DEATH IS ETERNAL #422

3,000 words

I don’t really feel like saying anything special to open this DEATH IS ETERNAL. But since no one is here only for this opening paragraph, that’s not a problem. So, let’s dive directly into why you’re here: all the rest.

Contents

1. BENEATH THE CRUCIFIX

2. Writing: cutting

3. Bye!

4. Life (from October 7 to 20, 2024)

5. Reviews #339 and #340: RED HOOD: THE HILL by Shawn Martinbrough, Tony Akins, Sanford Greene, and others, and CASANOVA by Matt Fraction, Gabriel Bá, Fábio Moon, and others

6. The end

1. BENEATH THE CRUCIFIX

The air was thick with smoke and the scent of churned earth as Captain Bobbie Brown wiped his brow, staring up at Crucifix Hill. The massive iron crucifix atop the hill stood like a beacon in the murky battlefield, its dark shape barely visible through the haze. Around him, men from the 1st Battalion, U.S. 18th Infantry Regiment, braced themselves for the assault. The hill, known as Haarberg to the locals, was their next objective in the drive to encircle Aachen, Germany. To secure the city, Crucifix Hill had to fall.

The mission was simple in its directive but nearly impossible to execute. The hill was laced with a maze of pillboxes, concrete fortifications brimming with machine gun nests, German artillery, and infantry from the 246th Volksgrenadier Division. It was a natural fortress, and any attempt to take it would be a bloody affair.

Brown exhaled slowly, glancing down at the tattered map spread across the hood of a jeep. The map wasn’t necessary, though. He could feel the weight of the hill ahead of them. Every man there knew what they were walking into.

“You ready, Bobbie?” Lt. Col. Leonard’s voice crackled through the nearby radio.

Captain Brown nodded, though no one could see him. “Always, sir.” His voice was flat, determined. There was no room for hesitation.

He looked at his men—C Company—his company. Young boys, most of them, faces streaked with grime and exhaustion from weeks of constant fighting. But there was no fear in their eyes, only the resolve that comes with knowing there was no choice but forward. Behind them, tank destroyers and self-propelled guns rumbled, engines growling like lions waiting to be unleashed.

“Move out!” Brown barked.

The rifle platoon moved first, advancing through a shallow depression that led up to the first pillbox. The sound of their boots sinking into the muddy ground was quickly drowned by the eerie screech of artillery. Shells exploded on all sides, showering the soldiers with dirt and debris, but the men of C Company kept pushing forward, driven by grim determination.

Then, the unmistakable rattle of machine-gun fire erupted from the top of the hill. Flanking fire pinned them down from a nearby pillbox they hadn’t yet seen. Brown cursed under his breath. The crossfire was brutal, cutting down two men before they could even fire a shot.

Pinned in place, the men flattened against the earth, their helmets thudding against the mud. Someone screamed orders to the tank destroyers, and soon, the guns belched fire, the shells arcing toward the pillbox ahead. But the bunkers were built solid, meant to withstand bombardment.

“Dammit,” Brown growled. He turned to his second in command, a wiry kid fresh out of officer training. “We’re sitting ducks here. We need to take that bunker, now.”

Without waiting for a reply, Brown grabbed a pole charge—a long, explosive-laden tube designed to blow open pillbox doors—and sprinted into the open. A hail of bullets followed him, but he didn’t stop. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he ran the hundred yards under the relentless enemy fire.

He could feel the breath of death on his neck, but it only pushed him harder. Reaching the pillbox, he slammed the charge against the concrete and dove for cover as it detonated with a deafening roar. The explosion tore the front of the pillbox apart, silencing the machine gun nest inside.

But there was no time to celebrate. Another pillbox up the hill continued to rain fire down on his men. Blood pounded in Brown’s ears, but he refused to retreat. Clutching another charge, he moved again, zigzagging up the slope through smoke and fire. As he neared the second pillbox, the ground around him erupted in mortar fire, but Brown didn’t falter. He placed the charge, blew the bunker to pieces, and stumbled away as debris showered him.

Pain lanced through his leg, and he realized he had been hit by shrapnel. But he gritted his teeth and pressed on. A third pillbox loomed ahead, a stubborn giant in their path. He limped toward it, every step an agony, but he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t. His men depended on him.

The third pillbox met the same fate as the others, but not without cost. A mortar round exploded nearby, throwing Brown to the ground. He felt the searing pain of another wound, this time to his side, but still, he refused medical help. There was no time. The hill had to be taken.

With the last pillbox destroyed, the hill fell silent, except for the distant sounds of sporadic gunfire from further along the line. But the Germans weren’t done. Brown knew that. They would try to retake the hill, and they’d be coming soon. He grimaced as he pushed himself up, still bleeding, and limped further up the hill to scout the enemy’s next move.

Alone, he crept through the ruins of the pillboxes, scanning the horizon. He found what he was looking for. German infantry, hidden beyond the hill, were preparing for a counterattack. Brown deliberately stepped into the open, drawing their fire. Bullets kicked up the dirt around him as he dove for cover, but he had seen enough. He knew where they were.

He relayed the information back to his company, who quickly reinforced their positions. Twice, the Germans tried to storm Crucifix Hill. Twice, they were beaten back, thanks to the intelligence Brown had gathered. It was only after the hill was utterly secure that he finally allowed himself to be treated for his wounds.

The battle was over, but the war raged on. As medics worked on Brown’s injuries, he looked up at the massive crucifix that stood atop the hill. It seemed to be watching over them all, a silent witness to the bloodshed, the sacrifice, and the courage of those who had fought and died beneath it.

For his bravery that day, Captain Bobbie Brown would later receive the Medal of Honour, but for now, all he cared about was his men. They had taken Crucifix Hill, and Aachen would soon fall.

But the crucifix remained, standing tall and solemn, as if it knew that the price of victory was never paid in gold or glory but in the blood of those who dared to climb the hill.

The end

2. Writing: cutting

Photo by Megan Watson on Unsplash

I used to obsess over numbers. Specifically, the number 2,500. It was my benchmark, my beacon, and my curse. Each time I sat down to write a new HARVEY TURPIN story, I had that number sitting in the corner of my mind like a ticking clock. And with each tick, I watched the words on the screen pile up—sometimes hastily, sometimes reluctantly, but always with one thing in mind: stay within the 2,500 words.

In the early days, that meant the pace of my writing suffered. I found myself padding descriptions, adding unnecessary flourishes, and crafting scenes that lingered too long just to hit the mark. I thought I was being poetic, painting a rich, vivid picture. But in hindsight, I was only blurring the lines of the story with unnecessary details. The result was a narrative that felt bloated, weighed down by its own excess. The chapters weren’t bad, but they weren’t good either. There was something missing—something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

That’s when, thanks to the feedback from my writing cohort, I realized it was the rhythm, the natural flow of the story, that was being stifled. When you write with one eye on the word count, you’re not really writing. You’re playing a game of numbers, and the story becomes secondary. The plot stalled, the pacing dragged, and while the descriptions were all there, they were too flowery, too indulgent, a distraction from what mattered most: Harvey and his story.

It wasn’t until I abandoned the fixation on word count in the drafting phase that things began to change. Now, I let the story unfold naturally. I give it space to breathe, to grow, to develop in its own time. I no longer try to hit that magical number during the first two drafts. I just write. And when the story is done, that’s when the real work begins.

Editing, as I’ve learned, is not just about correcting typos or tightening grammar. It’s about cutting. Ruthlessly. Sometimes, entire phrases; other times, entire paragraphs. I trim the fat and pare down every sentence to its core meaning, and what I’m left with is a leaner, more focused narrative. The story feels sharper, the pace reads more urgent, and the characters come alive in a way they never did before.

When I finally do check the word count, it’s often way higher than my target. But by then, I have fallen in love with the process of stripping away the excess. Less truly is more. Each cut I make gets me closer to the heart of the story, closer to the version of HARVEY TURPIN that deserved to be told. And by the time I hit 2,500 words, the story is stronger for it.

My cohort noticed, too. They began to praise the pacing, the flow, the clarity. What was once bogged down by unnecessary verbosity, now moved with purpose. The store has room to breathe while also having direction and momentum. It was a lesson learned through experience: word count matters, but only at the end.

If I could offer any advice to fellow writers, it would be this: don’t let the numbers guide your hand too early. Write first, let the words come as they will, and then, once the story is entirely told, start cutting. It’s in the act of reduction that the essence of the story is revealed. Word count is not a cage; it’s the cherry on top—the final touch that makes everything shine.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.