The Little Words Mean the Most

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 11, page 1

 

Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

It was early. But not for the army.

 

Mist clogged the air, heavy as a veil. Not rain exactly. Not full-throated oxygen either. Hope I'm half-amphibian. Darwin said we came from the sea: that was good enough for Major Burke. Military intelligence was facts and information and sources, with careful applications of imagination. Darwin was just about perfect. What a team that would be: Darwin and Burke. A corner of his mouth twitched up for an instant.

 

On one side of the courtyard was a small British honor guard in vivid colors. They stood still as they could.

       The exact same number of American Army soldiers stood at attention on the other side of the courtyard: in mirror-chrome helmets; white braided trim; gaiters; tall polished paratroop boots, tightly tied; beaded with dew.

       A little taller, too, Burke thought maybe. Were Americans eating better during the Great Depression?

       He was proud of what he saw, both sides. The Yanks didn't report to him. But they looked the part. The rain going down their necks; yet they took it like sunshine.

       And fuckin' green as snap peas, he knew. So, gentlemen, please make this handover ceremony fast. Because we need all the time we can get! Because without more training these proud-standing idiots and morons and high school dropouts will die in seconds as soon as they confront anything more challenging than a salute. Burke knew the reports. Real combat wasn't kind or forgiving. They were lucky all they had to deal with was Northern Ireland.

 

A few civil officials under umbrellas huddled across the courtyard in

 

 

Commitment-Based Fundraising: A New Science-Based Approach That Can Double Your Donations in 12-24 Months

 

What's the basic idea? Meet the Pareto Principle

 

Charity researchers have known for at least 15 years: a relatively small percentage of your donors will ultimately account for most of your giving.

 

One often-quoted ratio: 12% percent of your donors yield 88% of your charitable income over time. These are your "committed" donors. I'll get back to that concept in a second, because commitment is crucial in high-octane fundraising.

 

But you want the history lesson first, right?

 

The 12/88 Rule in fundraising is a variation of the Pareto Principle, as you probably recognized.

 

Introduced in 1906 by Vilfredo Pareto, an Italian economist and engineer, the principle seems to encompass pretty much everything and anything. For Dr. Pareto, it showed up even in his garden, where 20% of his plants produced 80% of the peas. Weird. And now? The Pareto Principle applies across our modern world:

 

• Today's marketers know that 80% of their sales will come from 20% of avid customers;
• Today's managers know that 80% of the work will be done by a self-propelled 20% of the team;
• Today's programmers know that 80% of purchasers will use just 20% of a software's features (certainly true for Word and Photoshop in my case).

 

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Still reading? Then you're probably just the kind of smarty-pants fundraising over-achiever we hope will hive with us for a day ... in either Baltimore, Kansas City or Seattle.

 

Yes, we absolutely promised you can "DOUBLE your donations" if you learn these "commitment-based fundraising principles."

 

So YOU should wonder: Are we guessing when we say that?

 

No, we're reporting ... on careful, peer-reviewed research conducted since 2013 by Dr. Jen Shang and Dr. Adrian Sargeant, partners in The Philanthropy Centre (based in the UK; with international clients in China, Australia, the U.S., and Canada).

 

• You might know Adrian: Sargeant is a classically trained marketing professor, with all the hocus-pocus and algorithms. Early in his academic career, Adrian turned his attention to fundraising ... trying to figure out why nonprofit persuasion tactics lagged 50 years behind the commercial world's.

 

• Sargeant will co-present (with copywriter Tom Ahern) this one-day Intensive MasterClass.

 

• You might know Jen: Shang is a Chinese-born research psychologist, educated in the U.S. The New York Times recognized Jen as the world's top researcher into the diverse motivations that cause humans to act philanthropically (instead of, say, killing each other).

 

• Shang will NOT be there. Her discoveries, though, will be there. See, bit of a story: she and Adrian got married. They have two splendid kids, pre-adolescents. Jen lost the coin toss regarding this tour.

 

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Dear Ambitious Fundraisers and Also You Astute Donor Stewardship Pros: Trust us ~ there's a lucrative reason you'll want to identify your charity's "high commitment donors" ASAP; and that reason goes back to the Pareto Principle

 

To repeat: 88% of your charitable income comes from 12% of your donors. Are we talking "major" donors? Not really.

 

We're talking about personally committed donors ... and their Lifetime Value (LTV) to your organization.

 

In May 2019, Nick Ellinger, VP of Marketing Strategy at heavyweight, data-dominated DonorVoice, shared what his firm had learned: "...mid, major, monthly, and planned giving donors are all high commitment donors. High commitment donors give, on average, 131% more in lifetime value...."

 

And that's just a start. Your organization might gain far more.

 

We've audited thousands of donor communication attempts over the years, by charities big, small, specialized, international, health-related, advocacy, animal rescue, whatev; digital and print.

 

About 90% of these donor comms, despite a flooding abundance of good intentions, were unwittingly built to fail.

 

As approved by boss, board and committee, these donor comms simply could not succeed ... for an abundance of well-tested reasons.

 

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What's different about "high commitment donors"?

 

With "high commitment donors," you need to talk in a way that connects with their personal identities. And there are SO many identities — 10 at least, as measured by Dr.s Shang and Sargeant.

 

In study after study, they PROVED that charities which spoke directly to their own donors' various core identities could easily DOUBLE giving.

 

Ordinary, annual giving doubled.

 

Giving to newsletters doubled.

 

Monthly giving doubled.

 

Campaign giving doubled.

 

Legacy giving doubled

 

At a minimum.

 

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 10, page 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

 

 

The airplane trembled to a stop.

       Dead: a flying umbrella with a big box compartment for humans and an engine that would take them aloft.

       Major Burke left the Lysander on the grass field. He walked unsteadily toward his staff car; heard its engine mumbling, knew his flying unsteadiness would end soon.

       Burke's assigned, civilian driver, Mr. Allen, humble and semi-prosperous resident (husband, father, family man) of Northern Ireland, obedient subject of King George VI, waited with the car.

       Which gleamed. Thank you, Mr. Allen, Burke thought. But was a well-polished car a good sign or a bad sign? he wondered idly; spies were supposed to wonder about everything in front of their eyes.

       Course, if Burke were some kind of spy or Allen was for that matter, both of them clung to a low rung, below notice less scapegoats were required. Relaxing, really.

 

Still. Trying to make a good first impression for your own reasons, Mr. Allen? Burke just couldn't beat the habit. His trained brain asked suspicious questions all the time, of everyone. He said, "They search your trunk at the gate, Mr. Allen?"

       "They did, Major."

       "My apologies I guess. I tell them to do that. They weren't searching systematically enough. They're learning. We're not going to run short of enemies."

       "Ha!" Brian Allen showed all his teeth.

       It wasn't a total set. It had the basics for a steak. Major Burke's apology seemed to suit Mr. Allen very well; seemed. Maybe Mr. Allen was just glad to hear someone explain something frankly for a change. In a world war, secrets bloomed like pimples.

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 9, page 1

 

Chapter 9

 

Other eyes joined the narrowing hunt. British Army eyes. A swamp of local police there, too; slapping clubs into palms, like that would make a meal. The Army would want the police to wade in first. And take whatever bruising wasn't cerebral. Belfast police liked to go first. BURST some MELONS. To kill every Catholic in a single night was probably wishful thinking. BUT. Think bigger. If you can imagine it, you can make it happen, right?

Like tonight's bank job, ain't that somethin'? Sean settled back. Maybe this would work out.

Police patrols pressed invisibly up each alley, flushing out watchers.

But this IRA operation didn't have watchers apparently. That was a mistake. Things just got better.

Over a street, at the front, an officer whispered, dog low, yet piercing enough to launch movement three blocks away: "Positions!"

Troops boiled into the square.

Sean slammed his face against the glass. "Jesus!" He raced for the back, to the other lookout. "They're surrounding us! Get out!"

Instantly, the man was up and gone; without so much as a question, leaving Sean alone. "I have to tell 'em," Sean vowed, though it seemed dangerous and probably foolish.

He flew downstairs, where three men were cleaning cash out of the vault. "There's an army out front!" he warned them. "I never seen so many."

The three men turned and ran down a hall, around a corner, hustling into a small staircase below ground. They threw the lock silently and cracked the door. Nothing in front of them. It was good and foggy now.

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 36, page 1 * [ * > * in progress * < * ] *

 

Chapter 36

 

 

 

 

Heaney had escaped traps more than once. Had his undeserved successes, too.

         Heaney had come to see his life since childhood as a tapestry, woven of many threads: caution, instinct, fear, doubt, ancestors, belief, dumb luck, false scares, fate, faith, values, and a fairy-dust sprinkling of trust (not too much).

         He trusted Jones, for instance, because he knew his weaknesses. And he had to trust Ryan for now. They sure needed the help. The lad had passed his tests so far.

         Major Amos Burke, U.S. Army, was something else. Burke was a thread stuck out from Heaney's tapestry. He'd learned over his decades of surviving: when you see a thread sticking out, pull it. See where it goes. The Pinkertons called it a lead.

         Heaney knew just this about just that: a ripped poster and a faked phone call soon revealed that Major Amos Burke was the U.S. Army's point man in Northern Ireland regarding a very recent attempted hijacking of small arms. Which made the IRA — namely, Heaney, here in Northern Ireland — Burke's ultimate prey, given time and good hunting.

         Heaney knew: he'd have to reverse those roles, if he could.

         To begin: he had to learn all he could about the man. So he sent Ryan, in a car driven by Jones, who complained all the way about wasting his time, to find Major Burke in Belfast and trail him; watch what he did, build up a biography, learn his patterns, find a weakness and report back. So they could compromise him, then destroy him; as policy and survival demanded.

 

Ryan: every generation kicked fallen leaves off the road.

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 8, page 1

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

 

 

The strangest thing Major Burke saw that day, flying recce along the coast, was the giant word EIRE in a field.

       Flying in loudly from the sea, over a scarf of beach, then sharp cliffs, they'd passed over a startling deep green field with one word in it, white as chalk:

 

     EIRE

 

       "What's that?" Major Burke shouted over the hurricane of metal frame and fabric skin surrounding him and the un-muffled gnarl of a 950-hp rotary engine. This was his third ride ever in an airplane. Until now, he hadn't realized how deaf pilots were; an enemy plane could sneak right up on you, you'd never know it.

       The RAF pilot banked his Lysander lower toward the north above the dark, monotonous waters of Carlingford Lough. Away on the right, the Mourne Coast and the steep, cropped mountains behind. On the left, this place called EIRE, something else apparently.

       The sun was brilliant; a rare gift too, he was told, this time of year. The Lysander was an observation plane. It had more window glazing than many of the dark, low Irish farmhouses Burke saw beneath them. But sun didn't make an unheated airplane any more comfortable, even one where you sat beneath a greenhouse.

       They flew another half mile up the lough. It looked damned cold, black as an imp. If they crashed in those waters, they'd be dead in minutes. Scream a little. Succumb to a million icy razors.

         Again he saw "EIRE." Spelled out in huge, stiff, governmental-style capital letters made of white stones. No small effort, piled in the shorn fields. Then a few of the stones began to run: the sheep fled the noise of

paths await YOU

 

those elephant ears?   a garden-defining gift from Joel's yard

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 7, page 1

 

Chapter 7

 

 

 

Jimmy Scanlon sure did not miss Louisiana.

       Mud, bugs. Steam heat.

       He truly truly preferred New England cold. Cold made no false promises.

       He'd arrived by train the day before, with his duffel. A rat in a rat race; the world was up in arms. Eventually he found a place to sleep, a comfortless cot in an elbow-to-elbow hotel room, with a sink; toilet down the hall. Then first thing that cold morning, Jimmy reported in: his hometown of Boston, Massachusetts. And welcome home. Now he was scuttling. Bee in his bonnet, something said when he'd reported. Something he wanted to share with Father.

       They'd warned, "Don't get settled, Scanlon. There's news." Rumor had a bunch of technical sergeants like him shipped off to Ireland, maybe just days away; joining a US infantry division in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Same assignment: weapons instructors. There was an endless supply of new men with no idea how to handle a long gun.

       So 1942: Yanks replacing Pom sergeants. Who were needed somewhere else more dangerous than Northern Ireland. It had been a long couple of wars for the Brits. They were running out of good wood.

       How soon? Jimmy thought to ask the person at the desk.

       "Just looking for a boat," he was told.

 

Father Mike might see the news differently.

       Might this be, Jimmy wondered, a rare chance to make some progress on that other front? Which was a united Ireland, free of the oppressors. The priest's obsession: throwing off nearly nine centuries of neck-bending and chains and subjugation by rapacious bastards which only got worse when the Catholics lost power in England.

         Jimmy saw it this way: a seasoned British occupying force with little

 

 

 

 

he began to write a story in his head

 

and it made sense of everything in his life until then.

 

[to   be  continued]