My friend Blatch, as the author is known, has written an adventure book. Fifteen Days refers to key dates in the Canadian battle to save Afghanistan, mostly from itself. The book is meant to illuminate the new Canadian military for those of us who thought Canada didn't have one.
In many ways there could be no better assignment for Christie Blatchford. She is one of those rare women who truly loves men, especially those who do brave things with uniforms on -- cops, hockey players, soldiers for example. She loves those who do their duty. Who feel they have one in the first place. There is an early scene in this book where (and I am going to get ALL the terminology wrong) a platoon was doing a route reconnaissance and spotted Taliban. Official procedure is to note this information in the official way, exactly the same each time, which is to announce "contact, reference X, 600 metres left" or somesuch. Instead what the eyes of the platoon barked to the others was "Jim, they're on the right! Fuck 'em up!" That boy, whoever he was, just won himself a spot in Blatch's heart forever. She loves that kind of get-it-done.
Now that I think about it, who WOULDN'T love that man? That was bloody sexy, what he did.
As I say, Blatch loves manly men, not for what they can do for her status or bank account or how they can worship her wonderfulness but rather in a pure and admiring way -- she simply loves that mysterious club they all belong to where they innately know how to do things like "fuck 'em up" and are willing to go there and do it, whatever It is. Those of us who live in big cities with all their urban glossy-haired fat-free-yogurt-eating metrosexuals, could easily have thought this breed of man extinct.
The men described in this book are heroic. Solid, true, decent, and that rare thing, brave.
I am not far into this book, which reads like a Boys' Own adventure novel, fast-paced and exciting, not unlike great hockey coverage actually, and what is starting to really hurt is knowing as I read about this man or another, he is going to die. I'm going to lose him. I know he (or she) is one of those killed in battle and I can hardly bear it. Imagine the high price Canadian families to whom this man is son, lover, dad, pay for this effort, and they pay it willingly.
I would tell you more but I have to get back to my book.
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1 comment:
I wonder if it is a bit immoral to write about war as an adventure?
Even reading your snippets from the book got my blood up: I was already to charge off and attack whatever bad thing needed attacking.
There was a great photo of Canadian medics attending to a shot taliban. The shot taliban was lying naked in a ditch. He looked completely unglamorous (no boys adventure here). I imagine everyone looks unglamourous when they have holes ripped through them or body parts torn off.
I hope the novel reflects some of that as well. Don't misunderstand me: even if I think war is uncivilized I'll go and help fuck them up if they start shooting first ;-)
There is a time and a place for everything I suppose.
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