Five years ago, my dear friend Regina Liparoto and I began a journey, one dedicated to telling the story of her uncle, Sergeant Joseph βBudβ Richardville, a man who served in the Graves Registration Service during World War II. Budβs jobβno doubt one of the least appreciated and most harrowing in the militaryβrequired that he locate, identify, and bury the dead.
I learned Budβs story through a packet of 75-year-old letters and family oral history, stories Regina collected throughout her life. The result was Your Forgotten Sons, a novel inspired by Bud and those with whom he served in the GRS that was released this past June 6th in honor of the 80th anniversary of D-Day.
Recently, I traveled to Indiana where I met with Regina and members of the Richardville family, descendants who gathered to remember the soldier they never knew, but one they wanted to welcome back home.
And here is where Iβd like to thank the people at Vincennes PBS for being there as we honored Bud. You can find that story here.
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?
But firstβ¦when I was just a toddler, my mother began calling me Calamity Jane. Why, you ask? Because I was her child most likely to come home with dark bruises, or a splinter the size of a two-by-four, or a broken bone, or shards of glass in my feet.
This Marquis de Sade-esque, Chinese finger-puzzle device was not as fun as it looks.
I was constantly charging through streams and woods and climbing trees. I started ice skating at five. Skiing at eight. So perhaps many of my injuries were easily explained. Still the Calamity Jane moniker carried with it more than a hint of clumsiness on my part, which I noted each time my mother rolled her eyes after Iβd had some sort of misadventure.
And now Iβve done it again. This coming after the last few years where Iβve met more surgeons and physical therapists and chiropractors and massage therapists than I care to mention. Note that while most of my surgical adventures have been to shore up long-ago sports injuries that have disintegrated with age, this was not one of those times.
Simply put, I tripped in a pothole while out on my morning walk. And to make matters worse, I cried! Something I didnβt do when I fractured my spine while officiating a football game or breaking my leg while umpiring baseball. Nor did I weep after two rotator cuff surgeries or cervical spinal fusion. Yet, there I sat, butt on the ground, clutching my arm, screaming like a five-year old with her hair on fire.
In my defense, the injury was pretty gruesome. My wrist was going in a decidedly wrong direction. When it became apparent that I was in shock and couldnβt walk, my sweetie pie placed me off the road and charged up the hill like Superman to get the car. Then Ryan returned and whisked me off to the hospital.
After the emergency room folks took a good look, it was announced that I had broken three bones, andβbecause I never do anything halfwayβIβd dislocated it as well. βWe call that a skateboarderβs injury,β a nurse commented later, which was a much better story than taking a header while walking, but one I doubted anyone would believe.
After a quick examination, a pleasant doctor asked to have a specific device retrieved, then turned to me and said, βI think this will be more humane.β My doped-up brain hung onto that last word, but it wouldnβt be until later that I understood.
Considering that Calamity Jane was a crack shot and a trick rider, I’m guessing she wasn’t the least bit clumsy.
After suspending my arm in a Marquis de Sade-esque, Chinese finger-puzzle device for 30 minutes, she squinted at my hanging appendage. “Iβd hoped that might straighten it out,β she said. Then the doctor placed one hand around my black-and-blue wrist, gently traced one finger down the inside of my arm, and yanked.
I screamed.
Unperturbed, she put her palm on the dislocated spot and pushed.
I screamed again.
I screamed so loud, the entire, bustling ER came to a halt. A nurse stuck her head in and enquired if everything was alright.
The doctor nodded, then turned to me. βIβm sorry,β she said.
I faded a bit after that. But later I awoke to a kindly man with a big smile staring down at me. βWeβre going to have to fix your arm.β
The next day that nice surgeon pinned my broken parts back together. I guess he straightened my wrist out too. I didnβt ask how, since I donβt really want to think about it. I havenβt yet seen the results, as Iβm still in a cast.
And hereβs where I want an “Atta girl!”, since Iβm still a bit embarrassed by all that crying and screaming. Three-and-a-half days after surgery, I boarded a planeβone of five on my scheduleβso I could get to a book tour in Indiana. I got through five live events and several TV interviews, but only because Ryan did everything for me. I needed a wheelchair to traverse the airports. I couldnβt dress myself and was barely able to even brush my teeth. I can still see him lugging all our stuff around like a pack mule.
So, yeah! Iβm a trooper! And I want a T-shirt that says so.
And, of course, Ryan deserves one too.
As for Calamity Jane, the woman was a renowned trick rider and a crack shot, evidence that she was clearly no klutz. So, from here on out, I will proudly wear her name.
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 while back, I was ensconced in a neck brace, the result of a surgery that had me unable to drive. So, my sweetie pie dropped me off at the health club for a nice soak in the whirlpool, a dip in the cold plunge, and a steam. I was feeling pretty good, as I made my way to a round metal table topped with an umbrella, where I sat and waited for Ryan to retrieve me.
As the health club is in the middle of a swanky mall, people were coming and going on what was a lovely, blue-sky-puffy-white-clouds kind of day. However, despite the ambiance, no one appeared the least bit happy. I watched people from behind my sunglasses. Maybe 30 folks walked by, not one of whom even attempted to make eye contact.
Note that in my neck brace I probably appeared slightly feeble, and at my age I could have been a grandmother to any one of them, so I couldnβt have appeared the least bit threatening. And still, there was a reluctance to communicate.
A young man strutted past talking importantly to himself.
A women pushed a baby carriage trailed by two small children. One little boy stared at me, perhaps intrigued by my neck brace. I smiled, but his mother moved on.
A couple marched by, heads down, grimly absorbed in their phones.
A dozen more people went by without looking at me or anyone else, at which point I started to worry about humanity.
Then, a thirtyish woman stared at me briefly and almost smiled. But she seemed embarrassed by the gesture, pressed her lips into a tight line, and turned away.
In the Psychology Today article, βSmiling at Strangersβ Dr. Alex Lickerman explains that often strangers donβt smile at one another because they are so busy thinking about other aspects of their lives, that they are everywhere expect where they actually are.
But smiling, even at strangers, is good for us. It can trigger positive feelings that release hormones that help decrease stress levels. And, as Lickerman says, smiling at a stranger can be a kindness.
βTo smile at a stranger in a meaningful way, then, requires we muster some kind of real feeling for themβthat we care about someone we don’t know, if only in a small way. Thus, for me, smiling at strangers is a small exercise in compassion.β
I will admit here that I didnβt always smile at strangers. But when I became a teacher, a peer sat me down and explained that it would be benificial if I could perhaps be a bit nicer. Eventually I started saying hello to anyone who walked by when I was on campus.
Today, I continue the practice when Ryan and I are out on our morning walk with the dogs. We say βGood morning!β to everyone we pass, and often the change in that strangerβs demeanor is shocking, a bright smile replacing what had been a dour countenance.
As I waited for my ride, I had pretty much given hope, but then a young man gave me a nod and a small smile. At which point, a fortyish women in black stopped, graced me with a beautiful smile, and called out, βFeel better!β
And I did!
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?
Five years ago, my friend Regina gave me a mission. βTell Budβs story,β she said after handing me a bag of 75-year old letters. βThen weβll bring him home.β
Bud was her uncle, her motherβs older brother, a man who like millions of others was drafted into the American military as the Allies prepared for the invasion of Europe during World War II.
Sergeant Joseph βBudβ Richardville was the son of sharecroppers and he lived in poverty in Vincennes, Indiana in a tiny home hard by the railroad tracks. As a boy, he was caught stealing food and coal, which landed him in what was then a home for wayward boys. At the Gibault School, Bud grew up, developed leadership skills, and discovered a love of baseball.
When Bud shipped out he did so as a member of the 606 Graves Registration Service, where he and his fellow soldiers performed probably the most difficult job in the military. Their task? Locate, identify, and bury the dead.
I followed Budβs trail through the post marks on his letters home, dates and locations that placed Bud at Normandy on D-Day, in the frozen forests of the Battle of the Bulge, with General George Patton in Czechoslovakia, and at numerous other locations throughout Europe. But when the war ended, Bud did not come home. He was buried by his GRS brothers in a cemetery in Γpinal, France.
Though Bud Richardville’s remains lie in an American cemetary in Γpinal, France, on August 30, 2024, he was welcomed home to Vincennes, Indiana.
It was Reginaβs hope that Bud could be repatriated and laid to rest alongside his family members in Vincennes, but those interred in the graceful American cemeteries that dot the globe must, generally, stay where they are.
So the book that tells Budβs story and those of the others with whom he served is his homecoming. Your Forgotten Sons shines a light on the mostly ignored work of the men of the Graves Registration Service, those who toiled in the most difficult of circumstances to give the fallen the honor and reverence they deserved.
But there was more. On August 30th, 2024 a quiet group assembled outside the Indiana Military Museum in Budβs hometown. Family members, friends, local dignitaries, veterans, and members of the press gathered to honor Bud. A plaque commemorating his service and that of the others in the GRS was laid. There was an honor guard and a 21-gun salute. A bugler played Taps.
Andβ¦there was a proclamation.
Proclamation
Sergeant Joseph βBudβ Richardville
Indiana Military Museum
August 30, 2024
WHEREAS, more than 80 years ago Sergeant Joseph βBudβ Richardvilleβa son of Vincennesβwas summoned to serve the United States of America in World War II; and
WHEREAS, Sergeant Joseph βBudβ Richardville served with Hodgesβs First Army as a member of the 606th Graves Registration Company, action that took him to Normandy on D-Day, through France and on to Luxembourg, Belgium, Czechoslovakia and Germany; and
WHEREAS, Sergeant Joseph βBudβ Richardville served in one of the most difficult of military capacities, where his job was to locate, identify, and bury the dead, the evidence of which remains with us today in the elegant cemeteries he and his men left behind; and
WHEREAS, we salute and pay tribute to the dedication and bravery of Sergeant Joseph βBudβ Richardville in the face of the heartrending duties he performed;
NOW therefore I, Joe Yochum, Mayor of the city of Vincennes, do hereby proclaim August 30th, 2024, as;
βSergeant Joseph βBudβ Richardville Dayβ
in the City of Vincennes. And I urge our residents to observe this day in honor of Bud and his distinguished service to our country.
And so…Sergeant Joseph “Bud” Richardville had finally come home.
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?
Hermit crabs routinely need larger shells as they grow. They then take a new one and leave their old home behind.
And now that the flooding has receded and the lights are back on after Tropical Storm Ernesto…
Not too long ago, I posted a blog about the hermit crabs that periodically wander through my home on St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin islands. At first, the little guys startled me, especially the one that was almost as big as my fist. But eventually, we got used to them. Now, my sweetie pie and I just pick them up and gently place them back outside.
Then we discovered the crabs were looking for something: crabby real estate. It seems they grow out of their shells and often congregate to switch out, a situation where hopefully everyone crawls away with the perfect place to live, until it’s time again to upsize. Since we live above a rocky beach, Ry and I headed out to gather some shells, which we placed in a corner of the patio, so we periodically get to watch the crabby get-together and find joy when they all wander off in their new digs.
Sargassum seaweed can pile up on beaches in great heaps, a result of climate change. (Photo by Mark Yokoyama)
Then something changed. There werenβt enough shells that fit, so we had crabs wandering around looking quite ill at ease in poorly-fitting homes, which prompted us to head back to the beach. But when we got there we discovered that huge swaths of sargassum had swept in. For the uninformed, sargassum is a red seaweed that in moderate amounts is a good thing. Itβs a habitat for small fish and tiny sea turtles, is a wonderful fertilizer, and is, so Iβve heard, quite eatable. But with climate change the blooms have become massive, and when they come to shore the piles can become several feet thick, a red blanket that covers everything on the beach, so any suitable shells were impossible to reach.
Then I did what many of us do when weβre in need of something. I went to Amazon. And you wouldnβt believe how many hermit-crab shells were for sale. Great big bags of them. But whenever I went to buy some, I was told they were “currently unavailable.”
In a never-give-up moment, I called what I thought was a local pet store, but instead I reached a women on the mainland who told me tales of all the hermit crabs sheβd provided homes for over the years, even explaining how sheβd paint dates on their shells so she could recognize them whenever they returned. At first, I was delighted to meet a kindred spirit, but then I realized that perhaps we both sounded a bit deranged.
She explained that while she had no shells, I could call the Virgin Islands Fish & Wildlife people for some help, which I did. The woman who answered the phone paused for a very long time after I explained my predicament.
I dumped all my shells into a container on the patio, so the hermit crabs could find new homes.
βI donβt know anything about that!β She sounded as if I might be a danger to myself or others.
βDo you know of anyone else I can ask?β I said sweetly.
βNo!β
The next morning, a large crab in a small shell pulled himself slowly across the patio. He was clearly depressed. (Donβt ask me how I knew. I just did.) Now I realize Iβm not talking about a basket of kittens here, still I felt for the little guy and the rest of his poorly-housed freinds.
So I went back on line and eventually I found a women who specializes in all things hermit crab. In Tennessee. Amy at the Naples Seashell Company assured me she could ship shells to my little island, but her website encouraged me to measure the shell openings for each crab who required a new home and order an appropriately sized shell for them to move into. Note that some of the shells are the size of a pencil eraser and they get progressively bigger, up to the size of the previously mentioned fist-sized behemouth. While I did grab the tape measure, I realized I had no idea where the crabs live when theyβre not sauntering through my home, so I picked out a whole bunch of shells in different sizesβnote they range from an eighth of an inch to several inchesβand placed my order.
My formerly depressed hermit crab got a new home and an instanat change in attitude.
When they arrived, I spilled the shells into a shallow pan, put them in the corner of the patio, and waited for the games to begin. At which point I noticed the depressed crab huddled in the corner. In a matter of seconds, he zeroed in on a shell andβwith no quibbling about price or closing costsβhoisted himself into his new home, and then trundled off. I’m guessing he’ll tell the others some new dwellings are on the market.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
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, Loryane, 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 just finished reading a novel that was based in Ireland. As a women of Irish descent, I loved the descriptions of the rural town where the story was located, all wild green countryside and soft rain and colorful characters. And the story was dramatic and engaging with a missing teenager and mysterious events.
It seems lots of people like the book as it’s a New Your Times best seller with several pages of glowing reviews. Still, I’m hesitant to give you the title, sinceβas an author myselfβI feel badly about denigrating others in the field.
Still, there are things I must point out. The protagonist is a former Chicago detective who spent 25 years as a cop in that gritty city. He moves to Ireland, burned out by his career and a messy divorce, looking for peace. When we meet up with him, heβs fixing up a rundown cottage, where heβs only been for a month or two.
So, whatβs my beef? Itβs the things Jim says. (Note his real name is not Jim, since Iβm doing my best not to reveal the bookβs title.) The words coming out of his mouth kept throwing me off.
“People are fierce talkers around here.β
βWell, Iβm not rightly sure.β
βMuch obliged for the meal.β
Ugh!
Like many of you, Iβve spent way too much time watching American crime shows and reading mystery novels filled with police personnel and detectives, and Iβve never heard one of them speak this way.
βThat suits me down to the ground.β
βLooks kindβa loco to me.β
βGot a mess of perch.β
The author points out once or twice that Jim grew up in North Carolina, still that doesnβt explain his choice of words, or that he seems to magically understand terms the local Irish people use. When heβs told that someone βgave grinds,β Jim instantly knew the person in question was tutoring students. Jim also uses the word βtownlandβ repeatedly, when an American would simply say βtown.” Itβs ironic that at one point the author explains, βOne of the reasons he picked Ireland is so he wouldnβt have to learn a new language,β and yet, clearly, Jim has done just that.
βI was just tidying up this thicket of mine.β
βSang like a little birdie.β
βThis dinner’s down to you.β
And now I bet youβre thinking, βWell, gosh, Anne, why do you care about this?β
The answer? Putting this type of language in a hardened Chicago copβs mouth is distracting. It makes the reader momentarily pause and pulls one out of the story.
Adding to the dialogue issue, is the fact that authors need to understand that people do things differently in different parts of the world. For example, remember the World War II movies where the Germans could pick out an American spy simply by the way they smoked a cigarette? Europeans would hold it between the thumb and forefinger, while Americans held a cigarette between the index and middle fingers. Similarly Jim says with much certainty, βEtiquette is stuff you gotta do just cause thatβs how everyone does it. Like holding your fork in your left hand.β And while Europeans eat that way, Americans primarily use their fork in their right hand, with the exception of the times theyβre cutting meat when they shift from left to right.
I will admit here that I have also been guilty of errors like this. In the early drafts of my recently published World War II historical fiction novel Your Forgotten Sons, I had soldiers in the 1940s starting Jeeps with keys and adjusting rear-view mirrors. Oops! They used push starters back then and the vehicles had no mirrors. So, I admit, we can all make mistakes. The point is readers want to immerse themselves into the novels theyβre reading, into the landscape and characters and plot, but when authors are sloppy, the book loses its magic, something we should all try to avoid.
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 Evaβs love be enough to save him?
My thanks to reviewer Amy Wilson of Novels Alive for her review of my World War II historical fiction novel Your Forgotten Sons. Find the review here.
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 Evaβs love be enough to save him?
When the men arrived to build us a new shed, I caught Ryan at the back door staring at them like he wanted to go out and play.
A while back, my sweetie pie was going through a rather tough time. He was still caring for his mother who had dementia. Early one morning she was rushed to the hospital. Though Mary was okay in the end, the stress on Ryan was palpable. A short time later, he got a kidney stone. The doctors sent him home and said, βItβll pass in a few days.β As soon as the little beast moved on, Ryan got Covid. Heβd managed to avoid the bug for years, but when it hit him, he was miserable. Then, his father died unexpectedly. About six weeks later, Ryan managed to get his mom into a nursing facility, a bitter-sweet moment. Mary had been running away and biting the home caregiver, and Ryan didnβt have the medical skills to take care of her anymore. I thought moving her to a home would be a relief, and while it was I sensed a tinge of guilt remained behind.
It was at that point that Ryan started cleaning. As he wanted to sell his house, he began sorting through his motherβs closets and boxes and drawers, an endeavor that took weeks, since Mary was a bit of a hoarder.
According to the Forbes article, βThe Mental Health Benefits of a Clean Home,β cleaning is good for your health. β(It) might sound like something your parents may have told you to get you to tidy up your toys as a kid, but turns out, thereβs some truth to it. Our environment plays an important role in our mental wellness, and keeping a clean home, whether thatβs your bedroom, apartment or house, has a variety of benefits you wonβt want to ignore.β
What are the advantages of cleaning? It can provide a sense of order and control, which can give us a better handle on our emotions. Cleaning also releases endorphins, hormones that can tamp down stress and act as a pain reliver. Tidying up can improve our focus, which allows our brains to concentrate on one task at a time. And cleaning can regulate our emotions because it βrequires us to slow down, which can offer a calming effect during overwhelming situations…β
So perhaps I should not have been surprised when Ry announced that we should get a new shed. The one in my backyard had been a jumbled mess for years. No matter how many times I marched everyone out to clean up the shed, it would quickly return to an impassable room, random stuff tossed in and piled to the ceiling.
I couldnβt really argue about getting a new shed. A sprawling mesquite tree had grown over the top of the building and was slowly crushing the roof, so the contents were removed. Then, after numerous trips to Goodwill and the dump, the guys from Tough Shed appeared to build us a new one.
Ry loves to work with his hands and I caught him staring from the back door as the men put the new shed together. I couldnβt help but think that he looked like a little kid who wanted to go out and play with the other boys. Then I wondered if building things might also be benificial to one’s health and it turns out it is. According to Psychology Today, working with your hands promotes mindfulness and provides a sense of personal accomplishment, which reduces stress and anxiety.
When the shed was finished, Ryan began organizing the little room, building shelves, and finding perfect spots for the belongings weβd kept. The process is ongoing, but heβs getting there. In the meantime, I think Iβll let him be, since the shed seems to be a man-cave of sorts.
I think heβs earned it, donβt you?
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 Evaβs love be enough to save him?
When I tell people Iβm an author, they often blurt out, βIβve always wanted to write a book!β At which point I smile politely and urge them on. Why? Because writing books is fun and exciting. One gets to meet all kinds of people and travel to interesting places for research. And we live with fascinating characters, ones we can see and hear and chat with, which sometimes has loved ones questioning our sanity.
That said, the dark side of publishing is the part that comes moments after we slice open that delivery box and cuddle our baby in our arms, because then we must let them go. Like children we raise to grow up and head out into the world, we must also send our books away, hopefully to people who will love them as much as we do.
The question is how do we get readers to buy our books?
The marketing and selling of books has become multifaceted and complicated since the advent of the Internet, which sometimes makes writers want to toss their laptops out the window in frustration. In the old daysβpre Amazonβs birth in 1995βan author could hand over a manuscript to a publisher, sit back, and wait for others to promote their book. But no more. Authors are now involved in every aspect of marketing, and if they donβt take it seriously, it wonβt matter how brilliant their novel is. Did you know that before accepting a manuscript publishers will often scour the Internet to check an authorβs digital footprint? And if they find the author is without a website, blog, podcast, proper social media links, and masses of followers, that manuscriptβno matter how award-worthyβjust might end up in the nearest digital trash bin.
Iβve done my best to follow book-marketing guidelines. I have a website where I blog weekly. I share reviews and promotions and am active on various social media platforms. Iβve engaged publicists at my own expense and held book signings. I give book talks and offer myself as a guest on podcasts. And despite all of that, letβs just say Iβm delighted to be receiving those monthly Social Security and pension checks, because thereβs no way I could live on my royalties. (This is where I generally tell aspiring young authors that they should never, ever quit their day jobs to be writers.)
The thing is, authors need to find promotional avenues that work for them. And here is where Iβll mention the humble business card. I have always believed in that wee slice of paper, though I sense many feel that “technology” is outdated. But even today, in our digital world, business cards are perfect conversation starters, especially if one puts a little effort into their design. And then thereβs the rather shocking idea that when one hands out a business card there’s a living, breathing human being reaching out to grasp it. Yes, I know when one hits the send button on our blogs and ads and posts they have the ability to reach lots of people, but thereβs something special about looking someone in the eye and talking about your book.
Today, I rarely leave the house without a few business cards tucked in my pocket. I always have my latest book cover on the front and relevant contact information including my email address and website link on the back. I also list the titles of all my published books. Then I watch and listen. When I see someone with a book, I ask what theyβre reading, which often leads to a conversation. Two strangers talking about books can be magical. If you donβt believe me, try it sometime.
As for all the other marketing approaches, the best advice is pick a few and stick with them. Try not to spread yourself too thin, and choose promotions you enjoy. For example, as a former TV sports reporter, I never met a microphone I didnβt like, so I enjoy being a guest on podcasts. However, Instagram always had me fumbling for something to post. It was almost a relief when someone from TikTok took over my account. (I know I should start over, but I just havenβt been able to make myself do it. Hereβs hoping my publisher hasnβt noticed.)
So, get out there, fellow authors. Find what works for you. And always have a few business cards in your pocket.
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, Loryane, 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?
My thanks to Virginia Dill of BookSirens for her 5-Star review of my novel Your Forgotten Sons.
“What a brilliant book! I couldnβt put this novel down…It is a solid five-star read. An unputdownable accounting of innocence, greed, the horrors of war, and the selfishness and criminal behaviors of some who seek to profit off the misfortunes of others. Your Forgotten Sons should be a must-read for all lovers of fiction, especially WWII fiction. The tale was educational, provocative, enlightening, and so well done. I hope Anne Montgomery writes another tale such as this. Her books have found a place on my bookshelves.”
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 Evaβs love be enough to save him?
Author Anne Montgomery 