Book Review: Night of the Crabs, by Guy N. Smith
Probably the best novel about giant crabs invading Wales you will ever read.
Ghostwriter Publications, 1976, 105 pages
Holidaymakers on the Welsh coast bask peacefully in the summer sunshine, blissfully unaware of the huge and evil army of giant crustaceans that lurk in the dark, off-shore waters...watching, waiting...while the police investigate a series of apparent drownings.
And when the screaming stops, the crunching of bone and munching of flesh begins...
Sometimes, a book comes along that completely redefines the genre. For the genre of "Giant crabs invading Wales," Night of the Crabs is that book.
I know, you are wondering, "How can you make such a bold claim? What makes Night of the Crabs so different from all those other books about giant crabs invading Wales?"
But you have to realize the historical context in which Guy N. Smith's giant crab epic was written. It was the 70s. It was an era of bold new interpretations of Nature Behaving Badly:
And since Roger Corman delivered the signature statement regarding giant crabs in 1957, few authors would have dared to try adding to this illustrious canon.
But Guy N. Smith was not so easily intimidated. He had words to say about giant crabs. And a pipe!
And so the giant crab invasion of Wales began.
Christ! It was, heaving itself up out of the sea, creeping shorewards. Crazy. He stared. It couldn’t be. But it was. A rock that had legs, scuttled. Eyes glowed, red ones. Another followed it, and another. Four...five...six...Crabs!
They were as big as donkeys.
Unbelievable. It couldn’t be true.
Click-click-click-clickety-click.
Hogarth backed away. The creatures were still coming out of the sea, dozens of them. They altered direction, heading towards him.
He wanted to run. He could not understand why he didn’t. His brain was in a whirl, trying to comprehend. He failed. This was Shell Island, Wales, a modern holiday resort. An occasional shark was seen out at sea. Nothing else. But these crabs…
He started to laugh. Of course, it was something to do with that RAF base on the other side of the island. Some ridiculous night exercise taking place. An amphibian attack that would take any enemy by surprise.
He was still laughing at his own joke. They didn’t scare Milton Hogarth. Not one little bit. They were close now, barely ten yards away. Pincers raised, clicking. Halting as though in response to some silent order. Watching him.
His laughter died away. Those eyes bored into him, live coals that glowed. Evil. He swallowed. These things were real. Horrors that actually existed, terrible to behold on a deserted moonlit beach.
They moved in, surrounding him. A pincer touched his bare leg. As sharp as a knife, it gouged the flesh. He felt the warm trickle of blood. He continued to stand there. There was nothing else he could do.
Everything else was forgotten, the faked suicide, his new life. He was only too well aware that the life of Milton Hogarth was ending.
These are not just ordinary giant crabs with glowing red eyes. Their shells are bullet-proof. And tank-proof. And fire-proof. And they have a leader. And the leader has a plan!
“What’s going on?” Cliff whispered. “This is so bizarre; it’s as though they’re waiting for something!”
The crabs remained motionless.
“There!” Cliff had spotted another movement amongst the waves. “Something’s...Oh, my God! Just look at that one!”
“I don’t, I can’t believe it!” Pat Benson was close to hysteria. “It’s just not possible! It’s a nightmare! Cliff, please tell me it isn’t real!”
“It’s real enough,” he said grimly. “I wish to God it wasn’t, though! Just look at the size of that one!”
King Crab! Nobody could have doubted the latest arrival’s right to rule. Half as big again as the rest of those nightmarish creatures, this one was the very personification of evil. It waddled slowly to the front of the others, its pincers waving menacingly as though defying any one of them to challenge its authority. Some of them moved back, huddling together.
“They’re...even they’re frightened of it!” Cliff exclaimed. “It’s got the whole lot of them just where it wants them!”
The horrific leader’s eyes, the size of saucers, glinted in the bright moonlight. By some means it was communicating with the others, giving orders. Then it shuffled forwards, turning round two or three times, scuffling the sand with its claws. It faced them again, one pincer circling, waving. They began to move forward, forming into columns and groups.
“Something’s up,” Cliff muttered. “It’s as though it’s scented something!”
The Professor’s mind was uneasy.
Guy N. Smith's epic masterpiece covers the entire spectrum of human/crab drama, from military tactics to life, death, and romance to scientific inquiry.
“That,” he said, turning to Cliff and Pat, his face ashen, “was Colonel Matthews. The crabs are making a daylight raid on Arthog. Not only have they withstood close range fire from a Centurion tank but they have also rolled it down into the estuary. They are forcing the troops back!”
He crossed to the window and opened it. Across the estuary they could hear the firing.
“There’s only one hope left now,” Cliff murmured, slipping an arm around Pat. “I just hope that Farm Supplies truck gets here before it’s too late!”
It ends in a final climactic showdown, an epic resolution that yet promises conflict still to come:
A claw was raised. A gesture of defiance. An expression of the most unbelievable malignancy. He might be thwarted but he refused to concede. He moved, scarcely able to drag himself down to the edge of the lapping water. Then he was gone with barely a ripple to show that he had ever been.
Cliff Davenport turned to the pilot. The Professor’s face was lined and haggard. But he was smiling.
“We can go home now,” he said.
Of course this was not Guy N. Smith's final statement on giant crabs invading Wales.
But lest you think that the Giant Crabs Invading Wales genre was laid to rest with the sixth volume of Smith's work, 1988's Crabs: The Human Sacrifice, fear not. Guy N. Smith is a versatile author who knows how to introduce a timeless theme to new audiences, and you can now savor the seventh installment in the Crabs series in graphic novel form:
Guy N. Smith: still crabbing after 36 years!
But although he has undoubtedly left an indelible mark on the Giant Crabs Invading Wales genre, one that will probably never be matched by any other author, I think all his subsequent work must inevitably fall short of the sparse brilliance of Night of the Crabs.
So, feast your eyes on the masterful eroticism of Guy N. Smith and ask yourself why he has not achieved success comparable to E. L. James.
Their lips met again, tongues probing and entwining. Both of them were experiencing the awakening of something which had lain dormant in them for so long. Rapidly they were getting out of control. Nothing else mattered...not even the giant crabs!
Cliff withdrew his left hand from the warmth of Pat’s tight sweater and felt for the fastener on her jeans. Then he pulled her zip down and she lifted herself up slightly off the ground so that he could unclothe her. The whiteness of her thighs was in itself seductive in the soft moonlight, the darker triangle of soft fluffy hair between them seeming to withhold secrets from him. Secrets of men who had lain there. Men who had been sexually satisfied beyond their wildest dreams. And of one man who had walked away in preference for another woman.
Cliff rolled in between her open legs. She still had a grip on his hardness and now she was guiding it down where she wanted it, bathing it first in her warm river of desire and then sliding it down further until it disappeared inch by inch into her.
After that nothing else mattered. Their bodies bucked and heaved as they murmured sweet nothings in each other’s ear before finally convulsing in a violent eruption that left them quivering and still yearning for each other.
Reluctantly they parted and adjusted their clothing. Pat, her hair awry and her cheeks flushed, looked more beautiful to Cliff than ever before.
“I’m more than glad I let you come with me tonight,” he whispered as he zipped himself up again. “I’m afraid, though, that we must still keep an eye open for those crabs!”
Ooh baby.
Verdict: No other book about giant crabs invading Wales could possibly compare to Night of the Crabs. It is a gross literary injustice that this book is not on the list of 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die.
My complete list of book reviews.
Ghostwriter Publications, 1976, 105 pages
Holidaymakers on the Welsh coast bask peacefully in the summer sunshine, blissfully unaware of the huge and evil army of giant crustaceans that lurk in the dark, off-shore waters...watching, waiting...while the police investigate a series of apparent drownings.
And when the screaming stops, the crunching of bone and munching of flesh begins...
Sometimes, a book comes along that completely redefines the genre. For the genre of "Giant crabs invading Wales," Night of the Crabs is that book.
I know, you are wondering, "How can you make such a bold claim? What makes Night of the Crabs so different from all those other books about giant crabs invading Wales?"
But you have to realize the historical context in which Guy N. Smith's giant crab epic was written. It was the 70s. It was an era of bold new interpretations of Nature Behaving Badly:
And since Roger Corman delivered the signature statement regarding giant crabs in 1957, few authors would have dared to try adding to this illustrious canon.
But Guy N. Smith was not so easily intimidated. He had words to say about giant crabs. And a pipe!
And so the giant crab invasion of Wales began.
Christ! It was, heaving itself up out of the sea, creeping shorewards. Crazy. He stared. It couldn’t be. But it was. A rock that had legs, scuttled. Eyes glowed, red ones. Another followed it, and another. Four...five...six...Crabs!
They were as big as donkeys.
Unbelievable. It couldn’t be true.
Click-click-click-clickety-click.
Hogarth backed away. The creatures were still coming out of the sea, dozens of them. They altered direction, heading towards him.
He wanted to run. He could not understand why he didn’t. His brain was in a whirl, trying to comprehend. He failed. This was Shell Island, Wales, a modern holiday resort. An occasional shark was seen out at sea. Nothing else. But these crabs…
He started to laugh. Of course, it was something to do with that RAF base on the other side of the island. Some ridiculous night exercise taking place. An amphibian attack that would take any enemy by surprise.
He was still laughing at his own joke. They didn’t scare Milton Hogarth. Not one little bit. They were close now, barely ten yards away. Pincers raised, clicking. Halting as though in response to some silent order. Watching him.
His laughter died away. Those eyes bored into him, live coals that glowed. Evil. He swallowed. These things were real. Horrors that actually existed, terrible to behold on a deserted moonlit beach.
They moved in, surrounding him. A pincer touched his bare leg. As sharp as a knife, it gouged the flesh. He felt the warm trickle of blood. He continued to stand there. There was nothing else he could do.
Everything else was forgotten, the faked suicide, his new life. He was only too well aware that the life of Milton Hogarth was ending.
These are not just ordinary giant crabs with glowing red eyes. Their shells are bullet-proof. And tank-proof. And fire-proof. And they have a leader. And the leader has a plan!
“What’s going on?” Cliff whispered. “This is so bizarre; it’s as though they’re waiting for something!”
The crabs remained motionless.
“There!” Cliff had spotted another movement amongst the waves. “Something’s...Oh, my God! Just look at that one!”
“I don’t, I can’t believe it!” Pat Benson was close to hysteria. “It’s just not possible! It’s a nightmare! Cliff, please tell me it isn’t real!”
“It’s real enough,” he said grimly. “I wish to God it wasn’t, though! Just look at the size of that one!”
King Crab! Nobody could have doubted the latest arrival’s right to rule. Half as big again as the rest of those nightmarish creatures, this one was the very personification of evil. It waddled slowly to the front of the others, its pincers waving menacingly as though defying any one of them to challenge its authority. Some of them moved back, huddling together.
“They’re...even they’re frightened of it!” Cliff exclaimed. “It’s got the whole lot of them just where it wants them!”
The horrific leader’s eyes, the size of saucers, glinted in the bright moonlight. By some means it was communicating with the others, giving orders. Then it shuffled forwards, turning round two or three times, scuffling the sand with its claws. It faced them again, one pincer circling, waving. They began to move forward, forming into columns and groups.
“Something’s up,” Cliff muttered. “It’s as though it’s scented something!”
The Professor’s mind was uneasy.
Guy N. Smith's epic masterpiece covers the entire spectrum of human/crab drama, from military tactics to life, death, and romance to scientific inquiry.
“That,” he said, turning to Cliff and Pat, his face ashen, “was Colonel Matthews. The crabs are making a daylight raid on Arthog. Not only have they withstood close range fire from a Centurion tank but they have also rolled it down into the estuary. They are forcing the troops back!”
He crossed to the window and opened it. Across the estuary they could hear the firing.
“There’s only one hope left now,” Cliff murmured, slipping an arm around Pat. “I just hope that Farm Supplies truck gets here before it’s too late!”
It ends in a final climactic showdown, an epic resolution that yet promises conflict still to come:
A claw was raised. A gesture of defiance. An expression of the most unbelievable malignancy. He might be thwarted but he refused to concede. He moved, scarcely able to drag himself down to the edge of the lapping water. Then he was gone with barely a ripple to show that he had ever been.
Cliff Davenport turned to the pilot. The Professor’s face was lined and haggard. But he was smiling.
“We can go home now,” he said.
Of course this was not Guy N. Smith's final statement on giant crabs invading Wales.
But lest you think that the Giant Crabs Invading Wales genre was laid to rest with the sixth volume of Smith's work, 1988's Crabs: The Human Sacrifice, fear not. Guy N. Smith is a versatile author who knows how to introduce a timeless theme to new audiences, and you can now savor the seventh installment in the Crabs series in graphic novel form:
Guy N. Smith: still crabbing after 36 years!
But although he has undoubtedly left an indelible mark on the Giant Crabs Invading Wales genre, one that will probably never be matched by any other author, I think all his subsequent work must inevitably fall short of the sparse brilliance of Night of the Crabs.
So, feast your eyes on the masterful eroticism of Guy N. Smith and ask yourself why he has not achieved success comparable to E. L. James.
Their lips met again, tongues probing and entwining. Both of them were experiencing the awakening of something which had lain dormant in them for so long. Rapidly they were getting out of control. Nothing else mattered...not even the giant crabs!
Cliff withdrew his left hand from the warmth of Pat’s tight sweater and felt for the fastener on her jeans. Then he pulled her zip down and she lifted herself up slightly off the ground so that he could unclothe her. The whiteness of her thighs was in itself seductive in the soft moonlight, the darker triangle of soft fluffy hair between them seeming to withhold secrets from him. Secrets of men who had lain there. Men who had been sexually satisfied beyond their wildest dreams. And of one man who had walked away in preference for another woman.
Cliff rolled in between her open legs. She still had a grip on his hardness and now she was guiding it down where she wanted it, bathing it first in her warm river of desire and then sliding it down further until it disappeared inch by inch into her.
After that nothing else mattered. Their bodies bucked and heaved as they murmured sweet nothings in each other’s ear before finally convulsing in a violent eruption that left them quivering and still yearning for each other.
Reluctantly they parted and adjusted their clothing. Pat, her hair awry and her cheeks flushed, looked more beautiful to Cliff than ever before.
“I’m more than glad I let you come with me tonight,” he whispered as he zipped himself up again. “I’m afraid, though, that we must still keep an eye open for those crabs!”
Ooh baby.
Verdict: No other book about giant crabs invading Wales could possibly compare to Night of the Crabs. It is a gross literary injustice that this book is not on the list of 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die.
My complete list of book reviews.