“Fear” by James Warner Bellah

 

“Afraid? Who isn’t afraid? But it doesn’t do any good to brood over it.”

James Warner Bellah, the author of many a fine Cavalry tale, those fine enough to be adapted to the screen by the late great John Ford, here brings his military insight to a World War I flying squadron.

We have a tale of a newly arrived pilot learning the ropes of combat in the days of canvas covered wood framed biplanes.

Bellah’s history is accurate. His feel for the realities of “being in the mix” of combat are just as sure as his cavalry work.

This is essentially Red Badge of Courage of the skies.

We live inside the head of the new arrival. Does he or doesn’t he have what it takes to do what must be done in battle?

His struggles are real. His tightrope walk of cowardice and duty are just as tangible.

Those looking for the surface charms of superhuman exploits such as found in Lee Child, Jack Carr, Mark Greaney et al. may not like what they find here.

Here is no superhuman—here we have nothing but humanity—fearful and yet plodding on.

For duty? Maybe not.

“Our job is a funny one, and we’re not here for ourselves, and were not here to be heroes or to get in the newspapers. The V. C.’s [Victoria Crosses] are few and far between.” He raised himself upon his elbow. “I’m not preaching self-abasement and a greater loyalty to a cause that is right, mind you. I don’t know anything about causes or who started the war or why, and I don’t care. I’m preaching C Flight and the lives of five men.”

Bellah nails what most true accounts understand, incredible feats of heroism and what we might term patriotic fervor are often more microcosmic than that. It is duty, loyalty, respect and, I’ll say it, love, for the flesh and blood right there in the trenches with you. The man or woman beside you. The “Big Cause” fades, the meme/headline/creed du jour dissipates.

Slogans and cheers are surface costumes for a character we haven’t stepped up to in actuality.

Whereas the person next to you in a struggle is bone-deep and real.

The men in this story live on that edge—an edge of “We are scared as hell, but let’s not dwell on it.”

“Cruel, thin, casual talk clicking against their teeth in nervous haste; the commercial talk of men bartering their lives against each tick of the clock; men caught like rats in a trap, with no escape but death or a lucky chance like Mallory’s. Caught and yet denying the trap—laughing at it until the low roof of the mess shack rumbled with the echo; drowning it in whisky for the night.

These men are no Mitch Rapp. No Jack Reacher.

They are real men and all the more heroic for it.

Every sentence of Mr. Bellah’s prose flavors the mood.

“The cold wet mist lay upon the fields like a soft veil drawn across the face of an old woman who had died in the night.”

A work of adult action, written by a mature mind for mature minds.

And the lesson holds for us all.

“Afraid? Who isn’t afraid” But it doesn’t do any good to brood over it.”