Substantive editing sample 42:
May and June 1970

In a novel, the editor must keep track of the "narrative present" as well as all the vital stats of the characters. This piece had serious issues with time (what current events would be happening during the narrative action, how long a flight should take, what stars would be in the sky at the narrative's latitude, date, and hour), and it was propagating a long-debunked myth.

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This sample is presented here with the author’s permission.

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Mickey eased back against the damp bulkhead with his hands clasped behind his head, fully encapsulated in the majesty of the Milky Way as its million star menagerie, spread like heavenly pixie dust drenching the dark Asian sky. His eyes wandered off the spout of the Big Dipper, north to the bright beacon he recognized as the North Star. No matter how far his eyes journeyed into the heavens, they always returned to Orion, his lifelong guardian. Satisfied ‘The Hunter’s’ omnipresence still loomed above him, he turned again to search for the elusive Southern Cross…then on to the mighty Hercules and Taurus and so many other nebulous Greek formations his father had pointed out to him as a child in Japan. Lord…I know you know where I am and why I’m here, he confessed. And as I look up into your infinite kingdom…I know my voice is faint and my courage weak. But with your tolerant blessing…I will do my duty honorably. He paused briefly, looking down at the luminous face on his watch…0400. Three tense hours had passed since he and four of his men had quietly floated their squadron of airboats into position just southwest of the decimated hamlet of Ap Vinh. As he scanned the faint horizon, he barely needed to squint to see the outlines of the deadly watercraft, silently afloat, motionless in the starlit night. Each of the fifteen boats carried at least six heavily armed Cambodes, their ranks bolstered by the five Special Forces Advisors strategically dispersed amongst them. Mickey remained impressed at the noise discipline the men displayed throughout the arduous, stealthy movement. He felt confident that at this time in the early morning, not even the snakes knew they were there. His thoughts wandered heavenly once again, his mind curious if some young maiden somewhere in the world was looking up into the stars to greet his lonely stare. A sudden trio of shooting stars lifted his spirits, a sight he hadn’t seen since that starry night camping out on the bluff overlooking Yokohama harbor. His thoughts had not provoked the waning image of Katie in months, no longer could he even see her face. Carefully, he decided to unlock the sacred vault and summon her one last time. How majestic did my words need to be before you heard my voice? he silently asked her. He paused for several moments, then concluded…That’s what I thought. He shook his head slowly, took a deep purging breath, then allowed her to linger aimlessly…unescorted as he closed the vault behind her. With an hour and a half left to go until daybreak, he clipped the handset of the radio on his shoulder strap, folded his arms over his chest and allowed himself an hour of nervous, shallow sleep. The faint hiss of the squelch broke sharply, stirring Mickey to check his watch…0515. He listened intently as the squelch broke four more times with double clicks from his men in the waiting boats. He gave the thumbs up sign to his driver as he took his seat, anxious to fire up the large 180 HP Lycoming aircraft engine mounted securely on the stern. The bow machine gunner quietly took his position, linking the folded belts of .30 ammo on the floor below him. The two M-79 grenadiers slid in on either side of him, securing their 40mm projectiles in open rucksacks behind them. Captain Mickey Ferguson took his place on the fuel tank beside the driver, waiting for the initial volley of artillery to initiate the assault.… 4 pages later The nonstop exodus of mechanized troop carriers and artillery pieces continued to flow from Cu Chi basecamp, hoisted in under the wide bellies of CH-47 Chinooks and mammoth Sky Cranes. Within a matter of hours, the fuming village of Ba Thu had burned itself out, it’s former inhabitants replaced with the massive firepower and clout of the U.S. Army’s 25th Infantry Division. The May, 1970 incursion into eastern Cambodia had begun…spearheaded by the Cambodian Strikers of the 3rd Mobile Strike Force. Mickey made his way amongst his men, inquiring about the wounded, and making sure the rest of his team had endured the assault unscathed. His ears rang constantly with the common aftermath of battle, creating a mild headache while the lingering adrenaline served to temper its effect. “We’ve got four wounded, Dai Uy,” Sergeant Duncan told him, yelling above the sounds of chopper blades and outgoing artillery from the mobile 105’s. “The 25th’s got dust off inbound to take them up to Cu Chi to get patched up.” “Have Bac Si Brandon go with them. Our work’s done here. As soon as the fuel bladders arrive, let’s get gassed up and head back to camp,” Mickey told him. “Get Top on the horn and have him get a pallet of beer hooked in from the C-Team for the Bodes.” “Roger that…Sergeant Lazzaro is working on resupplying our basic load with the armory guys from the 25th.” Mickey surveyed the horrific aftermath of the assault. Several squads of infantrymen reluctantly toiled in the morning heat, dragging decimated bodies into a pile at the edge of the village, stacking row after row of enemy weapons beside them. The sweet, confounding smell of death infused the air, coupled with the distinct tang of cordite, gunpowder and burnt flesh. He watched the men performing their dire tasks, their fatigues worn and faded, most laboring with small green towels draped loosely around their sweaty necks. He noticed the variety of graffiti emblazoned on their helmets …peace symbols, vile nicknames, various playing cards and messages depicting their fragile state of mind. He wondered how they got away with it. The Army he had known seemingly had suddenly transformed into a political statement, tolerated and endorsed by the civil turmoil back home.… 21 pages later Mickey peered out into the darkness, the red runway lights streaming together as the aging 707 raced down the runway, finally lifting off from the sprawling Tan Son Nhut airbase situated on the outskirts of Saigon. For the next forever hours, the young officer struggled to get comfortable in his seat, completely bored and restless in his stifled, confined environment. Rowdy rear echelon types seemed to far outnumber the men aboard with faded, worn fatigues and the million mile stares. He had heard that for every combat trooper in Vietnam, it required ten support troops to keep him fighting. The men on board seemed to verify that disturbing fact to him. As the sun broke the edge of the distant horizon, vividly illuminating the deep blue cobalt sky. He stared for hours into the endless blankets of white, billowing clouds, lazily formatted in contrast to the distant white capped seas as the freedom bird slowly migrated south. His spirit continued to linger, suspended aimlessly at 38,000 feet, aloof and unable to encounter any sign of the enemy. As the hours wore on, the stale scent in the cabin reflected the grungy sanitary habits of the men confined within. Lingering shadows of smoke traversed the ceiling while the stench of burnt cigarette butts permeated the recycled air flowing down the aisles. While the sun finally nestled below the western horizon, he reluctantly drifted off into a deep, sound sleep, finally able to shed the lingering apprehension that prefaced his dark dreams back in the swampland, bleak visions that constantly endeavored to possess him. The soulful whimpers of the wounded young girls continued to mock him, constantly chastising him for the brutal distress brought into their lives. The vision of pink water shimmering in Wilson’s horribly lacerated thighs mingled with the pungent scent of death he carried with him daily. He desperately longed for new adventures, fresh memories to dwell on, fond escapades that would captivate his senses and put an end to the wicked subconscious torment he endured. Several hours later, he awoke to find the jet nestled up to a large refueling truck parked outside a small terminal with the name Darwin illuminated in the evening sky. He quickly submitted to the heavy urge to sleep, fluffing the small pillow against the bulkhead as he returned to his peaceful dreamland. The abrupt jolt of the massive tires impacting the runway startled him swiftly back to reality. The early morning sun sent bright beacons of daylight throughout the musty cabin as he shaded his eyes and peered out into the vast expanse of quaint homes and brick buildings just beyond the edge of the runway. The real world, he thought, as a smile creased across his face. The sleek, silver airliner taxied to a remote terminal, and as the noise of the aircraft engines finally faded, Mickey watched the small white truck with the steps mounted above it position itself up against the forward door. The men from the other side of the cabin suddenly rushed across the aisle, leaning over to get a closer look at the two lines of animated young ladies pushing up against the restraining ropes leading to the terminal.… 2 pages later Following the instructions from the resident Army sergeant with regard to their deportment while in Sydney, the men filed off the aircraft, past the throngs of women passing out their cards and pictures to select men, then into the terminal where they dutifully cleared customs. Mickey had collected several numbers, but remained determined to let his first trip to Australia be guided solely by fate. He stopped abruptly as he entered the men’s store, amazed by the quality of clothing and the number of friendly people assisting the men to select expensive looking slacks, shirts, and sport coats to wear during their trip. After spending a little more than the voucher afforded him, he packed as much in his overnight bag as possible, then carried his new sports coat over his shoulder out to where the taxis sat lined up in front of the terminal. “Oceanic Hotel in Coogee Beach,” he told the driver. “Oceanic it is,” he replied, cranking down the meter. “So what do you think is going to happen to your lads stuck up there?” he asked, looking in the mirror. Mickey thought for a moment, then asked him to clarify his question. “What lads?” The Cabbie looked back into the mirror and replied… “The Yank astronauts…do you think they’re gonna’ make it?” “I’m sorry, Sir. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Apollo 13…they had an explosion on board…they’re kinda’ stranded out there in space, lad.” “This is the first I’ve heard of it…what happened?” “Nobody really knows at this point…just that something went wrong and blew a hole in the spacecraft. Doesn’t look good for the mates on board.” “Thanks…I’ll have to read about it when I get to the hotel.” “Just turn the tellie on, lad…its big news down here. Everybody is really concerned what’s going to happen to the poor souls stranded in space.” The cabbie dropped Mickey off in front of the beachfront hotel, thanking him for the excessive tip as he pulled away. He surveyed the quaint white stucco design of the Victorian structure, then hurried in to get his room. The hallways and parlor rooms stood decorated with emblems and crests of the Special Forces Regiment, accented by several pictures of past Group commanders and men of distinction. The friendly matron at the small desk selected his room on the second floor, and soon he stood peering out the open French window at the beautiful turquoise blue ocean and sandy beach just yards away from the hotel entrance. Now I know why they call it the Land of Oz, he thought, scanning the shoreline and jagged rock cliffs abutting out on the eastern end of the beach. He quickly undressed, hanging his khakis over the valet in the corner. The marbled floored bathroom soothed the soles of his feet as he turned the water on in the tall, glass shower stall. He stepped in, opened the wrapper on the small bar of soap, and quickly lathered up before standing beneath the cascading flow of warm water comforting his body. As he stared down at the drain, he noticed that the water was spinning in the opposite direction that he was used to. What the hell? He stared down at the flow carefully, wondering why the water was behaving in such a strange manner. He turned the faucet off, pulled the towel from the nook, and stepped out onto the cool floor to dry off. He stepped over to the toilet, and when he was finished, pulled the lanyard on the tank above his head. The bowl water began its spiral to the sewer pipes, spinning counter-clockwise as the bowl emptied. He walked over the sink, and turned on the facet, amused that the same pattern emerged there as well. “That’s fuckin’ crazy,” he murmured. Undaunted by the strange phenomenon, he hurriedly put on a new pair of lightweight slacks and a blue plaid shirt he had bought. Shit…forgot to get a belt, he realized, pulling the black Army belt out of his khakis. Downstairs, he walked over to the mid-aged lady smiling behind the desk. “How do I get downtown,” he asked, sliding the strap to his new Pentax camera over his shoulder. “Just step out on Arden Street in front of the hotel…there’ll be plenty of taxis…tell them you want to go to Kings Cross,” she told him. “It’s about five kilometers into the city.” “Thanks…oh, by the way…how did you get the water to spin the other way upstairs?” he inquired. She smiled quaintly. “Oh that…we live south of the Equator, Mister Ferguson…things rely on the opposite pole here…if you’ve noticed…we drive on the other side of the road too.” “Never would’a thought of that,” he replied, grateful the mystery was solved. He hailed the first cab he saw, and after being asked about the stranded astronauts again, sat back and enjoyed the strange sights of the suburbs surrounding the wonderful Kingdom of Oz. He felt mildly displaced, a distant cousin in a peculiar land, a tranquil sense of normalcy surrounding him as he watched the neatly preserved neighborhoods and citizens of Oz calmly going about their business.

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Mickey eased back against the damp bulkhead with his hands clasped behind his head, fully encapsulated in the fully entranced by the majesty of the Milky Way as its million star million-star menagerie, spread menagerie spread like heavenly pixie dust drenching the dark Asian sky. His eyes wandered off the spout of the Big Dipper, north to the bright beacon he recognized as the North Star. No matter how far his eyes journeyed into the heavens, they always returned to Orion, his lifelong guardian. Satisfied ‘The Hunter’s’ omnipresence Satisfied that the Hunter’s omnipresence still loomed above him, he turned again to search for the elusive Southern Cross…then [the ellipsis should be restricted to pauses within dialogue, speech that trails off (in academic prose, it has another function, to indicate text that has been left out)] Cross, and then on to the mighty Hercules and Taurus and so many other nebulous Greek formations his nebulous formations from Greek mythology that his father had pointed out to him as a him when he was a child in Japan. [ASTRONOMY PROBLEM: At Mickey's latitude in Vietnam (about 10 degrees north), it is almost certain that he would be unable to see the North Star, even if the northern horizon was uninterrupted by jungle and terrain. Even the Big Dipper itself would be hard to find--way, way to the north and very low on that horizon. The constellation Hercules would be visible in the northern sky--no problem there. Orion would be high in the sky, actually at zenith, but not in late April at 0400 hours (the 5/1/70 incursion into Cambodia is about to begin, and Mickey checks the time); that zenith would have been in mid-afternoon and so not visible because of daylight. Orion would finally be visible for a short time as it set in the west a little after sunset, but since this is 0400, it would not be in the sky at all. Scratch Orion (some "omnipresence"!). Taurus would have set even earlier than Orion, so it would not be around either. The Southern Cross would be visible in April in Vietnam, but way, way to the south. I recommend an overhaul of this paragraph. Bright Altair in the constellation Aquila (the Eagle) would be near the zenith at that time and date. The Northern Cross (Cygnus the Swan) would be visible in the north, as would bright Vega in Lyra. The Great Square (Pegasus, the flying horse) would be rising in the east, and Spica in Virgo would be setting in the west. Antares in Scorpius would be bright in the western half of the sky; it is a variable "red" star--it looks slightly reddish (not brilliant red) to the naked eye, but to comprehend its variability, you have to monitor it night after night. The fairly bright constellation of Sagittarius the Archer would be high in the southern sky, and interestingly it contains the center of the galaxy (a fact that would be known to the public in 1970 and of interest to lay people, but nothing remarkable would be visible to the casual stargazer). Inside the Milky Way at that hour in Vietnam would be the constellations Southern Cross (Crux), Sagittarius (the Archer), Aquila (the Eagle), and Cygnus (the Swan, or Northern Cross).] Lord…I know you know Lord, I know You know where I am and why I’m here, he confessed. And as I look up into your infinite kingdom…I know into Your infinite kingdom, I know my voice is faint and my courage weak. But with your tolerant blessing…I with Your tolerant blessing, I will do my duty honorably. [init cap on God pronouns OK? (it's consistent with prayers elsewhere in the manuscript)] He paused briefly, looking down at the luminous face on his watch…0400 watch: 0400. Three tense hours had passed since he and four of his men had quietly floated their quietly directed their squadron of airboats into position just southwest of the decimated hamlet of Ap Vinh. As he Vinh. Now, as he scanned the faint horizon, he barely needed to squint to see the outlines of the deadly watercraft, silently afloat, motionless in the starlit night. Each of the fifteen boats carried at least six heavily armed Cambodes, their ranks bolstered by the five Special Forces Advisors strategically Forces advisors strategically dispersed amongst them ["amongst" is British; for U.S. publishers, we use "among"] dispersed among them. Mickey remained impressed at the impressed by the noise discipline the men displayed men had displayed throughout the arduous, stealthy movement. He felt confident that at this time in the early morning, not even the snakes knew they were there. His thoughts wandered heavenly once wandered heavenward once again, his mind curious if some young maiden somewhere in the world was looking up into the stars to greet his lonely stare. [uh oh... at 4 am in Vietnam, it is 3 pm in Kingsville, TX--Katie can't see any stars in midafternoon] A sudden trio of shooting stars lifted his spirits, a sight he hadn’t seen since that starry night camping out on the bluff overlooking Yokohama harbor. His overlooking Yokohama Harbor. His thoughts had not provoked the waning image of Katie in months, no longer months. No longer could he even see her face. Carefully, he decided to unlock the sacred vault and summon her one last time. [I got rid of the paragraph break here (his mental summoning is a continuation of his decision)] How majestic did my majestic do my words need to be before you heard my you hear my voice? he silently asked her. [Even though the story is using simple past tense ("narrative past") overall, you need present tense for the content of your character's thinking (or speaking) about his or her current situation] He paused for several moments, then concluded…That’s concluded: That’s what I thought. [I got rid of the paragraph break here (his action is a continuation with his thought)] He shook his head slowly, took a deep purging breath, then allowed deep, purging breath, and allowed her to linger aimlessly…unescorted as aimlessly, unescorted, as he closed the vault behind her. With an hour and a half left to go until daybreak, he clipped the handset of the radio on his shoulder strap, folded his arms over his chest and chest, and allowed himself an hour of nervous, shallow sleep. The faint hiss of the squelch broke sharply, stirring Mickey to check his watch…0515. He watch: 0515. He listened intently as the squelch broke four more times with double clicks from his men in the waiting boats. He gave the thumbs up sign the thumbs-up sign to his driver as he took his seat, anxious to fire up the large 180 HP Lycoming large 180-hp Lycoming aircraft engine mounted securely on the stern. The bow machine gunner quietly took his position, linking the folded belts of .30 ammo on the floor below him. The two M-79 grenadiers two M79 grenadiers slid in on either side of him, securing their 40mm projectiles in open rucksacks behind them. Captain Mickey Ferguson took his place on the fuel tank beside the driver, waiting for the initial volley of artillery to initiate the assault.… 4 pages later The nonstop exodus of mechanized troop carriers and artillery pieces continued to flow from Cu Chi basecamp, hoisted from Củ Chi basecamp, hoisted in under the wide bellies of CH-47 Chinooks and mammoth Sky Cranes. Within mammoth Skycranes. Within a matter of hours, the fuming village of Ba Thu had burned itself out, it’s former out, its former inhabitants replaced with the massive firepower and clout of the U.S. Army’s 25th Infantry Army’s Twenty-fifth Infantry Division. The May, 1970 incursion into The May 1970 incursion into eastern Cambodia had begun…spearheaded begun, spearheaded by the Cambodian Strikers of the 3rd Mobile the Third Mobile Strike Force. Mickey made his way amongst his way among his men, inquiring about the wounded, and wounded and making sure the rest of his team had endured the assault unscathed. His ears rang constantly with the common aftermath of battle, creating a mild headache while the lingering adrenaline served to temper its effect. “We’ve got four wounded, Dai Uy,” Sergeant wounded, Đại úy,” Sergeant Duncan told him, yelling above the sounds of chopper blades and outgoing artillery from the mobile 105’s mobile 105s. “The 25th’s got dust off inbound “The Twenty-fifth’s got Dust Off inbound to take them up to Cu Chi to up to Củ Chi to get patched up.” “Have Bac Si Brandon “Have Bác sĩ Brandon go with them. Our work’s done here. As soon as the fuel bladders arrive, let’s get gassed up and head back to camp,” Mickey told him. “Get Top on the horn and horn, and have him get a pallet of beer hooked in from the C-Team for the Bodes.” “Roger that…Sergeant “Roger that. Sergeant Lazzaro is working on resupplying our basic load with the armory guys from the 25th from the Twenty-fifth.” Mickey surveyed the horrific aftermath of the assault. Several squads of infantrymen reluctantly toiled in the morning heat, dragging decimated bodies into a pile at the edge of the village, stacking row after row of enemy weapons beside them. The sweet, confounding smell of death infused the air, coupled with the distinct tang of cordite, gunpowder and gunpowder, and burnt flesh. He watched the men performing their dire tasks, their fatigues worn and faded, most laboring with small green towels draped loosely around their sweaty necks. He noticed the variety of graffiti emblazoned on their helmets …peace helmets—peace symbols, vile nicknames, various playing cards and cards, and messages depicting their fragile state of mind. He wondered how they got away with it. The Army he [Chicago Manual of Style: "army" and "marines" and "navy" should be capitalized only when preceded by "U.S." or "United States" or juxtaposed with some other official designation (as in "Army Special Forces" or "Brooklyn Navy Yard" or "the Marine Corps")--Let me know if you want to override this "bible" of the publishing industry] The army he had known seemingly had suddenly transformed had been transformed into a political statement, tolerated and endorsed tolerated, even endorsed by the civil turmoil back home.… 21 pages later Mickey peered out into the darkness, the red runway lights streaming together as the aging 707 raced down the runway, finally lifting off from the sprawling Tan Son Nhut airbase situated on sprawling Tân Sơn Nhứt Air Base, situated on the outskirts of Saigon. For the next forever hours, the young officer struggled to get comfortable in his seat, completely bored and restless in his stifled, confined environment. Rowdy rear echelon types Rowdy rear-echelon types seemed to far outnumber the men aboard with faded with the faded, worn fatigues and the million mile stares the million-mile stares. He had heard that for every combat trooper in Vietnam, it required ten Vietnam, ten support troops were required to keep him fighting. The men on board seemed to verify that disturbing fact to him ["to him" obvious, since the narrative is currently in Mickey's point of view] fact. As the The sun broke the edge of the distant horizon, vividly illuminating the deep blue cobalt blue, cobalt sky. He stared for hours into the endless blankets of white, billowing clouds, lazily formatted in contrast to the distant white capped seas as distant, white-capped sea as the freedom bird slowly migrated south. His spirit continued to linger, suspended aimlessly at 38,000 feet at thirty-eight thousand feet, [most U.S. publishers stipulate for novels and other "humanities" works (and Chicago Manual of Style agrees): numbers below 101 should be spelled out, and round numbers higher than that as well; in dialogue, almost all numbers are spelled out] aloof and unable to encounter any sign of the enemy. As the hours wore on, the stale scent in the cabin reflected the cabin provided evidence of the grungy sanitary habits of the men confined within. Lingering shadows within. ["continued to linger" a couple of sentences before] Persistent shadows of smoke traversed the ceiling while the stench of burnt cigarette butts permeated the recycled air flowing down the aisles. While the When the sun finally nestled below the western horizon, he reluctantly drifted off into a deep, sound sleep, finally sleep. He was finally able to shed the lingering apprehension that prefaced his dark dreams back prefaced the dark dreams he’d had back in the swampland, bleak visions that constantly endeavored to possess him. The soulful whimpers of the wounded young girls continued to mock him, constantly chastising him for the brutal distress brought distress the war had brought into their lives. [I brought this up in a comment in Chapter 35. What images are you talking about? What young girls? the only young girls in your Vietnam narrative so far were the ones following the mama-sans in Nha Trang (but they were domestics, not whores), the female VC prisoner, the "China doll" wounded girl, and the masseuse CO...] The vision of pink water shimmering in Wilson’s horribly lacerated thighs mingled with the pungent scent of death he carried ["he" might be misread as referring to Wilson] death that Mickey carried with him daily. He desperately longed for new adventures, fresh memories to dwell on, fond escapades that would captivate his senses and put an end to the wicked subconscious torment he endured. Several hours later, he awoke to find the jet nestled up to a large refueling truck parked outside a small terminal with the name Darwin illuminated in the evening sky. He quickly submitted to submitted again to the heavy urge to sleep, fluffing the small pillow against the bulkhead as he returned to his peaceful dreamland. The abrupt jolt of the massive tires impacting the runway startled him swiftly back to reality. The early morning sun sent bright beacons of daylight throughout the musty cabin as he shaded his eyes and peered out into the vast expanse of quaint homes and brick buildings just beyond the edge of the runway. [(1) Today's flight time from Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) to Sydney is 8 hours 40 minutes. This flight in the old Boeing 707, with stopover in Darwin, took more than 24 hours (Mickey took off before dawn, the sun went up and was up all day and went down--all over water, it was night when he stopped in Darwin, and sunrise again in Sydney. Is that how it was? (2) I got rid of the paragraph break here (his thinking is a continuation of his peering out of the plane)] The real world, he thought, as a smile creased across thought, a smile creasing across his face. The sleek, silver airliner taxied to a remote terminal, and as the noise of the aircraft engines finally faded, Mickey watched the small white truck with the steps mounted above it position itself up against the forward door. The men from the other side of the cabin suddenly rushed across the aisle, leaning over to get a closer look at the two lines of animated young ladies pushing up against the restraining ropes leading to ropes that led to the terminal.… 2 pages later Following the instructions from the resident Army sergeant resident army sergeant with regard to their deportment while in Sydney, the men filed off the aircraft, past the throngs of women passing out their cards and pictures to select men, then into the terminal where they dutifully cleared customs. Mickey had collected several numbers, but remained determined numbers, but he was determined to let his first trip to Australia be guided solely by fate. [I put in a paragraph break here] He stopped abruptly as he entered the men’s store, amazed by the quality of clothing and the number of friendly people assisting the men to select expensive looking slacks select expensive-looking slacks, shirts, and sport coats to wear during their trip. After spending a little more than the voucher afforded him, he packed as much in his much as possible into his overnight bag as possible, then carried bag and carried his new sports coat over new sport coat over his shoulder out to where the taxis sat lined up in front of the terminal. “Oceanic Hotel in Coogee Beach,” he told the driver. “Oceanic it is,” he replied is,” the cabbie replied, cranking down the meter. “So what do you think is going to happen to your lads stuck up there?” he asked, looking in the mirror. Mickey thought for a moment, then asked him to clarify his question clarify the question. [I got rid of the paragraph break here (describing how Mickey asked and his actually asking belong together)] “What lads?” The Cabbie looked The cabbie looked back into the mirror and replied… replied, [I got rid of the paragraph break here] “The Yank astronauts…do you astronauts. Do you think they’re gonna’ make they’re gonna make it?” “I’m sorry, Sir. I sorry, sir. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Apollo 13…they had “Apollo Thirteen. They had an explosion on board…they’re kinda’ stranded board. They’re kinda’ stranded out there in space, lad.” [TIME PROBLEM: the Apollo 13 explosion was April 13, 1970; the crew made it back to Earth April 17--BUT you have already said it was May 1970 back at the beginning of Chapter 39, with the historically documented incursion into Cambodia--and quite a bit of time has elapsed in your narrative since that incursion... putting the narrative into at least June 1970. In fact, earlier in this chapter we learn that Mickey has been in Nam "almost a year" and, at a different place, that his DEROS is coming up in a month... it's probably already late June. There are no time machines in this novel, and quite a few readers are just as fussy with dates as I am. I highly recommend you scratch this Apollo 13 stuff (it's not salient to the rest of the story), and have the cabbie talk about something else that Mickey would be ignorant of... For example: On June 24, 1970, the U.S. Senate voted overwhelmingly to repeal the 6-year-old Gulf of Tonkin resolution that had authorized American escalation into Vietnam. And: The movie Catch 22 opened in movie theaters in the states on that day (maybe not yet in Australia, though). And: On June 22, Nixon signed the 26th Amendment giving 18-year-olds the vote (still had to be ratified by the states, though). (Of course, you could also have Mickey take his R&R a couple of weeks before the Cambodia incursion--but it means a lot of rework & reorg, no doubt enlarging my fee, which I don't think is worth it, just to include this little bit about Apollo 13... )... Stay tuned to the next big comment, when Mike takes a shower.] “This is the first I’ve heard of it…what happened it. What happened?” “Nobody really knows at this point…just that point. Just that something went wrong and blew a hole in the spacecraft. Doesn’t look good for the mates on board.” “Thanks…I’ll “Thanks. I’ll have to read about it when I get to the hotel.” “Just turn the tellie on the tellie on, lad…its big lad. It’s big news down here. Everybody is really concerned what’s going to happen to the poor souls stranded in space.” The cabbie dropped Mickey off in front of the beachfront hotel, thanking him for the excessive tip as he pulled away. He surveyed the quaint white stucco design of the Victorian structure, then hurried in to get his room. The hallways and parlor rooms stood decorated with emblems and crests of the Special Forces Regiment, accented Forces regiment, accented by several pictures of past Group commanders and men of distinction. The friendly matron at the small desk selected his room on the second floor, and soon he stood peering out the open French window at the beautiful turquoise blue ocean beautiful turquoise-blue ocean and sandy beach just yards away from the hotel entrance. [I got rid of the paragraph break here] Now I know why they call it the Land of Oz, he thought, scanning the shoreline and jagged rock cliffs abutting out on the abutting the eastern end of the beach. He quickly undressed, hanging his khakis over the valet in the corner. The marbled floored bathroom The marble-floored bathroom soothed the soles of his feet as he turned the water on in the tall, glass tall glass shower stall. He stepped in, opened the wrapper on the small bar of soap, and quickly lathered up before standing beneath the cascading flow of warm water comforting his body. As he stared down at the drain, he noticed that the water was spinning in the opposite direction that he direction from what he was used to. [I got rid of the paragraph break here] What the hell? [SORRY, BUT HERE'S ANOTHER PROBLEM: The notion that water goes down the drain in the Southern Hemisphere different from the way it goes down the drain in the Northern Hemisphere is a myth (or urban legend). See: (1) Library of Congress, (2) Scientific American, (3) Huffington Post, (4) Snopes or any number of other places... Coriolis affects air movement but is too weak for water movement. The drainage spin direction can be opposite in either hemisphere (America as well as Australia), depending on the construction of the drain itself, not on the Coriolis effect. I suggest you cut this bit, also... It's not salient to your story. I suggest you have Mickey leave the terminal with his new duds and get a cab (without a conversation in it) to scoot right over to the hotel, get cleaned up without noticing anything strange, and directly head out to explore Sydney and meet Rita... Rita and the problems with dining are the essence of the story now anyway, so why not just get to it? (Chapter 40 is running a bit long, anyway). In the meantime, I am editing as though Apollo 13 and the opposite drainage were real--but I don't mind cutting all that markup in the second pass] He stared down at the flow carefully, wondering why the water was behaving in such a strange manner. He turned the faucet off, pulled the towel from the nook, and stepped out onto the cool floor to dry off. He stepped over to the toilet, and when he was finished, pulled finished there, he pulled the lanyard on the tank above his head. The bowl water began its spiral to the sewer pipes, spinning counter-clockwise as spinning counterclockwise as the bowl emptied. He walked over the over to the sink, and sink and turned on the facet, amused on that faucet, amused that the same pattern emerged there as well. [I got rid of the paragraph break here] “That’s fuckin’ crazy,” he murmured. Undaunted by the strange phenomenon, he hurriedly put on a new pair of lightweight slacks and a blue and the blue plaid shirt he had bought. [I got rid of the paragraph break here] Shit…forgot Shit! Forgot to get a belt, he realized, pulling the black Army belt black army belt out of his khakis. Downstairs, he walked over to the mid-aged lady the middle-aged lady smiling behind the desk. [I got rid of the paragraph break here] “How do I get downtown,” he asked get downtown?” he asked, sliding the strap to his new Pentax camera over his shoulder. [he's kind of brusque with her, isn't he? Especially considering the polite reputation Americans have in Australia (in 1970), which you just described] “Just step out on Arden Street in Street, in front of the hotel…there’ll be hotel,” she told him. “There’ll be plenty of taxis…tell taxis. Tell them you want to go to Kings Cross,” she told him. “It’s to Kings Cross. It’s about five kilometers into the city.” “Thanks…oh, by the way…how did “Thanks. Oh, by the way, how did you get the water to spin the other way upstairs?” he inquired. upstairs?” ["he inquired" and "he said" and such exposition wording is often unnecessary, especially in a two-way conversation, where it's obvious who is speaking. Also, if the last words of a paragraph are the actual spoken words, your reader is more likely to hear the echo of the speech--unlikely with the "he inquired" interruption] She smiled quaintly. [I got rid of the paragraph break here] “Oh that…we live “Oh that! We live south of the Equator, Mister the Equator, Mister Ferguson…things rely Ferguson. Things rely on the opposite pole here…if you’ve noticed…we drive here. If you’ve noticed, we drive on the other side of the road too.” road, too.” “Never would’a thought “Never woulda’ thought of that,” he replied, grateful the mystery was solved. He hailed the first cab he saw, and after being asked about the stranded astronauts again, sat [again, we need a different cabbie conversation here] again, he sat back and enjoyed the strange sights of the suburbs surrounding the wonderful Kingdom of Oz. He of Oz. He felt mildly displaced, a displaced, like a distant cousin in a peculiar land, a tranquil land. A tranquil sense of normalcy surrounding him normalcy surrounded him as he watched the neatly preserved neighborhoods and citizens of Oz calmly and citizens of Oz calmly going about their business.

Result
During his review, the author addressed the time (and astronomy) problems I brought up.
Click to go to the next sample in the series.

Mickey eased back against the damp bulkhead with his hands clasped behind his head, fully entranced by the majesty of the Milky Way as its million-star menagerie spread like heavenly pixie dust drenching the dark Asian sky. He searched for Orion, his lifelong guardian, but to his alarm, the sky wasn’t cooperating that night. The Hunter was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t find the Big Dipper or the North Star either. Of course, he said to himself, we’re too close to the Equator. Those stars would be beyond the northern horizon. Resigning himself that different stars would keep him company that night, he tested himself to remember other nebulous formations from Greek mythology that his father had pointed out to him when he was a child in Japan. Where the Milky Way displayed right above his head he saw the constellation of Aquila, the Eagle, with its bright start Altair. Far to the north he found the Northern Cross, which he knew was also called the Swan, and in the southern stream of the Milky Way he recognized the Southern Cross, far more prominent here than it ever had been in either Japan or Texas. A little higher he identified the constellation of Sagittarius, the Archer, which he had learned contained the center of our vast galaxy. Lord, I know You know where I am and why I’m here, he confessed. And as I look up into Your infinite kingdom, I know my voice is faint and my courage weak. But with Your tolerant blessing, I will do my duty honorably. He paused briefly, looking down at the luminous face on his watch: 0400. Three tense hours had passed since he and four of his men had quietly directed their squadron of airboats into position just southwest of the decimated hamlet of Ap Vinh. Now, as he scanned the faint horizon, he barely needed to squint to see the outlines of the deadly watercraft, silently afloat, motionless in the starlit night. Each of the fifteen boats carried at least six heavily armed Cambodes, their ranks bolstered by the five Special Forces advisors strategically dispersed among them. Mickey remained impressed by the noise discipline the men had displayed throughout the arduous, stealthy movement. He felt confident that at this time in the early morning, not even the snakes knew they were there. His thoughts wandered heavenward once again, his mind curious if some young maiden somewhere in the world was looking up into the stars to greet his lonely stare. A sudden trio of shooting stars lifted his spirits, a sight he hadn’t seen since that starry night camping out on the bluff overlooking Yokohama Harbor. His thoughts had not provoked the waning image of Katie in months. No longer could he even see her face. Carefully, he decided to unlock the sacred vault and summon her one last time. How majestic do my words need to be before you hear my voice? he silently asked her. He paused for several moments, then concluded: That’s what I thought. He shook his head slowly, took a deep, purging breath, and allowed her to linger aimlessly, unescorted, as he closed the vault behind her. With an hour and a half left to go until daybreak, he clipped the handset of the radio on his shoulder strap, folded his arms over his chest, and allowed himself an hour of nervous, shallow sleep. The faint hiss of the squelch broke sharply, stirring Mickey to check his watch: 0515. He listened intently as the squelch broke four more times with double clicks from his men in the waiting boats. He gave the thumbs-up sign to his driver as he took his seat, anxious to fire up the large 180-hp Lycoming aircraft engine mounted securely on the stern. The bow machine gunner quietly took his position, linking the folded belts of .30 ammo on the floor below him. The two M79 grenadiers slid in on either side of him, securing their 40mm projectiles in open rucksacks behind them. Captain Mickey Ferguson took his place on the fuel tank beside the driver, waiting for the initial volley of artillery to initiate the assault.… 4 pages later The nonstop exodus of mechanized troop carriers and artillery pieces continued to flow from Củ Chi basecamp, hoisted in under the wide bellies of CH-47 Chinooks and mammoth Skycranes. Within a matter of hours, the fuming village of Ba Thu had burned itself out, its former inhabitants replaced with the massive firepower and clout of the U.S. Army’s Twenty-fifth Infantry Division. The May 1970 incursion into eastern Cambodia had begun, spearheaded by the Cambodian Strikers of the Third Mobile Strike Force. Mickey made his way among his men, inquiring about the wounded and making sure the rest of his team had endured the assault unscathed. His ears rang constantly with the common aftermath of battle, creating a mild headache while the lingering adrenaline served to temper its effect. “We’ve got four wounded, Đại úy,” Sergeant Duncan told him, yelling above the sounds of chopper blades and outgoing artillery from the mobile 105s. “The Twenty-fifth’s got Dust Off inbound to take them up to Củ Chi to get patched up.” “Have Bác sĩ Brandon go with them. Our work’s done here. As soon as the fuel bladders arrive, let’s get gassed up and head back to camp,” Mickey told him. “Get Top on the horn, and have him get a pallet of beer hooked in from the C-Team for the Bodes.” “Roger that. Sergeant Lazzaro is working on resupplying our basic load with the armory guys from the Twenty-fifth.” Mickey surveyed the horrific aftermath of the assault. Several squads of infantrymen reluctantly toiled in the morning heat, dragging decimated bodies into a pile at the edge of the village, stacking row after row of enemy weapons beside them. The sweet, confounding smell of death infused the air, coupled with the distinct tang of cordite, gunpowder, and burnt flesh. He watched the men performing their dire tasks, their fatigues worn and faded, most laboring with small green towels draped loosely around their sweaty necks. He noticed the variety of graffiti emblazoned on their helmets—peace symbols, vile nicknames, various playing cards, and messages depicting their fragile state of mind. He wondered how they got away with it. The army he had known seemingly had been transformed into a political statement, tolerated, even endorsed by the civil turmoil back home.… 21 pages later Mickey peered out the small window of aging 707 raced down the runway, finally lifting off from the sprawling Tân Sơn Nhứt Air Base, situated on the outskirts of Saigon. For the next forever hours, the young officer struggled to get comfortable in his seat, completely bored and restless in his stifled, confined environment. Rowdy rear-echelon types seemed to far outnumber the men aboard with the faded, worn fatigues and the million-mile stares. He had heard that for every combat trooper in Vietnam, ten support troops were required to keep him fighting. The men on board seemed to verify that disturbing fact. He stared for hours into the endless blankets of white, billowing clouds, lazily formatted in contrast to the distant, white-capped sea as the freedom bird slowly migrated south. His spirit continued to linger, suspended aimlessly at thirty-eight thousand feet, aloof and unable to encounter any sign of the enemy. As the hours wore on, the stale scent in the cabin provided evidence of the grungy sanitary habits of the men confined within. Persistent shadows of smoke traversed the ceiling while the stench of burnt cigarette butts permeated the recycled air flowing down the aisles. When the sun finally nestled below the western horizon, he reluctantly drifted off into a deep, sound sleep. He was finally able to shed the lingering apprehension that prefaced the dark dreams he’d had back in the swampland, bleak visions that constantly endeavored to possess him. The soulful whimpers of the wounded young girls, the VC prisoner and the “China doll” indig, continued to mock him, constantly chastising him for the brutal distress the war had brought into their lives. The vision of pink water shimmering in Wilson’s horribly lacerated thighs mingled with the pungent scent of death that Mickey carried with him daily. He desperately longed for new adventures, fresh memories to dwell on, fond escapades that would captivate his senses and put an end to the wicked subconscious torment he endured. Several hours later, he awoke to find the jet nestled up to a large refueling truck parked outside a small terminal with the name Darwin illuminated in the evening sky. He quickly submitted again to the heavy urge to sleep, fluffing the small pillow against the bulkhead as he returned to his peaceful dreamland. The abrupt jolt of the massive tires impacting the runway startled him swiftly back to reality. The early morning sun sent bright beacons of daylight throughout the musty cabin as he shaded his eyes and peered out into the vast expanse of quaint homes and brick buildings just beyond the edge of the runway. The real world, he thought, a smile creasing across his face. The sleek, silver airliner taxied to a remote terminal, and as the noise of the aircraft engines finally faded, Mickey watched the small white truck with the steps mounted above it position itself up against the forward door. The men from the other side of the cabin suddenly rushed across the aisle, leaning over to get a closer look at the two lines of animated young ladies pushing up against the restraining ropes that led to the terminal.… 2 pages later Following the instructions from the resident army sergeant with regard to their deportment while in Sydney, the men filed off the aircraft, past the throngs of women passing out their cards and pictures to select men, then into the terminal where they dutifully cleared customs. Mickey had collected several numbers, but he was determined to let his first trip to Australia be guided solely by fate. He stopped abruptly as he entered the men’s store, amazed by the quality of clothing and the number of friendly people assisting the men to select expensive-looking slacks, shirts, and sport coats to wear during their trip. After spending a little more than the voucher afforded him, he packed as much as possible into his overnight bag and carried his new sport coat over his shoulder out to where the taxis sat lined up in front of the terminal. “Oceanic Hotel in Coogee Beach,” he told the driver. “Oceanic it is,” the friendly cabbie replied, cranking down the meter. Evidently fond of Yanks like Mickey, he chatted all through the short ride, asking what the States were like. He dropped his American fare off in front of the beachfront hotel, full of gratitude for the excessive tip as he pulled away. Mickey surveyed the quaint white stucco design of the Victorian structure, then hurried in to get his room. The hallways and parlor rooms stood decorated with emblems and crests of the Special Forces regiment, accented by several pictures of past Group commanders and men of distinction. The friendly matron at the small desk selected his room on the second floor, and soon he stood peering out the open French window at the beautiful turquoise-blue ocean and sandy beach just yards away from the hotel entrance. Now I know why they call it the Land of Oz, he thought, scanning the shoreline and jagged rock cliffs abutting the eastern end of the beach. He quickly undressed, hanging his khakis over the valet in the corner. The marble-floored bathroom soothed the soles of his feet as he turned the water on in the tall glass shower stall. He stepped in, opened the wrapper on the small bar of soap, and quickly lathered up before standing beneath the cascading flow of warm water comforting his body. He luxuriated in such unaccustomed luxury. After the leisurely shower, he decided he didn’t want the day to go to waste. He hurriedly put on a new pair of lightweight slacks and the blue plaid shirt he had bought. Shit! Forgot to get a belt, he realized, pulling the black army belt out of his khakis. Downstairs, he walked over to the middle-aged lady smiling behind the desk. “Excuse me, ma’am, How do I get downtown?” he asked, sliding the strap to his new Pentax camera over his shoulder. “Just step out on Arden Street, in front of the hotel,” she told him. “There’ll be plenty of taxis. Tell them you want to go to Kings Cross. It’s about five kilometers into the city.” He hailed the first cab he saw, and he sat back and enjoyed the strange sights of the suburbs surrounding the wonderful Kingdom of Oz. He felt mildly displaced, like a distant cousin in a peculiar land. A tranquil sense of normalcy surrounded him as he watched the neatly preserved neighborhoods and citizens of Oz calmly going about their business.