One more puff on the fag and all of a sudden it was a non-event, anti-climatic. We, the survivors, lay about recovering while it was established that, for all that collective blood and pain, there were no major injuries to speak of. Eye-witnesses were now gasping at each other all around you:
 “Couple of F111s, they were. Both made two runs each.”
 “Nar. Phantoms. Yer can tell by them fuckin’ wings.”
 “Dive-bombers, mate. F-111s.”
    But only a couple of them and a couple of runs when up there it seemed like the entire United States Air Force.
 “They were well away from you actually,” you heard Hatrack saying to Nigel, “But you did the right thing. No point risking your men in a situation like that. Well done, Corporal.”
    What the fuck did he have to do with it? You brave multi-warred veteran, who showed you how to run like fuck!
 “What about the gear?” Holly was asking, “Lot of stuff left behind up there.”
He was thinking, of course, of the paperwork that would entail.
 “Leave the bloody lot,” Hatrack said magnanimously, “I’ll put it all through on an emergency requisition when we get back. Anything you need...”
 “You are convinced then,” Holly said, “That there aren’t any Charlies here.”
Hatrack didn’t trouble to answer him. He just stood, looking all about, shaking his head.
 “Lies,” he murmured to the planet in general, “All lies.”

The Night of the Generals by Hans Hellmut Kirst is an interesting thriller for several reasons. It deals with the hunt for a Nazi General who is a psychopathic murderer of prostitutes. The absurdity of hunting down a Jack-the-Ripper amid the mass slaughter in Europe at the time is weird enough and probably meant to make a big salient point, but mostly it seems just plain silly. The dogged detective is on the trail and finally, halfway through the book, confronts the killer with his conclusions. Whereby the killer shoots him dead. Now there’s something new—how many Sherlock’s or Hercule’s or Inspector Plodders get bumped off by the bad guy mid-tale?  Of course, war circumstances allow the villain to get clean away with it. Eventually, he is tracked down, now a respectable captain of industry, and persuaded to commit suicide. But you still wonder why anybody bothered.
    The movie was strong, if a little cold. Peter O’Toole scowled arrogantly to the last as the villain and Omar Sharif was the detective who did indeed manage to surprise us all by getting himself killed midstream. It all went a bit rudderless after that, although the strong supporting cast did their best to hold things together, especially Donald Pleasance as one of the suspects. But it did go to show why thrillers must have heroes to carry them through, and just how disastrous it all becomes when the formula is breached. No one has ever tried it again, as far as I know.