material. They were therefore
reduced to their manly 'I/we am/aren't against war as
such but..' cliché. In fact many options were
available. Saddam Hussein could have been 'revealed'
as a despot unconscious of the terrorists within his
regime, his very distance from fundamentalism being
an argument asset. You then name the warring sects
his despotism has cowed. You wish to liberate' some,
for instance the Kurds, and winkle out others. It is
silly to say that war is based on lies. Truth is
simply not its business.
It does seem in the course of my narrative that
the sole place to look for war is the human mind.
What could possibly create a demented scene but
dementia?
And, naturally, only when this dementia is
properly observed can it be named---and perhaps
examined. Length: 70.000 words.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
SYNOPSIS/FORWARD TO THE DEATH
Why another WW2 book?
Because this is not a standard or usual military
history in any way. It is certainly as accurate as
any military history of the Italian campaign but it
is an eye-witness account, and it is from a literary
author whose published non-fiction titles have
specialised in Italian subjects.
Military histories are reasonable and ordered.
That is already a falsification of every moment of
frontline life---in my case, that of a Forward
Observation Officer required to be at the spearhead
of attacks and even beyond them at times, with the
possibility of getting lost in enemy lines, which
happened to me and my handful of men more than once.
In living fact the front line is devoid of any
reason whatever. Shock renders reason out of the
question. The 'advances' and 'retreats', 'victories'
and 'cowardice' and 'courage' of military language
are therefore illusory concepts used to dress up the
corpse and temper the scream. They are the progeny of
press room and military academy. Shock in the front
line is responsible for the highest proportion of
casualties, despite being called 'non-battle' in
nature. These men must be withdrawn. The state of
shock cannot be spoofed. At its extreme (of total
muscular paralysis) it is called 'shellshock'.
Thus my account accurately describes the Italian
campaign but from the receiving end. The wanton
sacrifice involved in that campaign, its simply
staggering body-count, is witnessed here, felt, not


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
SYNOPSIS/FORWARD TO THE DEATH
Why another WW2 book?
Because this is not a standard or usual military
history in any way. It is certainly as accurate as
any military history of the Italian campaign but it
is an eye-witne'ss account, and it is from a literary
author whose published non-fiction titles have
specialised in Italian subjects.
Military histories are reasonable and ordered.
That is already a falsification of every moment of
frontline life---in my case, that of a Forward
Observation Officer required to be at the spearhead
of attacks and even beyond them at times, with the
possibility of getting lost in enemy lines, which
happened to me and my handful of men more than once.
In living fact the front line is devoid of any
reason whatever. Shock renders reason out of the
question. The 'advances' and 'retreats', 'victories'
and 'cowardice' and 'courage' of military language
are therefore illusory concepts used to dress up the
corpse and temper the scream. They are the progeny of
press room and military academy. Shock in the front
line is responsible for the highest proportion of
casualties, despite being called 'non-battle' in
nature. These men must be withdrawn. The state of
shock cannot be spoofed. At its extreme (of total
muscular paralysis) it is called 'shellshock'.
Thus my account accurately describes the Italian
campaign but from the receiving end. The wanton
sacrifice involved in that campaign, its simply
staggering body-count, is witnessed here, felt, not


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
totted up afterwards as a round figure which will
never reach public view. This 'sacrifice' was not
imposed on us soldiers by our army commanders. It was
imposed on the commanders. This is why the commander
chiefly responsible for our high body-count
constantly urged his superiors to end the Italian
campaign---right from its beginning.
Every 'fact' we have inherited about WW2 falls
away in my account not under the weight of argument
but that of events, as if the war itself were anxious
to achieve self-demolition, being only words and
attitudes.
The most elementary current 'truth' about that
war, such as that it was a war against Hitler and
nazism, is seen off in my book not as a lie but as
simply impossible given the events.
The Italian campaign
When the Hygiene Unit of the Royal Medical
Corps, whose duty it was to clean up after a battle,
walked into Cassino they were appalled to
speechlessness by the carnage. There was nothing to
do but cover the corpses in quicklime.
I describe in my account how I stand alone in
that town, surrounded by this ghostly hillside pall,
and how I plan a suicide 'with glory' in a future
battle. And indeed that battle did take place.
Not that my decision was in the least unique.
One of the bestsellers of the early war years was
Richard Hillary's book The Last Enemy. He was a
fighter pilot and wrote of his wish to defeat that


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
last enemy, death. He was shot to his death soon
afterwards.
His was a simple psychological response at a
certain point of battle maturity. But it is a body
sensation, not a thought. Once you have SO to speak
broken the code of shock it seems obvious to you that
you should now offer your own life.
un Sur untn Blogne
The Italian terrain was in its nature designed
for maximum shock---sudden little chasms, sharp hills
and streams, copses and slopes and unexpected open
plains, all in a narrow peninsula through which whole
armies and their supply echelons had to pass. They
made it possible for absurdly small forces of Germans
to face without alarm our (press-term) 'shattering'
bombardments (a thousand tons was a trifle) plus the
head-on divisional or two-divisional attacks that we
followed them up with.
The worst carnage at Cassino, disposing of
several divisions (the New Zealanders were
disbanded), was inflicted by two German battalions.
Such a terrain would naturally call for small
bodies of men to infiltrate it with simultaneous
flank actions. No such thing in the Italian campaign.
The strategy adopted from the bottom of the peninsula
to the top was heavy armoured frontal attacks which
committed to battle the maximum forces- -and if these
were defeated the strategy was simply repeated, and
this for two long years, as if self-immolation on the
grandest scale was the Italian campaign's sole
function.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Only in the second half of that campaign, from
Tuscany up, when we on the ground begin to have more
control of events, could small-scale engagements take
place, and the fronts move fast.
In such a terrain it was absurdly easy for the
wily German commander Kesselring to prepare his traps
for us. He could build his defence lines at leisure
while we were still pounding away at his last
previous one.
Hitler at first wanted to abandon Italy but once
he recognised, watching Kesselring's performace, that
frightful casualties could be inflicted on us at very
little cost in men and material he concurred with
warmth.
The narrative
The army textbooks referred to us F.0.0.S as
'the eyes of the army'. That is, we provided up-to-
the-moment intelligence about where the front line
was (always a puzzle when an attack is under way),
and what enemy dispositions we were facing, and how
formidable or otherwise they were.
But my practical importance for the infantry was
very different---I could call up artillery support at
a moment's notice by radio. That is, all F.0.0.S were
gunner officers.
My account is the story of how I mastered the
work of F.0.0. by slow degree, that is learned to
manage and even utilise states of shock in a terrain
that made it impossible to pre-empt or foresee the
nature of a new engagement. Also these states could
at any time turn into shellshock, of which they are a


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
sustainable version. Both are a state of alienation,
only related to madness.
There lies the wisdom of committing the very
young to the front lines. Only they can accept the
journey into death and out again with equanimity
because life has not yet spelled itself out to them
as it has to older men. They have not yet been told
that they are rational.
So their nervous systems quickly attune to
conditions that might drive older men to run
screaming at enemy positions and be mown down at once
(I mention two such).
The frontline soldier's first experiences will
shake his very conviction that he is alive. The
miraculous escapes which happen if he does survive
convince him that this is not an earthly process.
Only the youthful nervous system can withstand this
disruption of what we call reality. Again, body
sensations, not thoughts, are involved.
When the suicide' battle I planned for myself
at Cassino came to pass (you await with perfect
certainty the fulfilment of your previews) I had to
take command of over sixty men when their commanding
officer succumbed to shellshock. We were in an
untenable position, sticking out into enemy
territory, their tanks at very close range.
For this action I was cited for gallantry and
felt an embarrassed pride struggling with the deepest
shame inside me. The wish for death had failed.


MAURICE! ROWDON Forward to the Death
Preparation/background
I published an account of these battles (Chatto
and Windus, rights now reverted) in the years
immediately after the war. It was a confused cri de
coeur against 'the murder', without awareness (as I
see it now) of what really went on inside me. I tried
to convey my thoughts, troubled or horrified, but
thoughts have little importance in the front line
except as the froth on top of body sensations.
Certainly that earlier book has been a useful
basis of recall for me. It gives me a graphic account
of some things I remember only vaguely, while there
are also scenes and nuances I remember clearly which
it omitted.
In the late Sixties and Seventies I picked up
every book I could find that dealt with the events of
WW2 with serious scholarship-: -and soon an entire
literature was available. And since I had an Oxford
war-time degree in Modern History and a post-war one
in PPE (philosophy, politics and economics) I felt
well equipped to research my subject swiftly and
deeply.
It was in that period that I became for
publishers something of a specialist on Italy, where
I mostly lived. My books were about many aspects of
Italy---the art, history, people. And through these I
became a specialist of the Italian terrain, which in
turn gave me growing insight into exactly what the
war experience was about. For more than twenty years
I had a farm producing wine and oil. And slowly,
through years of Italian talk and transaction, I came


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
to know the civilisation we had made war in. And this
perhaps was the greatest help of all.
Conclusion
This narrative offers no easy conclusion about
the nature of war. It says that to go out on the
streets for or against war is like going out on the
streets for or against thunderstorms.
Wars cannot be launched easily when governments
are under close press surveillance, as in the case of
the present Iraq war. Yet this war is no different
from any other. It was only presented with unusual
carelessness. The press rooms were simply not
supplied with usable material. They were therefore
reduced to their manly 'I/we am/aren't against war as
such but..' cliché. In fact many options were
available. Saddam Hussein could have been 'revealed'
as a despot unconscious of the terrorists within his
regime, his very distance from fundamentalism being
an argument asset. You then name the warring sects
his despotism has cowed. You wish to 'liberate' some,
for instance the Kurds, and winkle out others. It is
silly to say that war is based on lies. Truth is
simply not its business.
It does seem in the course of my narrative that
the sole place to look for war is the human mind.
What could possibly create a demented scene but
dementia?
And, naturally, only when this dementia is
properly observed can it be named---and perhaps
examined. Length: 70.000 words.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
SYNOPSIS/FORWARD TO THE DEATH
Why another WW2 book?
Because this is not a standard or usual military
history in any way. It is certainly as accurate as
any military history of the Italian campaign but it
is an eye-witness account, and it is from a literary
author whose published non-fiction titles have
specialised in Italian subjects.
Military histories are reasonable and ordered.
That is already a falsification of every moment of
frontline life---in my case, that of a Forward
Observation Officer required to be at the spearhead
of attacks and even beyond them at times, with the
possibility of getting lost in enemy lines, which
happened to me and my handful of men more than once.
In living fact the front line is devoid of any
reason whatever. Shock renders reason out of the
question. The advances' and 'retreats', 'victories'
and 'cowardice' and 'courage' of military language
are therefore illusory concepts used to dress up the
corpse and temper the scream. They are the progeny of
press room and military academy. Shock in the front
line is responsible for the highest proportion of
casualties, despite being called 'non-battle' in
nature. These men must be withdrawn. The state of
shock cannot be spoofed. At its extreme (of total
muscular paralysis) it is called 'shellshock'.
Thus my account accurately describes the Italian
campaign but from the receiving end. The wanton
sacrifice involved in that campaign, its simply
staggering body-count, is witnessed here, felt, not


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
totted up afterwards as a round figure which will
never reach public view. This 'sacrifice' was not
imposed on us soldiers by our army commanders. It was
imposed on the commanders. This is why the commander
chiefly responsible for our high body-count
constantly urged his superiors to end the Italian
campaign---right from its beginning.
Every 'fact' we have inherited about WW2 falls
away in my account not under the weight of argument
but that of events, as if the war itself were anxious
to achieve self-demolition, being only words and
attitudes.
The most elementary current 'truth' about that
war, such as that it was a war against Hitler and
nazism, is seen off in my book not as a lie but as
simply impossible given the events.
The Italian campaign
When the Hygiene Unit of the Royal Medical
Corps, whose duty it was to clean up after a battle,
walked into Cassino they were appalled to
speechlessness by the carnage. There was nothing to
do but cover the corpses in quicklime.
I describe in my account how I stand alone in
that town, surrounded by this ghostly hillside pall,
and how I plan a suicide 'with glory' in a future
battle. And indeed that battle did take place.
Not that my decision was in the least unique.
One of the bestsellers of the early war years was
Richard Hillary's book The Last Enemy. He was a
fighter pilot and wrote of his wish to defeat that


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
last enemy, death. He was shot to his death soon
afterwards.
His was a simple psychological response at a
certain point of battle maturity. But it is a body
sensation, not a thought. Once you have SO to speak
broken the code of shock it seems obvious to you that
you should now offer your own life.
The Italian terrain was in its nature designed
for maximum shock-- -sudden little chasms, sharp hills
and streams, copses and slopes and unexpected open
plains, all in a narrow peninsula through which whole
armies and their supply echelons had to pass. They
made it possible for absurdly small forces of Germans
to face without alarm our (press term) 'shattering'
bombardments (a thousand tons was a trifle) plus the
head-on divisional or two-divisional attacks that we
followed them up with.
The worst carnage at Cassino, disposing of
several divisions (the New Zealanders were
disbanded), was inflicted by two German battalions.
Such a terrain would naturally call for small
bodies of men to infiltrate it with simultaneous
flank actions. No such thing in the Italian campaign.
The strategy adopted from the bottom of the peninsula
to the top was heavy armoured frontal attacks which
committed to battle the maximum forces---and if these
were defeated the strategy was simply repeated, and
this for two long years, as if self-immolation on the
grandest scale was the Italian campaign's sole
function.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Only in the second half of that campaign, from
Tuscany up, when we on the ground begin to have more
control of events, could small-scale engagements take
place, and the fronts move fast.
In such a terrain it was absurdly easy for the
wily German commander Kesselring to prepare his traps
for us. He could build his defence lines at leisure
while we were still pounding away at his last
previous one.
Hitler at first wanted to abandon Italy but once
he recognised, watching Kesselring's performace, that
frightful casualties could be inflicted on us at very
little cost in men and material he concurred with
warmth.
The narrative
The army textbooks referred to us F.0.0.S as
'the eyes of the army'. That is, we provided up-to-
the-moment intelligence about where the front line
was (always a puzzle when an attack is under way),
and what enemy dispositions we were facing, and how
formidable or otherwise they were.
But my practical importance for the infantry was
very different---I could call up artillery support at
a moment's notice by radio. That is, all F.0.0.S were
gunner officers.
My account is the story of how I mastered the
work of F.0.0. by slow degree, that is learned to
manage and even utilise states of shock in a terrain
that made it impossible to pre-empt or foresee the
nature of a new engagement. Also these states could
at any time turn into shellshock, of which they are a


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
sustainable version. Both are a state of alienation,
only related to madness.
There lies the wisdom of committing the very
young to the front lines. Only they can accept the
journey into death and out again with equanimity
because life has not yet spelled itself out to them
as it has to older men. They have not yet been told
that they are rational.
So their nervous systems quickly attune to
conditions that might drive older men to run
screaming at enemy positions and be mown down at once
(I mention two such). .
The frontline soldier's first experiences will
shake his very conviction that he is alive. The
miraculous escapes which happen if he does survive
convince him that this is not an earthly process.
Only the youthful nervous system can withstand this
disruption of what we call reality. Again, body
sensations, not thoughts, are involved.
When the 'suicide' battle I planned for myself
at Cassino came to pass (you await with perfect
certainty the fulfilment of your previews) I had to
take command of over sixty men when their commanding
officer succumbed to shellshock. We were in an
untenable position, sticking out into enemy
territory, their tanks at very close range.
For this action I was cited for gallantry and
felt an embarrassed pride struggling with the deepest
shame inside me. The wish for death had failed.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Preparation/background
I published an account of these battles (Chatto
and Windus, rights now reverted) in the years
immediately after the war. It was a confused cri de
coeur against 'the murder', without awareness (as I
see it now) of what really went on inside me. I tried
to convey my thoughts, troubled or horrified, but
thoughts have little importance in the front line
except as the froth on top of body sensations.
Certainly that earlier book has been a useful
basis of recall for me. It gives me a graphic account
of some things I remember only vaguely, while there
are also scenes and nuances I remember clearly which
it omitted.
In the late Sixties and Seventies I picked up
every book I could find that dealt with the events of
WW2 with serious scholarship---and soon an entire
literature was available. And since I had an Oxford
war-time degree in Modern History and a post-war one
in PPE (philosophy, politics and economics) I felt
well equipped to research my subject swiftly and
deeply.
It was in that period that I became for
publishers something of a specialist on Italy, where
I mostly lived. My books were about many aspects of
Italy---the art, history, people. And through these I
became a specialist of the Italian terrain, which in
turn gave me growing insight into exactly what the
war experience was about. For more than twenty years
I had a farm producing wine and oil. And slowly,
through years of Italian talk and transaction, I came


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
to know the civilisation we had made war in. And this
perhaps was the greatest help of all.
Conclusion
This narrative offers no easy conclusion about
the nature of war. It says that to go out on the
streets for or against war is like going out on the
streets for or against thunderstorms.
Wars cannot be launched easily when governments
are under close press surveillance, as in the case of
the present Iraq war. Yet this war is no different
from any other. It was only presented with unusual
carelessness. The press rooms were simply not
supplied with usable material. They were therefore
reduced to their manly 'I/we am/aren't against war as
such but..' cliché. In fact many options were
available. Saddam Hussein could have been 'revealed'
as a despot unconscious of the terrorists within his
regime, his very distance from fundamentalism being
an argument asset. You then name the warring sects
his despotism has cowed. You wish to liberate' some,
for instance the Kurds, and winkle out others. It is
silly to say that war is based on lies. Truth is
simply not its business.
It does seem in the course of my narrative that
the sole place to look for war is the human mind.
What could possibly create a demented scene but
dementia?
And, naturally, only when this dementia is
properly observed can it be named---and perhaps
examined. Length: 70.000 words.


Maurice Rowdon
44 Brookwood Road London SW18 5BY U.K.
e-mail: rowdoxy@aol.com
Cara Jones
Chatto and Windus
RE SUB-LICENSING/RIGHTS REVERSION
Dear Cara:
My esea
FOW TC Tat Chatto and Windus sub-
licensed excerpts from OF SINS AND WINTER (1955), the
rights of which have, as you know, reverted to me.
Jo Hodder at the Society of Authors has alerted me to
the fact that a sub-licensing deal can present
special factors. As you may know, Odhams, the
magazine company which made this deal with Chatto, is
now Reed Elservier. A hardback copy of the book
involved is on its way to me jbut in the meantime can
you clarify what Chattolgdedi specified in the
matter of copyright?
Aal Inewel
With best wishes
kiew lotteg 2 thedeal)
Dal hako sopart
| Pleene
rpntetlcc
2 ahe
Nue nple
coded
autmalialp
- gnpl


deen plalelis unie
PLTRG GRARCREED OJC
Ccode FA head tu Frcelu bnoleic sedece shigh a cad clottup do ic T
lea
Radix Rehharniae Prepual /lat
Chinen herl SHGN DonG Hkou CAKO (
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LIQUORIE ROoT
RH/20 MA
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diny HERRA Rurenaschne
San Fanares CA96O3
bilit
Plateel Dusirlr Snfp bonr Affoc
MPD -
wowitpepa. Colu
(TP 1 lunmune Thrmalrey Espenic Propara


Those are COWS, Tanty, I I answer, like she don't
really know but she does, she likes mixing me up.
She gives me this sort of scorched look.
Rosette Rialto's made a basket of fried chicken and a
big pot of cold slaw and another of white beans with pork
fat and a tray of deviled eggs. There's some big thermoses
of pea soup and hot tea wlready sweetened with sugar and
orange to go with gramma' S and Foofy's lemony pound cake
and fruit cake too. Mama Pearl made zucchini bread and
chocolate cake and lots of round tomato sandwiches.
Everything is spread out on some tables Ahat pop up out of
nothing in the seats.
Gramma has finished some of her picnic So she's
leafing through her stack of Reader's Digests in between
looking out the window. Yassah has a napkin big as a
table cloth tucked into his collar and it goes
way
sknm uttl
over
snee-silghe
hisyknees. He's munching away on a' fried chicken
drumstick. Tanty has taken over the empty seat next to her
and she's turned sideways, her front is covered like
too
Yassah's and she's daintily picking at thu chicken wing with
the gorgeous gore. and blood fingernails what are like
scissoring the meat off the white bone. Yuk, it makes me
want to barf. I have the white beans and cole-slaw and
tomato sandwiches, all of which I like.
'Peggin, it is not normal to eschew eating chicken,
says gramma.
I make a yuk face.
'It'll make you grow up strong,' says mama Pearl.
I make the yuk face more dramatic like Booger alias
J.B. with the eyes going crossed and lips going in three
other different directions.
'Better watch it, they could get stuck that way,'
Tanty says and she laughs.
I uncross the eyes quick.
Mama Pearl finishes her picnic first and I finish
second. We get out the cards and commence playing Old Maid


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To: rowdluce@aol.com
Subject: Your Gumtree.com ad #29521114: PART-TIME HOME HELP REQUIRED
Date: Tue, 7 Oct 2008 5:50 pm
This email has been sent to you through the Gumtree system because you have
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1ofl


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
totted up afterwards as a round figure which will
never reach public view. This 'sacrifice' was not
imposed on us soldiers by our army commanders. It was
imposed on the commanders. This is why the commander
chiefly responsible for our high body-count
constantly urged his superiors to end the Italian
campaign---right from its beginning.
Every 'fact' we have inherited about WW2 falls
away in my account not under the weight of argument
but that of events, as if the war itself were anxious
to achieve self-demolition, being only words and
attitudes.
The most elementary current 'truth' about that
war, such as that it was a war against Hitler and
nazism, is seen off in my book not as a lie but as
simply impossible given the events.
The Italian campaign
When the Hygiene Unit of the Royal Medical
Corps, whose duty it was to clean up after a battle,
walked into Cassino they were appalled to
speechlessness by the carnage. There was nothing to
do but cover the corpses in quicklime.
I describe in my account how I stand alone in
that town, surrounded by this ghostly hillside pall,
and how I plan a suicide 'with glory' in a future
battle. And indeed that battle did take place.
Not that my decision was in the least unique.
One of the bestsellers of the early war years was
Richard Hillary's book The Last Enemy. He was a
fighter pilot and wrote of his wish to defeat that


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
last enemy, death. He was shot to his death soon
afterwards.
His was a simple osychological response at a
certain point of battle maturity. But it is a body
sensation, not a thought. Once you have SO to speak
broken the code of shock it seems obvious to you that
you should now offer your own life.
The Italian terrain was in its nature designed
for maximum shock---sudden little chasms, sharp hills
and streams, copses and slopes and unexpected open
plains, all in a narrow peninsula through which whole
armies and their supply echelons had to pass. They
made it possible for absurdly small forces of Germans
to face without alarm our (press term) shattering'
bombardments (a thousand tons was a trifle) plus the
head-on divisional or two-divisional attacks that we
followed them up with.
The worst carnage at Cassino, disposing of
several divisions (the New Zealanders were
disbanded), was inflicted by two German battalions.
Such a terrain would naturally call for small
bodies of men to infiltrate it with simultaneous
flank actions. No such thing in the Italian campaign.
The strategy adopted from the bottom of the peninsula
to the top was heavy armoured frontal attacks which
committed to battle the maximum forces---and if these
were defeated the strategy was simply repeated, and
this for two long years, as if self-immolation on the
grandest scale was the Italian campaign's sole
function.


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
Only in the second half of that campaign, from
Tuscany up, when we on the ground begin to have more
control of events, could small-scale engagements take
place, and the fronts move fast.
In such a terrain it was absurdly easy for the
wily German commander Kesselring to prepare his traps
for us. He could build his defence lines at leisure
while we were still pounding away at his last
previous one.
Hitler at first wanted to abandon Italy but once
he recognised, watching Kesselring's performace, that
frightful casualties could be inflicted on us at very
little cost in men and material he concurred with
warmth.
The narrative
The army textbooks referred to us F.0.0.S as
'the eyes of the army'. That is, we provided up-to-
the-moment intelligence about where the front line
was (always a puzzle when an attack is under way),
and what enemy dispositions we were facing, and how
formidable or otherwise they were.
But my practical importance for the infantry was
very different---I could call up artillery support at
a moment's notice by radio. That is, all F.0.0.S were
gunner officers.
My account is the story of how I mastered the
work of F.0.0. by slow degree, that is learned to
manage and even utilise states of shock in a terrain
that made it impossible to pre-empt or foresee the
nature of a new engagement. Also these states could
at any time turn into shellshock, of which they are a


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
sustainable version. Both are a state of alienation,
only related to madness.
There lies the wisdom of committing the very
young to the front lines. Only they can accept the
journey into death and out again with equanimity
because life has not yet spelled itself out to them
as it has to older men. They have not yet been told
that they are rational.
So their nervous systems quickly attune to
conditions that might drive older men to run
screaming at enemy positions and be mown down at once
(I mention two such).
The frontline soldier's first experiences will
shake his very conviction that he is alive. The
miraculous escapes which happen if he does survive
convince him that this is not an earthly process.
Only the youthful nervous system can withstand this
disruption of what we call reality. Again, body
sensations, not thoughts, are involved.
When the 'suicide' battle I planned for myself
at Cassino came to pass (you await with perfect
certainty the fulfilment of your previews) I had to
take command of over sixty men when their commanding
officer succumbed to shellshock. We were in an
untenable position, sticking out into enemy
territory, their tanks at very close range.
For this action I was cited for gallantry and
felt an embarrassed pride struggling with the deepest
shame inside me. The wish for death had failed.


INSECYION
CHE
CHANGE
Witin Ly
nauy hunt
1 I uR,
dhe 2
v lo
duitng
thre
gnuin
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aul whil S
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becrro
trau,
t un with tte
a way 2 enltung
pesliyy Jeisa haiue
yais Hrant cexelrai
dinclais.
The
faslay, hrue; ulue
The
cninfunal,
uly veusshable usd
wa tiak
thiig
uifionae
esRfel
be -
luig lu hushce aud XAr. Cike anh pey
av te tyia 2 Munich (chambs a taiu
Kadesy
Her
I - SCSH
uittul
baing luie, ii he nylea
Rane 1 k aiel teufeaent
Atka sntay,
Reip ts pescin
alul nslerce
il toote Ge
Atu
kerral
aly 1 len unt, k leaa
1 unsda,
co whar fua toll and
tal -
say ur sifhy
anbsiLotie),
burle
tar bet tiad 4
legh (mr.
Auw tal did LSe
ll (c. believe ii
wele.


INSERTION 2.
lefle i the fink Wwll Dar,
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syhi 7 de
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lh luy tody
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a staned, c wel
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te dent. life 1 -
hiddle
dlen gant -
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kiler
maid
hiddle
clun Fuspi
lire
autl
fo 6 was,


FOREWORD
After I left Oxford I was invited to teach English literature in Baghdad, which I
did at the Queen Aliyah college for girls. They came to class in limousines, being from
the richer classes, and they wore the abba or black cloak, which revealed only their eyes.
This they took off and underneath were brash jumpers which said things like
Philadelphia, Here I come!' In class, when I read Alexander Pope's The Rape of the
Lock to them, they would swoon with pleasure. The idea that just the lock of a lady's hair
should inspire poetry of such an unsurpassable smoothness tickled their fancies and made
them swoon and cry out to God 'Allah wa Allah!"
But suddenly, for one day a year, they changed character, or rather being, as Dr.
Jekyll became Mr. Hyde. They put their faces close to mine and glowered and leered at
me, and all but spat at me while outside on the street the male students were hurling
stones and shouting slogans. They were rioting against the sway, some would say hidden
government, ofthe British embassy. I was familiar with this because often other teachers
from the college would sometimes discuss this loudly in their broken English SO that I
might aware ofhow they really felt.
I was rescued after hardly more than ten minutes by my next-door neighbour,
Mohammed, a tall, straight-backed Kurd with a thick black moustache and genial calm
eyes, whose brother was Iraq's Minister of Justice. He entered the room and placidly took
my arm and led me, in the hush and respect that he obviously inspired among the girls,
and we walked to the street where his car waited. And not until his chauffeur had driven
us away did the male students resume their rioting.
How was it that human moods could change SO fast? How could one day be set
aside for rioting, yet rioting that was also careful and measured---no physical harm came
to me, there wasn't even a possibility ofthis, SO that even in this deeply serious political
complaint there wasn'ta any true violence at all.
But there was nothing artificial in the change. It was a change ofbeing, not
feeling. It was identity that spoke, not temperament. And I began to see what an ordered
and studiously considerate 'rebellion' this had been.
The very next day the girls and I went by boat, as we did most afternoons, the
hushed canal between smooth grass banks, a tributary ofthe Tigris river. We listened to
its silence again and then put sedate records on the gramophone to which they danced in
couples with sedate, ballroom whirls. Then we sat eating from the picnic basket, and we
drank our glasses of'tea', , which was always hot water over tiny black sun-shrivelled
lemons.
In my spare time I taught English to two children in a Jewish family. Their father
was already a friend of mine, since he looked after the college's finances and therefore
my pay. In the Baghdad of that time there was no public tension between Islam and the


Jews. A year later, when I had left Iraq, they were banished from the country, and I heard
that the Baghdadis lined the streets to watch them go, waving good bye, many of them
weeping.
This is how humans can be overtaken by events they neither understand nor
approve of. Yet they may very quickly approve ofit, once hostility generated by
governments or parties has taken hold. But governments and parties consist of humans
like themselves: what is it that lies helpless in us, too deep for us to know, much less
understand? Despite the vast personal etiquette we humans have, during political
conflicts and even 'bitter' warfare, namely battle costly in deaths and wounds and
screams, this etiquette remains.
Which makes a strange animal of us, one who needs vast courage to face what
apparently lies within, but of which he or she knows utterly nothing.
This book, in its every sentence, is my effort to find out.
And the fact that it is a light-hearted book shouldn't come as a surprise. For
sackcloth and ashes are no way to confront what we must recognise at last are our deepest
absurdities.
Debunking such a species is, after all, a joyful not rueful enterprise.


PAUL CLEMENSTRASSE 1
BONN
GERMANY
TELEPHONE 23305
November 17th. 1956.
Dear Maurice,
Thanks for. your not e of worry about Ant,
and I'm sorry I couldn't answer it at once, since I
was there in Budapest with him :
I don't know whether you got the two notes
written by his secretary, as she had no surname
for you, but hope so.
I am hoping very much tosee you late er this -
month, so I won't say anything now about our
experiences of the last two weeks, except to say
that I shall never be the same again, I think,
and would never have believed in the horror and
glory of the human soul if I hadn't seen it with
my own eyes in circumstances which allowed of
no looking away or explaining away.
More than ever before I long for a great
talent to be able to communicate with other people.
Do ring up when you are in Frnakfurt. I
want to talk to you.
Yours,
Pachel.


Date: 1/16/2004 14:53:00 PM GMT Standard Time
From: julianl@taber.co.uk (Julian Loose)
To: Rowdoxy@aol.com
Maurice,
Many thanks for that, extremely useful.
Can I prevail upon you also to give me a bit more biographical detail -
know a lot of this is in the text, but remind me: what age are you
when the book opens, what had you been doing beforehand, what happened
to you afterwards etc, and why you have been moved to write or publish
this now after quite some time..
All best
-Original Message
From: Rowdoxy@aol.com [mailto:Rowdoxy@aol.com)
Sent: 16 January 2004 14:06
To: Julian Loose
Subject: Re: F.O.O.
Julian, This is in answer to your phone message of this moming (I had
your
ast email but omitted to acknowledge it, naughty me).
wrote this book to show that war has its origin in the human mind.
WW2
llustrated this in great abundance of example, it being a war without
hyme
or reason in every aspect. Its most publicised feature, that it was
Naged
against Hitler and Nazism, was the greatest illusion of all and remains
Chamberlain's war declaration-to guarantee the independence of
Poland-quite
ogically ensured that Poland would end up behind Soviet lines and
emain a Soviet
possession for nearly fifty years. The war simply accumulated, from the
nost
acile and transparently concocted arguments (which was busy like.
nillions
of others supporting), a tremendous unstoppable force of its own, until
pecame a worldwide involvement. This meant, militarily, that it was
Naged at
maximum cost to human life, being composed of one disastrous strategy
after another
my book is a chronicle of them) that resulted from too many cooks in
cookhouse. Not for nothing has this been called 'the people's war.
wonder if that will do.
As the phone number I gave you (naughty again) and which you called
:his
norning is my modem line I think you should have the other number 0208
19January 2004 AOL: Rowdoxy
Page: 1


MAURICE ROWDON Forward to the Death
any war, including the two world wars, in its
structure. The essential basis for all war, namely
the fear of a whole people that it is under imminent
danger of attack, was missing, and only because of
carelessness in its presentation.
ButIt does seem in the course of my narrative
that the sole place to look for war is the human
mind. What could possibly create a demented scene but
dementia?
And, naturally, only when this dementia is
properly observed can it be named---and perhaps
examined.
Length: 70.000 words.