HUMAN WRECKAGE

Why Eagles Dare

“Broadsword calling Danny Boy.”

My friend Stats Guy and I shared remarkably similar baby boomer childhoods even though we grew up in different countries and on opposite sides of the continent. Our pre-pandemic Tuesday Night Beer Club meetings covered great swathes of adolescent ground that was never tiresome to revisit: baseball, James Bond and the bloodless slaughter of Nazis in books and on film. His Christmas gift to me was a recent edition of Alistair MacLean’s Where Eagles Dare. I’d read it of course, but more than 50 years ago. I’ve watched the film starring Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood at least five times and I’ve a hunch I’m going to kick back and kick that number up a notch sooner than later.

Because movies used to unreel in neighbourhood and downtown theatres for weeks or sometimes even months at a time and television shows were broadcast on strict weekly schedules, the popular novel was a primary form of entertainment. I suppose I could write the same about pulp magazines or even any magazine.

Where Eagles Dare entwines the two fundamental plots of drama: man against nature, and man against man. Very simply, the story concerns a commando raid undertaken in bad weather. Naturally the target involves an impregnable fortress. The heroes are ruthless and resourceful. The women are impossibly beautiful. The Nazis aren’t just evil, they’re well trained too. MacLean’s prose will not elicit comparisons to fellow British novelist Graham Greene who dabbled in what he described as “entertainments” or popular fiction. Still, the reader is compelled to read. And read on. Where Eagles Dare was published in 1967. Three or four years later I was handed a Fontana paperback edition; that book was my first paycheque for work outside the home.

I grew up in a Montreal suburb situated on the north side of the island’s primary geographical feature, a dormant volcano. The Town of Mount Royal, whose construction was begun prior to the First World War, is what’s known in urban planning circles as a garden city, pleasant and pretty much self-contained. TMR’s design resembled a wagon wheel. The hub was a recreational greenspace surrounded by shops and services, churches and apartments. Its major boulevards spoked out from or led to its centre. Imagine a circle with a capital X superimposed upon it. Now, bisect the glyph with the Canadian National Railroad’s right-of-way.

The Laird-Canora Building, named for the streets it was wedged between, was a blonde brick office building, too angled and awkward to be a flatiron. Street level, actually about four or five steps up from the sidewalk was commercial: a restaurant (cherry 7-Up in a tall fountain glass with a straw), a stationer (weapons on the toy aisle), a hobby shop (Airfix models and soldiers), a delicatessen (doughnuts), and praise God above, a bookstore, Johnson’s Books. I haunted that place in the way I would later come to haunt downtown record stores, utterly enthralled by the cover art, gripping titles and the names of authors – so much more exciting than my own -  wanting everything but hostage to my means, a modest weekly allowance, and the goodies available from Mister Johnson’s neighbouring commercial competitors.

Eventually Mister Johnson tired of being shadowed. He put me to work. He had me move boxes. He had me unpack boxes. Soon enough, I was permitted to shelve books, reminded that new arrivals or new editions featuring different artwork must be displayed covers forward, facing the customer, spines would do for older stock. It was the best job I’ve ever had because it was essentially a form of extortion. I was paid protection money in paperbacks in exchange for my inexpert labour because every book Mister Johnson gave me ensured I wouldn’t be hanging around his business for the next few days; I’d be at home reading. I never had to say to him, “Gosh, Mister Johnson, it would be a crying shame if Fahrenheit 451 came true.” Our contract was never meant to last. Mister Johnson moved his shop to the other side of the mountain, downtown; increased traffic and no annoying kid’s grubby handling of his entire inventory. I don’t believe I drove him from TMR.

Where Eagles Dare transported me to the Bavarian Alps (now inextricably starring Richard Burton as Major Smith and Clint Eastwood as Schaffer), reminded me of an earlier era of leisure pleasure and brought a sliver of my childhood back into 35-millimetre focus. A story within and stories without. And when I note its spine on my shelf I will think of my friend Stats Guy. This is why dedicated readers tend to hang on to their books I think, both for their content and their context. There is meaning beyond the type. Even a modest library demands floor space, vertical square footage too, but there’s always room in my head to revisit a guided journey and refresh a memory.

When I paused while rereading Where Eagles Dare I kept my place in its pages with a Johnson’s Books bookmark with its seven digit TMR phone number. Yes, I still have one.       

          

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of imprecise memory since 2013. My novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com to find your preferred format and retailer. Mister Johnson would've displayed it in the front of his shop; I know this to be true.