To those of you who are NetGalley fans, I’m happy to announce that my new World War II historical fiction novel, Your Forgotten Sons, is now available on the site. And I’m thrilled that the first 5-Star review has posted. Find excerpts below.
“This was a riveting, quick read that focuses on the true experiences of one man, Bud Richardville of Indiana…Bud’s unit is mobile, following the advances of the front-line troops. They land in Normandy only 8 hours after the first assault, to begin their grim duty of collecting, identifying, and burying the dead…This book is well worth reading, not only because it highlights areas of WW II not usually covered but also because it shines a spotlight on the need for mental healthcare for veterans of all wars. I highly recommend this book to all historical fiction lovers.”
You can read the rest of the review here. My thanks to NetGalley’s Lisa Gentry for being the first to review Your Forgotten Sons. If you’d like to become a NetGalley reviewer, go to https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/book/327844.
Coming soon!
Your Forgotten Sons
Inspired by a true story
Anne Montgomery
Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to a Graves Registration Company, where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Lorraine, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?
When I got Covid and subsequently broke my leg a few years back, I was labled a biohazard.
Covid hit me hard in 2021. Hallucinations haunted me, especially the one where I was being attacked by words, which, à la Serena Williams, I batted away. But the more I repelled those words, the faster they came at me. The experience was akin to being inside a video game.
Later, I passed out and awoke with a severely broken leg, one that had to be surgically repaired and which kept me hobbling around for about eight months. I mention this because when I was hospitalized the fact that I still had Covid was problematic. The sign outside my room said Biohazard in big letters, underneath of which was my name, as well as those of the other Covid patients on the floor.
As a former sports official, an avocation I practiced for forty years, I’d been called a lot of unpleasant things, still Biohazard was a something new and rather sinister sounding. The medical staff coming in and out of my room in coveralls, hoods, and goggles lent an ominous tone, so as you can imagine I was happy when they released me to recover from the virus and wait for surgery at home.
Recently, I dealt with a similar issue. I have what is disturbingly called a degenerative spine, the result of too many falls and hits and lots of repetitive motion. So, my surgeon sent me off to the imaging people, where a nice lady stuck a needle in my arm and deposited a bit of radioactive material into my bloodstream. If the idea is making you squeamish, note that I was a bit queasy about the idea as well.
“Will I glow?” I asked the technician.
She smiled. “Maybe some sparkles.”
I waited several hours for the radioactive stuff to do its job, then I had to stay completely still for about a half an hour. The scanning machines hummed quietly, as they rolled over and around me. It wasn’t unpleasant, though my nose itched and I wasn’t allowed to scratch it. Still, in the grand scheme it was pretty painless.
When it was over, I asked if I could see the results and what I saw was strangely beautiful. My spine was lit up in purple and turquoise and a bright yellow patch burst from my cervical spine.
“That’s the bad part,” I said pointing at the stary spot.
“I can see that,” she said.
The scans will go to the neurosurgeon, who will decipher all that light and decided how to fix me. I tried to understand what he might see, but like many body scans there was a Rorschach-test quality to the pictures that I couldn’t decode.
I thanked the woman for her help, and before I left she said, “Don’t hold any babies for a few hours. And don’t sit next to any pregnant women.”
I squinted.
“And you probably shouldn’t go to the airport. TSA might stop you.”
“I’m leaking radiation?”
She smiled.
Biohazard indeed.
Your Forgotten Sons
Inspired by a true story
Anne Montgomery
Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to a Graves Registration Company, where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Lorraine, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?
I learned in the news that my hot tea might kill me, but I won’t give it up.
Since I’m a former reporter, the fact that I read the newspaper daily and watch the news on TV should not come as much of a surprise. However, I’m at a point where I’m not sure how much more I can take.
Not too long ago, I read an article telling me that drinking hot tea could cause esophageal cancer. Since I am as dedicated to my daily pot of tea—brewed the old-fashioned way with tea leaves—as any hardcore coffee drinker is to their beverage of choice, the story freaked me out.
The idea put forth was that really hot beverages could alter the nature of the cells in the throat and leave them susceptible to changes that might be a precursor to cancer. The article pointed out that the World Health Organization recommends not drinking anything hotter than 149 degrees, which had me staring at my pretty, eggshell-thin teacup—No, I don’t drink from a mug. I am not a barbarian!— where luscious steam was rising into the air. I put the cup on the saucer to cool. But, later, the tea just didn’t taste right.
It was suggested that I insert a meat thermometer into my tea, but, geez, that would ruin the whole gentility vibe, don’t you think? And the big thermometer would just fall out of my dainty little cup. I considered giving up my non-alcoholic beverage of choice, but the loss of the ceremony itself would just be too depressing
And now, there’s a new horror we must face. It turns out that picking one’s nose can cause Alzheimer’s. According the National Institutes of Health, “(W)e suggest that nose-picking increases the transfer of pathogenic microorganisms from the hand into the nose changing the nasal microbiome from a symbiotic to a pathogenic type, with possible consequences of a chronic low-level brain infection via the olfactory system…”
And that, they say, can lead to both dementia and Alzheimer’s. Now, I’m not the least bit worried, because I have never, EVER, engaged in that kind of excavation. I’m just sharing the scary news in case you have.
I’m not sure how many more of these stories I can take. I still feel uncomfortable when standing before the deli counter, ordering turkey and ham and bacon. I’m guessing you might already know that the processes used to make our yummy lunch and breakfast meats create cancer-causing substances. And yet there I am pointing out those coldcuts to the guy behind the counter, then hiding the packages beneath all the healthy fruits and vegetables in my cart, lest some know-it-all stare at me with derision.
I’m guessing stories like this will continue to appear, still I must be honest. There are certain things I can’t do without: chocolate, tea, cheese, wine, and bread. So with the idea that something’s going to kill me, I’ll leave it at that.
Bon appétit!
Your Forgotten Sons
Inspired by a true story
Anne Montgomery
Release Date: June 6, 2024
Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to the Graves Registration Service where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Lorraine, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?
On June 6th, 2024, the 80th anniversary of D-Day, my new historical fiction novel will be released. Your Forgotten Sons details the life of Sergeant Joseph “Bud” Richardville who was drafted into the Graves Registration Service as the Allies prepared for the invasion of Europe.
Bud’s story came to me via a packet of letters in a Ziplock bag, correspondences that were lovingly preserved by his family members and entrusted to me in the hope that I would tell Bud’s story and that of the men with whom he served.
And now I have.
I want to thank the artsists at Next Chapter Publishing for producing such a lovely and poignant cover.
Your Forgotten Sons
Inspired by a true story
Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to the Graves Registration Service where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Lorraine, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?
When I was in TV, it mattered what I wore. Today, not so much.
It might surprise those who know me that I didn’t always spend my days in shorts and T-shirts. (Of course, when the temperature plunges below 80 degrees, I swap out those shorts for some pants and that T for a sweatshirt. Living in the desert tends to make one a wimp in the cold.) The point is that I am not a frilly kind of girl.
However, several decades back, when I plied my trade in front of a TV camera as a sportscaster, it did matter what I wore, so much so that I was periodically examined by consultants whose job it was to hate my clothes, hair, makeup, and jewelry, so they could rid me of my bad taste and solidify the need for their opinions on my sartorial choices.
I mention this because, while the idea of dressing up today gives me hives, I do have a clue about what styles look good and which do not. So I will now elaborate on current trends that, well, I just don’t understand.
In my opinion,plaid belongs on kilts not suits.
Take the baggy shirt that has just a small bit tucked in in front. What’s the point there? Why not just wear a shorter shirt, or a button down that’s open in the front, or a jacket, or a good old-fashioned cardigan?
“That’s to give one a sense of curves,” a saleswomen patiently explained when I questioned the look in a dressing room. “You know, to show off one’s waist.”
As someone who has never had much of a waist—I tend to go straight down, a condition my mother pointed out when I was about 14, when she exclaimed, “You’re built just like your father!” A rather confusing remark for an adolescent girl, but I digress.
Tucking in the front of a shirt would never give me a waist, but it did point out yet another strange fashion trend: pants with prominent belt loops but no belt. Everywhere one looks today there are men and women rocking beltless belt loops. Despite my lack of a waist, I used to like belts. Especially western-style, black-and-silver belts, but that accoutrement has vanished. I read belts are making a comeback, but the general public seems not to have caught on yet, leaving me to wonder just how people are holding up their pants.
Ladies, can we at least go for a little more fabric?
And speaking of pants, how is it that “mom” jeans are all the rage. Just a few years back, those navel-hugging pants opened one up to mockery. But now, young women are sashaying about in those high-waisted, straight-legged jeans like they just invented them.
Then there are shorts, which I’ve pilloried before. I almost lost my mind on a hunt for shorts after finding nothing but miniscule ones, often with frayed edges and intentional rips, material that couldn’t possibly cover an average bum, and which women in their fifties and sixties are wearing. (Sorry, ladies, but the visions of you from behind are permanently burned into my retinas.)
This was what hot French guys wore in the 17th century, so I guess I shouldn’t throw stones at today’s sortorial choices.
And women’s fashion aren’t the only ones that have me wondering. What’s with all the men wearing brown shoes with blue suits? Watch any TV news show and just about every guy is combining colors that should not be mixed. And when did plaid suits become all the rage? As an Irish-American girl who grew up in kilts, I feel that is wear plaid belongs. All those tartan suits are giving me a headache.
I could go on, pointing out the ridiculous lengths to which false eyelashes and fingernails have gone, but I guess there have always been strange fashion trends. I’m still trying to wrap my head around those 17th century “hot” guys who favored long flowing powdered wigs, white stockings, knee britches, and funny little shoes. (For some strange reason I’ve tried to envision Jason Mamoa in such attire, but I can’t seem to get it right, and perhaps that’s for the best.)
All that said, fashions will keep changing if for no other reason than designers need to keep selling stuff. So all of you, have at it.
Now, where are my shorts and T-shirt?
Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.
Author Anne Montgomery 