“Ella Minnow Pea”, by Mark Dunn

 

208 pages, Anchor Books, ISBN-13: 978-0385722438

One of my compadre’s in the bookclubs I ran gave me Mark Dunn’s Ella Minnow Pea with a glowing recommendation, so, seeing as I don’t turn down free stuff, I took it, and read it…and loved it. So here’s the deal: Ella Minnow Pea takes place on the fictional island of Nollop, a 63-mile autonomous island nation 21-miles off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina, and named for its founder, Nevin Nollop. A statue to Nollop can be found in the main square of the capitol with a pangram (that’s a phrase, sentence or verse that uses all of the letters of the alphabet) created by the same, namely: “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog”.

Throughout the book, these letters begin falling from the statue and, as each one does so, the island’s totalitarian government bans the contained letter’s use from written or spoken communication, seeing these fallen letters as a sign from Nollop that he has forbidden their usage. To guarantee enforcement, a penalty system is enacted for using the forbidden letters: a first offence is public censure, a second offence is old-fashioned stocks or a public lashing (violator’s choice) while a third offence calls for banishment from the island nation, while any who refuse banishment are summarily executed, instead.

All of this unfolds through letters or notes between various characters, especially Ella Minnow Pea, our main protagonist. The book is described as being “progressively lipogrammatic”, for as the story proceeds, more and more letters of the alphabet fall from the statue and thus excluded from each character’s writing, forcing them to spell words more phonetically or creatively which requires more and more effort to interpret just what in hell they are saying. The hoops in which Dunn, through his characters, jumps through in order to write this thing was a truly entertaining, to say nothing of impressive, feat of imagination.

When I was first told the premise of the book I thought that Ella Minnow Pea would be an absurdist comedy in which people were forced to bend over backwards in order to express the simplest thought. But I was only a few pages in when I saw what a powerful statement Ella Minnow Pea was regarding the freedom of expression. Also, I could not for the life of me discern just where Dunn sits on the political spectrum (well, the council’s deference to superstition is kind of a giveaway). Which was a good thing, seeing as the defense of language and everyone’s right to use it shouldn’t be a partisan issue anyway – although I fear it has become just that.

I was surprised to learn that this book was originally published in 2001, for its lessons are just as relevant today as then – indeed, its lessons are timeless. Liberty is in the ability to say, write and read what you want; government stifling the speech of one threatens the liberty of all. The superstitious element is important too, as the tumbling tiles are perceived as a message sent by Nollop, but the council has no true evidence that this is so. One thinks of religious laws being passed to protect the righteous and the Almighty, but the definition of either is fluid, for there are righteous atheists who seek to silence those who protest their draconian defense of Almighty Gaia.

Read Ella Minnow Pea for its full-throated promotion of free speech and the need to defend it against anyone – ANYONE – who would take it away.

“The Mighty 8th at War: The Missions, the Aircraft, the Full Story Told by the Men Who Were There”, by Chris McNab

 

320 pages, Elephant Books, ISBN-13: 978-1435164802

$2.83. That’s what The Mighty 8^th at War: The Missions, the Aircraft, the Full Story Told by the Men Who Were There by Chris McNab cost me at Barnes & Noble. A mere $2.83 from off their clearance rack and with my membership discount. Can’t go wrong, amiright? So what we have here is one of those enormous, glossy behemoths of a book that is full of pictures and information regarding the American 8^th Air Force in World War II, arguably the greatest strategic air formation in history. Just ask a Yank if you don’t believe me. Between activation in 1942 and the end of the war, The Mighty 8^th rained down destruction from the stratosphere upon the denizens of the Third Reich, laying waste to the industrial, military and transportation infrastructure of Nazi Germany, while U.S. fighters took on their counterparts in twisting dogfights. Good stuff all around. But at a cost, for the American insistence on round-the-clock bombing resulted in high attrition rates for their crews and planes during daylight hours (the average life expectancy for a bomber aircrew dropped to only six missions by 1943).

But still the Mighty 8^th continued to bomb and break the effectiveness of Hitler’s empire, even if such raids were deemed to be ineffective by later historians studying the results. But no matter. What we have with The Mighty 8^th at War is a collection not only of the planes that fought in the European theater of war but, more importantly, a gathering of the thoughts of the men that flew them. From five miles over the surface of the Earth the men of the Mighty 8^th did their duty, and McNab brings their voices together and allows the Greatest Generation to speak for themselves.  Whether B-17 bombardiers making the final bomb run through near-impenetrable flak, to P-51 Mustangs strafing enemy locomotives, the tales told by these men cover every aspect of the operational and human drama as they fought to bring down a monster and his regime. And we mustn’t forget the pictures, as this book has over 600 of the things to illustrate just what is under discussion. The Mighty 8^th at War is an excellent addition to anyone’s war library – and if you can get it for $2.83, so much the better.

“Sharp Objects”, by Gillian Flynn

254 pages, Broadway Books, ISBN-13: 978-0307341556

Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn must be all the rage where I’m at because I had to reserve a copy – one of eight in the system – and compel someone or other to return it just so I could read the damn thing. But I’m glad that I did. Anyway, another entry in my Mysteries & Munchies bookclub, Sharp Objects finds reporter Camille Preaker, fresh off a brief stay at a psych hospital (for reasons that become clear), sent home to Wind Gap, Missouri, by her editor to cover the murders of two preteen girls. All but estranged from her hypochondriac, neurotic mother and 13-year-old half-sister – who has a kind of eerie grip on the town – she finds herself identifying with the young victims and dives back into her own murky past.

This is one of those books that is as much a character study as it is a mystery; indeed, often it is more so. Oh, there is plenty of that in the book, as Camille investigates and tries to write her story, questions a plethora of suspects and townsfolks, interrogates the local constabulary and generally acts like a reporter. But it is as much a delve into the psyche of our protagonist, a study on how a place can affect and stay with us through our lives, how families are both blessings and burdens (often more one than the other) and how the past is with us always. It is so much more than a mystery (in retrospect, this could just as easily have been an entry in my Books on Tap bookclub, seeing all of the themes that are explored).

A good story must have strong characters, and Camille Preaker fits the bill – but not in the way you may think. She is intelligent and tenacious and dedicated to uncovering the truth and writing her story – but she is also a deeply flawed woman and brimming with contradictions and subject to bouts of weakness as powerful as her drive to see her task completed. She is, in a word, human. And it takes a writer of uncommon honesty to write a character known as much for her flaws as her strengths, who could just as easily fail as succeed because of who she is. As one who is fed up with female characters who can do no wrong, it was refreshing to read about one who screws up as much as she triumphs.

The mystery behind Sharp Objects was, if I may be so ‘umble, rather easy to solve (about hallway through, to be exact) until I read the last chapter and Epilogue, and – I mean, damn; shoulda seen it coming. But one reads a book like this as much for the characterizations and the atmosphere as for the mystery. It rather put me in mind of Stephen King’s IT – bear with me here – in that it was a horror story, yes, but also a tribute to King’s childhood in the 60s and those summers that you never wanted to end. Sharp Objects is a mystery in which the murder and disfigurement of two young girls opens up a whole world most would like to keep hidden – but that is pried open by the sharp objects of our psyches which we can never blunt.

“Blood for Blood”, by Ryan Graudin

 

496 pages, Little, Brown, ISBN-13: 978-0316405157

Hey, remember reading my review of Wolf by Wolf by Ryan Graudin last month? And remember me saying that there was a second book in the series that I thought I’d tackle, seeing as I got them both from the Shelby Public library for $1.50 for the pair? Well, here it is: Blood for Blood continues and completes the story began in Wolf by Wolf, beginning as it does exactly where the prior book ended, in which Yael (remember, its pronounced Yah-ell) finds herself on the run after her botched assassination attempt on Der Führer in Tokyo and racing back to Germania – with Luka and Felix in tow – in the hope of aiding the long-simmering resistance in finishing Hitler off before the Nazis can overpower them all. Thus, Blood for Blood has the feel of not being a proper sequel but merely the continuation of the story, as if the publisher didn’t want to shell out all that money for a 1000+ page book.

Without the structure of the race in Wolf by Wolf, the novel is rather less focused, as much of the action takes place off-screen, if you will, what with the resistance rising and implementing their decade-old plans. But this is alright, as it is the character motivations amongst the big three – Yael, Luka and Felix – that are the focus here. Each of them are more complex than at first blush, with the boys getting almost as much page-time as our heroine. More than just paper-thin good little Nazis, the boys are fleshed out through a series of short chapters that provide snapshots of how both of them (and Yael) were affected by certain historical events, especially the first assassination attempt against Hitler. With the focus off of Yael, this both expands the focus of the book while also personalizing it, as we see change come to this nightmarish, Nazi-run world, for while big events occur they are caused by little people.

It would appear that Graudin has written a duology and that we must say farewell to Yael, Luka and Felix (although there is a novella, Iron to Iron, at the back that stars Luka. DON’T skip it). Blood for Blood was a good continuation of Wolf by Wolf (I won’t call it a sequel) and I, for one, was satisfied with the tale of Yael and company – and all for $1.50.

“Sex with Kings: 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge”, by Eleanor Herman

 

 

320 pages, William Morrow, ISBN-13: 978-0060585440

 

Well, that’s a title that will grab anyone’s attention. Sex with Kings: 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge by Eleanor Herman is a study of the European phenomenon of the official Royal Mistress – the maîtresse-en-titre as the French would have it (naturally) – and how these women influenced their royal masters. A clear-eyed and unromantic view of this…institution, Herman shows how the idea of an “official” mistress came about (to be distinguished from royal flings with this duchess or that chambermaid), what power was wielded, how they came and went, what the other women or the mistresses’ husband’s in the royal lives thought about it all (not that it really mattered), and so on. What is, perhaps, most interesting about this book is that, despite its topic, it is rarely salacious; oh, Herman talks about sex, alright, but it is the interaction of all of the various factions that interests her more, the interpersonal relationships that were formed and strained by all of those royal libidos. While the physical is never far away, it is the emotional and intellectual aspects of mistresshood that is being studied here.

While most mistresses were beautiful, not all were, and I think, if I may be so ‘umble, this says something about the Male species. While men are so often dismissed by members of the gentler sex as walking sex addicts, the fact that so many of the royal mistresses described within this book were plain – if not downright ugly – but possessing other virtues says something about My Boys. Some were brilliant conversationalists who could declaim on any number of topics. Some were excellent artists, musicians or poets who could entertain their royal lovers in any number of (nonsexual) ways. Some were artisans who planted gardens, decorated rooms or even designed whole palaces for their masters. But what they all were were companions who provided a sanctuary from royal duties, the pressures of government, their (sometimes) termagant wives and ungrateful children, or a true family atmosphere that they had never known. Most royal marriages were dynastic unions in which love did not and was not expected to exist, so if a king could find love outside of such a union then they did so (Queens? Not so much).

Speaking of which, as to what their relative queens thought of all this royal screwing is brought to light, but I, for one, think this is relatively straightforward. Just as many a king was not in love with his queen, seeing as these marriages were political acts, so many a queen was not in love with her king, either. I rather think that these queens liked the idea of a mistress to distract from the royal pillowing and leave her alone. Take Alexandra of Denmark, wife of Edward VII, who bore the king six children. On his deathbed, she allowed his mistresses to visit him, an act of which Society approved and which I was always perplexed by; I mean, why honor the women with whom your husband betrayed you with? Until you get a look at her husband: fat, squat, with bulging eyes and always reeking of booze and tobacco, Alexandra must have taken the time to thank these women for letting Bertie climb top them rather than her. As for why they let him, well, every man will tell you that a fat wallet compensates for a lot; Bertie may have thought these women wanted him for himself when all they were doing was chasing money and power. Sorry, Bert.

Luckily, in this instance at least, we know what was going on through the mind of Alexandra Caroline Marie Charlotte Louise Julia Glücksburg Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. When she was at last alone with her comatose king and Sir Francis Laking, Physician-in-Ordinary to King Edward VII, she spoke for many a Queen through the centuries:

…I would have done anything he asked of me. Twelve years ago, when I was so angry about Lady Warwick [Frances Evelyn “Daisy” Greville, Countess of Warwick], and the King expostulated with me and said I should get him into the divorce court, I told him once and for all that he might have all the women he wished, and I would not say a word; and I have done everything since that he desired me to do about them. He was the whole of my life and, now he is dead, nothing matters.

Or, while viewing the body of the King with Lord Esher, Alexandra spoke for many a wronged wife who makes a kind of peace with a philandering husband: “After all, he always loved me best”.

Sex with Kings was enlightening and entertaining and was much more than its title suggests. And it also displays, without outright stating so, why a Republic is so much better than a monarchy: while we may be stuck with an addlebrained, dimwitted, corrupt and idiotic President for a few years, for a kingdom it could be decades before such a fool at last shuffles off this mortal coil, costing his subjects an inordinate amount of money and inflicting who knows how much damage on the body politic.

“Norse Mythology”, by Neil Gaiman

 

301 pages, W. W. Norton & Company, ISBN-13: 978-0393356182

Most everything I know about Norse Mythology I learned from D’Aulaire’s Book of Norse Myths by Ingri and Edgar Parin d’Aulaire (review upcoming), but that book was geared towards children and, anyway, I read it ages ago. So when cruising the bookstacks of 2^nd & Charles I came across Norse Mythology by none other than Neil Gaiman and I thought “Oh, why the hell not”. First off, this is not an exhaustive collection of Norse myths; only three gods – Odin, Thor and Loki – are given any sort of background and, thus, each of the tales presented within star this trio in some fashion. Which is a damn shame, for the Big Three are all well and good, but there are so many other gods with their own myths that are just as entertaining. Perhaps Gaiman was only interested in an overview of the Norse mythos and decided to limit himself? Anyway, while disappointing, this in no way detracts from the telling of these tales and revealing the Norse people as they were through the gods they invented and worshiped.

And man, what gods they were. Boisterous, adventurous, full of life and joy and loving nothing more than to eat, drink and be merry, often to excess, with violence not unknown at their feasts. They travel the world(s), getting into trouble and returning with tall tales full of both fact and hyperbole; their boasts about their exploits are exaggerations and one can’t help but question their veracity. They can smash mountains, drink rivers dry, transform into anything and fight with the might of whole armies. They can feel jealousy, rage, desire and contempt – while also feeling love, compassion, empathy and admiration. These gods are, in short, all-too human and reflect the values and aspirations of the Norse people themselves. As do all pagan gods everywhere. In my youth I played D&D, and one of the points the game makes is that the gods need mortals as much as mortals need gods, for it is belief that give gods not only their power but their very lives. When belief dies, gods die.

And so does a culture. Norse Mythology is an incomplete though still-enlightening look at these long-dead gods, representatives of a vanished culture that has much to recommend and damn it. As do all cultures everywhere.

“Moriarty”, by Anthony Horowitz

 

304 pages, Harper, ISBN-13: 978-0062377180

Moriarty is the second Anthony Horowitz book I have read, the first being Magpie Murders, reviewed on May 14^th, 2025 (and one of my Mysteries & Munchies selections for the Fraser Public Library). Beginning mere days after Holmes’ and Moriarty’s deaths at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, the Pinkerton Detective, Frederick Chase, arrives in pursuit of one Clarence Devereaux, a fiendish criminal mastermind and Moriarty’s Yankee counterpart who hopes to step into the void left by the Napoleon of Crime’s demise. He is aided by Scotland Yard Inspector Athelney Jones, a devoted student of Holmes’ methods of investigation and deduction originally introduced by Conan Doyle in The Sign of Four.

The majority of the book was a pretty standard mystery: things happen, the protagonists investigate, clues are discovered, suspects interrogated…and so on. All in all not very riveting, if I’m to be honest. And yet, throughout the book I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right, that there was a malevolent presence that was lurking just off the page that was directing and hadn’t made its presence known. While I followed Jones & Chase in their quest to see justice done, I just knew there was more to the story – and I can’t for the life of me tell you why. Perhaps it was because Horowitz, a veteran storyteller, wrote it, or perhaps it is because I am becoming an old hand at reading mysteries.

And then I reached the last two chapters, and…hoo, doggy.

I won’t, I can’t, spoil the ending for you, only to say that my sense of dread while reading Moriarty was justified. Only…now, while I salute Horowitz for keeping me (mostly) fooled throughout the book, I have to say that I hated his rewriting of the Sherlock Holmes canon. Conan Doyle’s works are not holy writ, but to upend the author’s establishment smacks of chutzpah and has the effect of dragging Holmes down a little (come to think of it, perhaps Conan Doyle would have approved of Holmes being knocked down a peg). And as for the fate of one of the characters in the book – well, I grant you, it was shocking, but also disturbing. I tend to identify with the protagonists of the books I read, and to see this person’s fate was nothing less than heartbreaking.

Moriarty is a serviceable mystery with a rather shocking twist that I subliminally anticipated but still didn’t see coming. An excellent work by an author at the top of his mystery game.

“How Do We Look: The Body, the Divine, and the Question of Civilization”, by Mary Beard

 

240 pages, Liveright, ISBN-13: 978-1631494406 

I find I have mixed feelings regarding Mary Beard as an author. On the one hand she wrote SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome (reviewed on January 12^th, 2017), a brilliant introduction to Roman history, while on the other she also wrote Confronting the Classics: Traditions, Adventures and Innovations, which was nothing more than a bunch of book reviews. But when I found How Do We Look: The Body, the Divine, and the Question of Civilization at 2^nd & Charles I figured “what the hell” and hoped that the Beard of SPQR wrote it and not the Beard of Confronting the Classics. Turns out How Do We Look is a companion to the “How Do We Look” and “The Eye of Faith” episodes of the miniseries Civilization produced by the BBC in 2018 (which I never heard of). And it shows, seeing as how it is jam-packed with color photographs. What is strange are the dimensions; not only is it a mere 240 pages, but the book overall only measures 8¾” x 6”. How I wish Taschen had produced this thing; we would have gotten a brick that one could build houses out of.

As Beard states in the introduction, How Do We Look is “inevitably and unashamedly selective”, with Part One concentrating on the art of the human body and Part Two on images of the divine. Seeing as this is a companion book to a television show, it serves mostly as a primer to its subject. Apart from the many pretty pictures, it provides a general overview of its subject as it attempts to cram several centuries and numerous cultures into its slender form. It should be noted that it is mostly Beard’s opinions that are being related as she raises one Meta subject after another, not all of which I found persuasive. If you are a serious student of art in general or in one of these cultures in particular I doubt any of this will move you; but if all you want is an introduction to the field then How Do We Look will fit the bill – as would the TV series, I imagine. And most of the pictures are top-notch, too – even if some include the author, as if she was some kind of obnoxious tourist scrambling over priceless artifacts.

“Wolf by Wolf”, by Ryan Graudin

 

379 pages, Little, Brown, ISBN-13: 978-0316405089

My boss at the Fraser Public Library told me all about Wolf by Wolf by Ryan Graudin – leaving out the fact that it was written with tweens in mind. Anyway…so it is an alternate 1956 in which the Axis powers of the Third Reich and Imperial Japan have won World War II and rule the world between them, with America an isolationist outpost. Every year the victorious powers host the Axis Tour, an annual motorcycle race across their conjoined continents to commemorate their triumph. The grand prize is a personal audience with the now-reclusive Führer at the Victor’s Ball in Tokyo. This is important to Yael (that’s Yah-ell), a member of the Resistance, former death camp prisoner and survivor of painful human experimentation which gave her the power to skin-shift and take on a different face and form almost at will. This year her mission is to impersonate last year’s only female winner of the race, Adele Wolfe, so that she may win the Tour and get close to Hitler – and assassinate him in public before the eyes of the world.

I have been on something of an Axis-Win-It-All-Alternative-History kick for a couple of months now, starting with reviewing Fatherland by Robert Harris on January 3^rd, 2024, continuing with watching “The Man in the High Castle” miniseries on Amazon Prime and now with Wolf by Wolf, all totally by accident, too. I swear. No really. So Wolf by Wolf just kind of continues the trend. The premise is interesting and the character of Yael, complete with superpowers, put an interesting twist on the whole Nazis Won It All narrative. And her coping with all of those people who know the real Adele – including Adele’s brother, Felix – added tension and brought forth Yael’s characteristics. Unfortunately, she is the only really developed character in the book, as brother Felix and erstwhile suitor/rival Luka are cardboard cutouts constantly trying to get close to “Adele” while also trying to control her. All the other characters are just background decoration who add nothing to the tale. And a little more insight into this alternative timeline would have been nice.

There were some surprising moments, as an event occurs at about midpoint during the race that I didn’t see coming; this was a negative and a positive, I thought, as it disrupted the flow of the narrative (and the race) while also giving a certain insight into this nightmare, Nazi-run world. And the ending was rather a surprise, as well, and was not typical of works of this sort. Trying not to spoil anything for you, Dear Reader, only trying to describe some strong-and-weak points in a book that was outside of my comfort zone. So Wolf by Wolf was okay and I don’t regret reading it; perhaps if I was in the target demographic I’d get more out of it, but it is what it is. There is a second book in the series that I think I’ll tackle, because why not? I got them from the Shelby Public library for $1.50 for the pair, so might as well get my modest cost out of them.

“Stonewall in the Valley: Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson’s Shenandoah Valley Campaign Spring 1862”, by Robert G. Tanner

 

436 pages, Doubleday, ISBN-13: 978-0385121484

Stonewall in the Valley: Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson’s Shenandoah Valley Campaign Spring 1862 by Robert G. Tanner was one of my Father’s books, bought at the height of his Civil War Mania in the 80s and 90s and read by him in preparation for one of our Civil War vacations that we took every summer. What it recounts is the Shenandoah Valley Campaign, conducted by Jackson from February to June, 1862, during the American Civil War, at the end of which Jackson’s reputation as a military genius would be cemented by both sides. Fighting six relatively small battles – Kernstown, McDowell, Front Royal, Winchester, Cross Keys and Port Republic – Jackson managed to defeat Union generals Nathaniel P. Banks, Irvin McDowell, John C. Frémont, James Shields, Robert H. Milroy and Robert C. Schenck.

Jackson managed to tie down Union forces in the Valley that could have been thrown against the Confederate capitol of Richmond, Virginia; and Jackson was in no way blind to the importance of his actions, stating that “If the Valley is lost, Virginia is lost” and, thus, the War. Everything relating to Jackson and the Campaign can be found in abundant detail and exhaustive documentation, including several appendices that discuss the orders on various critical days and how they were (or were not) interpreted, understood, carried out completely, partially, or not at all; the fog of war laid bare. All one associates with Jackson – the bravado, the daring, the Foot Cavalry, all of it – was earned over the course of these four brief months, and as Tanner shows, it was a well-earned and hard-fought reputation.

Well, mostly; for in spite of Jackson’s obvious drive and brilliance, the man had his flaws as a commander. First and foremost were the expectations placed and his soldiers and himself, which were often outrageously high if not downright ridiculous; the forces of the Valley District of the Department of Northern Virginia were fortunate indeed to escape relatively intact on several occasions, all because of the excessive demands placed upon it by Jackson, with Port Republic being the prime example. Maybe this insane audacity was necessary when fighting forces that, were they ever to combine, would have outnumbered his own 4-to-1. But it all caught up to them in the end as Jackson and his forces, recalled by Lee during McClellan’s Peninsula Campaign, were all but asleep during the battles, worn out no doubt by the constant fighting and marching.

Besides its strategic success, the Valley Campaign provided a much-needed boost to Confederate morale after a spring season of defeats, which made Jackson’s death at Chancellorsville all the more devastating to the South and made defeat all but inevitable. Stonewall in the Valley deserves its reputation as a modern-day classic of the Civil War, Stonewall Jackson and the price of audacity in war: fame, immortality, exhaustion, and the weight of expectations.

“American Comics: A History”, by Jeremy Dauber

 

592 pages, W. W. Norton & Company, ISBN-13‏: ‎ 978-0393635607

Everything I know about comic books I learned through osmosis from my older brother, Tom. He was the true collector, and while such mainstream titles – like X-Men – made it into his collection, he seemed to favor the more independent titles, like Alien Legion, published by Epic Comics (an imprint of Marvel). I tried my hand at comics for a time, reading every issue of House of Mystery I could get my hands on (especially when they ran the I…Vampire recurring storyline), getting in on the ground floor with the resurrected Firestorm in 1982, along with such New Universe titles as Star Brand in 1986 (to say nothing of my beloved Groo the Wander). But all for naught, as I was well and truly under the sway of history, and these fictional beings couldn’t match the exploits of men (it was mostly men) who really lived and shaped their worlds.

So with all that said, it may make you wonder why I read American Comics: A History by Jeremy Dauber, seeing as I was a tangential fan of the medium, at best. Well, it was because I was ignorant of so much of what has occurred surrounding this most American of mediums, and decided to cure this ignorance the best way I know how. American Comics is exhaustive in its approach, starting with the birth of newspaper comics in the late 19^th Century and continuing on through to the present day, when these mainstays of every geek’s life (he said with nothin’ but love) conquered the movies and popular culture. While the big names everyone has heard of are represented, Dauber does justice to the underground comics of the 60s and 70s, as well as those publications attached to comics, like MAD Magazine and its imitators.

Dauber’s work is as thorough and comprehensive as one could hope for, and every character this comic book noob could imagine makes an appearance at some point; just as importantly, though, I learned about their creators, the often unheralded writers and artists (most of whom I’d never heard of) were brought forth and offered a bow. The big names are here, like Steve Ditko, Jerry Siegel, Stan Lee, Will Eisner and so many others besides, but the more obscure creators are given their due, as well. While some may kvetch that these lesser-known lights shouldn’t be given so much page space relative to their better-known colleagues, Dauber seemed intent on giving as complete a history of this American art form as possible, even if the reader hadn’t heard of whomever was under discussion.

Eclectic and incomplete, I’m sure, as I don’t think that Dauber spoke to a single comic-geek for a fan’s-eye-view of the medium, or any comic book store owners for any behind-the-scenes tales of selling these things. And when he speaks of so-called “toxic fandom” he really goes off the rails, availing himself of all the anecdotal evidence at his fingertips and assigning bad-faith motivations to fans who have reacted badly to the poor storytelling that is presented solely for the sake of achieving so-called “diversity”. Really, now, to pretend that this push for inclusion at all costs – while simultaneously cheering it on even as it subverts good storytelling for politics – hasn’t created a crisis in the industry is to ignore reality. And how in the hell do you write a book about comics with absolutely no pictures?

But, anyway…American Comics: A History did its job in informing me of what I didn’t know. Dauber doesn’t really bring anything new to the table that hasn’t been said before elsewhere, but he does provide a simple, concise history of this medium that conquered American culture and, thus, the world.

“Drive-Thru Dreams: A Journey Through the Heart of America’s Fast-Food Kingdom”, by Adam Chandler

288 pages, Flatiron Books, ISBN-13: 978-1250090720

I walk. A lot. It’s really the only exercise I get. I’ve walked at every job I ever had, doing lap after lap around the joint until I wore paths in the carpet. Most of my employers were cool with it – or at any rate didn’t complain about it – while others…weren’t. Ah, screw ‘em. I even walk when I’m not working, like when I’m at the library reading, or in the computer lab, and get up every half-hour (because that’s as long as I can sit still) and take a lap – which is when I saw Drive-Thru Dreams: A Journey Through the Heart of America's Fast-Food Kingdom by Adam Chandler and checked it out then and there. Because why not? Chandler’s book explores how modern American dining has changed over the course of the 20^th Century. While most pundits see fast food in only a negative light, Chandler uncovers the whole story by showing how fast food chains impacted Americans, both negatively and, yes, positively.

Personally, McDonald’s was THE fast food go-to joint. Saturdays my Dad would take Mom out for a well-deserved dinner at whatever place she chose; my brother Jonathan and I were basically left alone to watch TV (especially Airwolf) and scarf down our McDonald’s Happy Meals. On the many interstate vacations we went on we also inevitably had lunch at McDonald’s because it was cheap and reliable (dinner was something else; we always tried a local joint to add variety to our lives). Was all of this fast food good for me? Nope. But that’s the point of a guilty pleasure, isn’t it? If you want to eat healthy you don’t eat fast food; if you want to enjoy life a little you do. And Chandler relates these basic facts as he recounts the history of America’s greatest fast food chains and how fast food shaped America and how America shaped fast food, for fast food history is unquestionably American history, for good and for ill.

Chandler does a great job in showing how the Greatest Generation provided the perfect market for the explosive growth of seemingly every small-town burger joint into a much larger atmosphere which, when combined with a new advertising mindset, allowed them to become national icons – well, some of them at any rate, for with every international success there were a dozen failures (I still miss the Burger Chef that graced the strip mall opposite my childhood subdivision). If I had a complaint then it’s the double crutches of McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken that he leans on, to the detriment of other fast food chains. These other chains are discussed – White Castle, Hardees, Taco Bell and others, besides – but they all seem to come back to Mickey D’s and KFC at the cost of explaining how food tastes were changing overall. And the snide political commentary at times was as out of place as an onion ring in my large fries.

But anyway – Drive-Thru Dreams was an informative look at an often misunderstood and much maligned market whose greatest crime is giving the public what it wants. While I think the book would have been better had it been more linear, instead of bouncing about from one corporation to the next, what Chandler makes clear is that fast food did not originate from a single place but was created throughout the country, virtually at the same time. And over time, with the interstate highways connecting the country, fast food, in a way, connected us all.

“The Three Locks”, by Bonnie MacBird

 

432 pages, Collins Crime Club, ISBN-13: 978-0008380830

The Three Locks by Bonnie MacBird is the fourth of her Sherlock Holmes adventures, the others being Art in the Blood (reviewed on September 18^th, 2024), Unquiet Spirits (reviewed on May 9^th, 2025) and The Devil’s Due (reviewed on July 20^th, 2026); The Three Locks just may be the best of her interpretations thus far. The locks of the title refer to three entirely different contraptions: a special box sent to Watson by his just-passed aunt which his long-dead mother meant for him to have; the contraptions invented by a husband-and-wife team of Italian magicians; and the river lock located on the River Cam. All three are connected in some fashion not obvious to the average person, but Sherlock Holmes is anything but average. What follows is an engrossing tale in which these riddles wrapped in mysteries inside of enigmas come to a head in true Conan Doyle fashion. As with the other books MacBird has written, her take on Holmes and Watson (and the underappreciated Mrs. Hudson) have an authentic feel that would make Conan Doyle proud. The atmosphere of and characterizations all have the true to life vibe of Victorian England.

MacBird is an excellent writer who employs good turns of phrase (turns of phrases?), and this book is full of sentences that causes one to chuckle like a major general as she channels Conan Doyle to display Holmes often overlooked wit; this undercurrent of humor is all the more enjoyable for not trying too hard, MacBird doesn’t force it on her reader but allows it to happen on its own. Holmes and Watson as characters are developed beyond simply describing their parts in the plot, as our author obviously is a fan of this most famous of detectives (and Watson). Speaking of which, Watson is a well-developed character on his own and plays a more active role than just being the most famous sidekick in literature; his knowledge and skills are called upon by Holmes to assist in the solving these crimes, and the insight MacBird gives on his past fleshes him out in ways his creator never really managed to do. The tragedy of his childhood, while perhaps not canon, makes for an interesting development and explains to a great deal just why John became a doctor. Really, MacBird does Watson justice.

There are several detailed descriptions of characters and settings, giving the entire book a virtual cinematic feel and scope, with even minor characters given their due. But it is Holmes and his reliance on Watson – an often overlooked aspect of the character, if I may be so bold – that is front and center. Their voices, characters and settings, as well as Holmes’ penetrating observations and brilliant deductions, will be instantly recognizable by anyone familiar with the classic Conan Doyle cases that “Watson” shared with the world decades ago. As I’ve said before, these new books are so unquestionably authentic that the most of knowledgeable and devoted Sherlockians would be excused for thinking that Bonnie MacBird’s conceit is real: that these stories were in fact written by Dr. John Watson and she is merely the transcriber, as was her predecessor, Arthur Conan Doyle. So here’s to hoping the MacBird finds more of these long-lost tales of Victorian daring-do and shares them with us jaded moderns; God knows we could all use some old-fashioned toxic men to ride in and save the day.

“The Daughter of Time”, by Josephine Tey

 

206 pages, Touchstone, ISBN-13: 978-0684803869

I said back on July 13^th, 2016, in my review of Richard III: England’s Black Legend by Desmond Seward that “what the JFK assassination is to Americans, the murder of the Princes in the Tower is to the English”; that is, a perennial conspiracy surrounding a supposed unsolved crime which is nothing of the sort – to wit, Richard III had his nephews King Edward V and Richard Duke of York murdered (oh, and Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated JFK and acted alone, too).

But the credulous must be appeased, and so theses fictions march on. In 1951 Josephine Tey (that would be Elizabeth MacKintosh to you and me) put her hand to this tale with The Daughter of Time, in which her character, Scotland Yard Inspector Alan Grant, in hospital on leave nursing a broken leg, investigates the murder of the Princes in the Tower (the title comes from Sir Francis Bacon: “Truth is the daughter of time, not of authority”).

The topic has been popular for some six centuries, and this book no less so: the British Crime Writers’ Association named it number one in The Top 100 Crime Novels of All Time in 1990, while the Mystery Writers of America named it number four in The Top 100 Mystery Novels of All Time in 1995. Clearly, something is afoot for a book on a controversial subject to be so honored, and so let’s you and I figure out just why that is, shall we?

The Daughter of Time finds the aforementioned Inspector Grant researching an historical mystery at the suggestion of his actress friend, Marta Hallard, after she brings him some pictures of historical characters, one of them being Richard III of black fame. Grant prides himself on being able to read a person’s character from his appearance, and Richard seems to him a gentle, kind and wise man, incapable of the heinous acts set at his door. And so the game is afoot.

Whether Tey took her own premise seriously or not I cannot say; what I can declare is that it without question deserves inclusion The Top 100 Crime Novels of All Time (at number 1 or 4, whatever you like). It is taut and well-thought-out, with each premise and theory that Grant and his compadres investigate both fascinating and plausible. Whether or not you accept her conclusion (I don’t), it is an excellent mystery and a rollicking good read, to boot.

Tey was not the only one who believed Richard innocent, and throughout the 450+ years since Richard lived and died there have been loyal groups in Britain who have continued to believe that he has been falsely maligned and to work to rehabilitate his reputation. Tey’s book influenced that movement and convinced many to join it, such has been the far-reaching influence of this unique (fictional) murder mystery.

This a work of fiction, of course, and The Daughter of Time offered a fascinating journey through English history while giving a lesson in high-minded obsession. Grant becomes thoroughly convinced of the falsity of the charge against the accused and is determined to prove him innocent and bring the guilty to justice (it is, after all, what he does). That he is misguided is easy to forget as one reads this near-perfect mystery.

“Call It Sleep”, by Henry Roth

 

599 pages, Robert O. Ballou, ISBN-13: 978-224405329206

Just when in the hell did I read Call It Sleep by Henry Roth? I know I didn’t read it for personal growth or knowledge or anything like that. So I must have done so for a class, somewhere. But what class? Would it have been in Junior High? High School? Some college course, lost to the mists of history? Hmmmmm…anyway, I dunno. But read it I did, and here is my penetrating, insightful review. Call It Sleep was all but ignored for thirty-odd years when originally published in 1934, but when literary critic Irving Howe reviewed it in The New York Times Book Review in 1964 it was reborn and hailed as a modern American classic. So there’s that. In a nutshell, it is about 6-year-old David Schearl, a “dangerously imaginative” Jewish boy growing up in the immigrant ghetto of New York’s Lower East Side in the early 20^th Century and his coming to terms with conflicting forces as he tries to forge his own identity.

In many ways, Call It Sleep is a typical coming-of-age story, albeit the character is much younger than is typical of this type of tale; indeed, there’s really nothing overly special about his life until he meets and befriends Leo, a Gentile – which is perhaps the point, for David’s experiences mirror those of his fellow Americans, Jew or Gentile. But I can see why, when this book was published, it was scandalous and shunned by the Respectable. One can find everything from suggestions of sex between children to foulmouthed Irish gashouse workers, and there’s quite a bit in between the two. But it’s a hard book to read because of all of the hardships, heartbreaks and disturbing incidents, one after another, that David and his family must endure. I’m sure all of these dark developments did nothing to boost the Golden Streets narrative favored by many an American then, and I can’t imagine immigrants wanting to read about the suffering they were experiencing.

Also, Roth was serious about capturing the dialect of his various urban characters, and I do mean the dialect, not just the flavor of their speech. Need examples? Okay: “My ticher calls id Xmas, bod de kids call id Chrizmas. I’ds a goyish holiday anyways. Wunst I hanged up a stockin’ in Brooklyn. Bod mine fodder pud in a eggshells wid terlit paper an’ a piece f'om an ol’ kendle. So he leffed w’en he seen me. Id ain’ no Sendy Klaws, didja know?” Or: “Beshnas mos hamelech Uziyahu vawere es adonoi yoshav al kesai rum venesaw, vshulav malaiim es hahahol. Serafim omdim memal lo shash kanowfayim, sash kanowfayim lawehhad, beshtayim yahase fanav uvishtayim yahase raglov uvishtayim yofaif”. And: “If I blyibm duh ywully ylyod, den he wonthye hilyt me so moyuch, myaytlybe”. Even reading those bits out loud – like I did with Margaret Mitchell’s similar attempt to recreate black speech in Gone With the Wind – didn’t help very much.

While at times a slog, Call It Sleep tells a tale that rings true for many an immigrant to the New World, whether they came over on the Mayflower or any number of steamships decades afterwards. Through the use of intricate analysis of David’s thoughts, Roth portrayed those innate emotions that we have all experienced and, from time to time, continue to experience, regardless of who we are or where we came from.

“The Dovekeepers”, by Alice Hoffman

 

 

528 pages, Scribner, ISBN-13: 978-1451617481

 

The Dovekeepers is the twenty-eighth novel by Alice Hoffman and is set around 70 AD after the Roman conquest of Judea and the fall of Jerusalem. Taking place over four years, it centers on the lives of four women who make their way to the Herodian stronghold of Masada and the families of several other survivors, especially the zealots who could rightly be held responsible for the whole thing (although the Romans needed precious little excuse for conquest).

• Yael, is treated like a dog by her father the assassin because her mother died giving birth to her, leaving her to maneuver life almost in a vacuum
• Revka, who could only stand by and watch helplessly as Roman deserters brutally raped and murdered her daughter, only to enact her revenge
• Aziza, who was raised as a boy and fought as a warrior by her stepfather, two facts that leave her adrift and without a place in the world
• Shirah, reputed to be a witch who worships Ashtoreth and has powers others believe in more than she does herself, and is the mother of Aziza

These four very different women are the Dovekeepers, whose work involves collecting these bird’s eggs for food and their droppings for fertilizer. The work is humble and dirty but, amid the filth and noise of the birdhouse, the women grow close, their lives becoming inextricably bound together as they inexorably change and the Romans come ever closer, all against the backdrop of the destruction of the world of these ancient Jews.

I was taken in by The Dovekeepers from the first word; Hoffman is a master storyteller who creates characters of flesh and blood and behave as they will in the situations she puts them in. Not once did I think that Yael, Revka, Aziza or Shirah did this act or spoke those words merely because that is what the plot called for. They behaved exactly as you would expect them to, knowing what you know about them. Their actions drive the story from one tragedy to the next, and the fact that you become so caught up in the lives of these women long gone speaks to the narrative power of the author. You truly feel for Yael, Revka, Aziza and Shirah – and for those who come into their orbit – and feel their every emotion as if it were your own. Being a little familiar with the Siege of Masada, I knew that the ultimate fates of most of these women would not be pleasant, and as I approached the end of the book, I became increasingly concerned for the well-being of them all.

Another strength of The Dovekeepers is how well Hoffman depicts the First Century AD in all of its dusty glory. This world in which the Romans sought to subjugate everything in their path merely for the sake of subjugation is as real within these pages as the world outside your door. From the fall of Jerusalem, to the deserts our protagonists wander through, to the relative paradise of Masada are all described in detail and brought forth once more. As much as her characterizations, the backdrop against which our heroines lived is as important to the story as they are, and this whole sun-drenched and sand-blasted place is made real once more by Hoffman. Between our four protagonists and everyone they encounter to the land they encounter them in, The Dovekeepers is that rare feat of historical fiction that is as informs like a textbook as it entertains like a novel. I will certainly miss Yael, Revka, Aziza and Shirah.

“The Lost Girls: Love and Literature in Wartime London”, by D. J. Taylor

 

336 pages, Pegasus Books, ISBN-13: 978-1643133157

Sonia Brownell, Lys Lubbock, Janetta Parladé and Barbara Skelton are amongst only a few of the subjects of D. J. Taylor’s The Lost Girls: Love and Literature in Wartime London. These swinging dames cut a swath through English literary and artistic life, with World War II barely slowing them down. All found themselves drawn into the orbit of Cyril Connolly (the most unlikely ladies’ man imaginable) and his literary magazine Horizon. Three of them had affairs with Lucian Freud, one of them married George Orwell while another became the mistress of the King of Egypt. No shrinking violets here, make no mistake. Equally at home in Bloomsbury and SoHo (or Cairo, for that matter), along with the couture studios of Schiaparelli and Hartnell, these “Lost Girls” would inspire the work of Nancy Mitford, George Orwell, Anthony Powell and Evelyn Waugh, and afford the missing link between the Lost Generation and Bright Young Things and the cultural revolution of the damnable 60s. And if you’re like me, you never even heard of any of them.

And there’s a reason for that. Taylor describes these women as chic, glamorous and bohemian and, for the most part, all of that is true. But as you read on you discover that these trailblazing women were actually rather conventional, seeking domesticity, albeit on their terms. They fell into and out of relationships, fought with their lovers, had abortions, married unsuitable men who cheated on them, divorced and tried again. Toward the end of their lives, some lived in penury, succumbed to alcoholism or died friendless. Not a hell of a lot to celebrate, one would argue. When I got this book, I somehow imagined that these Lost Girls were part of a wider movement in which women expanded their opportunities during an unprecedented catastrophe – but mostly, it was a record of an elite set of women and the clothes they wore, parties they attended and gossip they spread. Even though these Lost Girls hovered ‘round and worked with a bevy of famous literary people, they seemed more focused on status and fame, and snagging a rich husband. How very pedestrian.

All were comely, their beauty noted upon by critics in that era, and they tended to have a middle-to-upper middle-class upbringing in which they frequently became estranged from at least one of their parents. They often remembered their school years less than favorably, were members of the first generation of women to become independent in their 20s and take jobs that involved war effort work or in offices. According to Peter Quinnell, a staffer at Horizon, the Lost Girls seemed to carry a “sense of personal trauma” with them, and others noted their “air of waywardness and loneliness”, but also called them “courageous”. Another similarity was their relationship at different times with Cyril Connolly, who acted as the hub of the literary world in London then (yet another was that they all seemed to place a high premium on not being “boring”). Taylor states that “any attempt to label them ought to be resisted”, but throughout the book, he employs the “Lost Girl” label to explain their lives.

“The Devil’s Due”, by Bonnie MacBird

 

384 pages, HarperCollins, ISBN-13: 978-0008348106

Bonnie MacBird’s The Devil’s Due is her third interpretation of Arthur Conan Doyle’s immortal detective, and just like in her two previous outings, she succeeds in breathing new life into this most famous of sleuths. Under her keyboard, Holmes and Watson are believably drawn, so much so that one would like to believe the conceit of the author that she did not write this tale but that it was gifted to her by person or persons unknown and that the true author is in fact Dr. John Watson, just like Conan Doyle always maintained. Her Holmes/Watson dynamic is believable, so much so that the whole Watson-One-Step-Behind-Holmes thing comes across as natural rather than tedious (and which becomes necessary in the denouement). The Devil’s Due circles around the narratives of an alphabetical killer of philanthropists with dark secrets, a new Chief Commissioner of police and budding fascist, French terrorists, and a girl’s school that is more than it seems. Through it all Holmes, naturally, sticks to his guns and follows the clues where they lead him though the Heavens fall, Watson, naturally, staying doggedly alongside him.

The Devil’s Due moves along at a brisk pass and never flags due to overwrought dialog or melodrama, two things Holmes would never countenance. MacBird does a fine job of leading the reader astray with a red herring or two throughout, so much so that I was kicking myself for not seeing who the perp really was. The story also contains an eclectic mix of eccentric characters that always populate a Sherlock Holmes mystery, whether they be an illiterate street urchin-come-spy or needy society widow. With that being said, a little more development of these characters would have served the story better, considering the roles that some of them end up playing by the conclusion. And MacBird does a fine job of leading the reader astray with a red herring or two throughout, so much so that I was kicking myself for not seeing who the perp really was. Also, the book is freighted with a lot hyperventilating about modern problems, especially immigrants and the prejudices around them; while this was indeed an issue at the time, MacBird seemed to come at the issue with a modern sensibility that was grating and, worse, inaccurate.

But it is the dialogue MacBird employs that is the highlight of not only The Devil’s Due, but of all of her other Holmes books, as well. The Watsoncentric ambiance of her books is true to Conan Doyle and adds a kind of credibility and continuity to all of the works. For all of those Sherlockians the world over for whom the original run of stories is simply not enough, MacBird has done a masterful imitation of the master’s voice and style nicely, and this book provides true satisfaction to any fan of the Baker Street fiddler. The mysteries are good, the characters, old and new, are excellent and the experience is uplifting. While having Holmes being (literally) demonized in the London press didn’t pass the London fog smell test, and having Holmes be entirely too deferential to some of the other main personages is out of character for this genius who can’t help but look down on those not as brilliant as he (which is most of humanity), The Devil’s Due still made me long for yet more tales from MacBird; as a true heir to Conan Doyle she has no competitor, and one can only hope for yet more Holmes stories in the very near future.

“The Last Action Heroes: The Triumphs, Flops, and Feuds of Hollywood’s Kings of Carnage”, by Nick de Semlyen

 

352 pages, Crown, ISBN-13‏: ‎ 978-0593238806

While I read for any number of reasons, it is knowledge and self-improvement that tops my list – but man cannot live on salad alone, or steak, or poultry and so on; now and again a slice of cheesecake or dish of ice cream is called for. So when I saw The Last Action Heroes: The Triumphs, Flops, and Feuds of Hollywood’s Kings of Carnage by Nick de Semlyen at the Clinton-Macomb Public Library I thought “Ah, what the hell. Ice Cream is back on the menu”. Semlyen’s book is rather like Caseen Gaines’ We Don’t Need Roads: The Making of the Back to the Future Trilogy (reviewed on March 19^th, 2024), in that neither is very challenging or enlightening; many of the tales he tells are familiar and are simply rehashed in this volume. Indeed, while de Semlyen does better than Gaines by in fact interviewing the subjects of this book, the vast majority of those interviews were cribbed from earlier sources, and so The Last Action Heroes resembles a movie montage in which our Hero becomes stronger and faster after five minutes of training.

But so what. De Semlyen has written a memoir of my youth when giants walked the earth, movies were entertaining and an expansive VHS collection was a status symbol. All of these titans of the multiplex are here, along with other, less statuesque stars. Chuck Norris. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Sylvester Stallone. Bruce Willis. Jackie Chan. Jean-Claude Van Damme. Steven Seagal. Dolph Lundgren. One could argue that not all of these names belong, but one cannot argue that each left an impact on popular culture – even if only as punchlines. This testosterone and patriotic fueled era of American movies (not Chan) was a once-a-millennium phenomenon, never to be repeated, and pity the poor fools of later generations who missed out on all of the fun. To be alive and a movie fan at this time meant to be spoiled for choice as to what movie to see every week, even if you were young and broke (like me) and had to wait for HBO to broadcast it or Blockbuster to rent it to you. You know: The Good Old Days.

And we learn a thing or two about these muscle-bound celluloid gods. Chuck Norris was actually a non-violent Christian who would rather talk than fight. Arnold Schwarzenegger is as driven as you have heard with a never-say-die attitude and an immigrant’s faith in America. Sylvester Stallone is as resilient as Rocky (or Rambo) who never lets a bomb get him down. Bruce Willis was as ordinary as you would think who seemed just happy to be mentioned in the same breath as these others. Jackie Chan was an international star who struggled to make it in America but whose stunt innovations influenced others well outside of China. Jean-Claude Van Damme, for all his ridiculousness, is an unfiltered quote-machine who has struggled with his demons and seemingly come out on top. Steven Seagal is truly the humorless asshole he comes across as and one wonders how more successful he’d be with a little self-awareness. Dolph Lundgren is fluent in five languages and was on his way to becoming a scientist before Stallone discovered him.

The Last Action Heroes was a fun read and allowed me the pleasure of reliving my youth when popular culture sought to entertain and not indoctrinate, when movies could be unabashedly patriotic and movie stars were bigger-than-life personalities for all the right reasons.

“Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters of War”, by Terry Brighton

 

480 pages, Crown, ISBN-13: 978-0307461551

Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters of War by Terry Brighton is a kind of broad, triple biography of perhaps the greatest American, British and German generals of World War II (let the arguments begin on that declaration). The book is broadly chronological as it follows its three subjects while they maneuver through their relative country’s military structures and serve the same in peace and war. As is shown, Patton, Montgomery and Rommel served three quite different nations with quite different military establishments and quite different ways of shimmying up the greasy pole of promotion. And I have to say that Brighton, a British military historian, does not shirk his duty in showing us his subjects, warts and all.

While many historians have tried to explain away Johannes Erwin Eugen Rommel’s fascination with and support for Hitler, Brighton shows that the Generalfeldmarschall supported his Führer up to the final moments of his life. His complete acceptance of the Nazi program and belief system (even though he never joined the actual party) is well laid out, and there can be no doubt that he was a fervent supporter of the same and was not just being a “good German soldier” who did not have all of the facts. While no doubt a military genius who did the best he could with his limited resources, Rommel made his share of blunders, although Brighton shows the Desert Fox continuously learning from his mistakes. One can only thank whomever that Nazi Germany never got its act together and fully supplied Rommel with whatever he needed.

George Smith Patton Jr. was beyond just bombastic and profane, as his well-known episodes of losing control and slapping soldiers in hospitals for being cowards are described. Without question the most privileged of the three, Patton had his share of obstacles to overcome, not least of which was dyslexia. And his love affair with the M4 Sherman medium tank over the M26 Pershing heavy tank is inexcusable. But as a tank commander his only equal was Rommel or, more controversy perhaps, Guderian, the true inventor of the Blitzkrieg. As an armor strategist with a clear-eyed view of what the tank could (and couldn’t) do, and what the Allies needed to do to win the war, Patton was brilliant, forceful and without remorse. One can see why Eisenhower tolerated him as he did and why the Germans were right to count him as Enemy Number One.

Surprisingly, coming from a British author, Bernard Law Montgomery comes across as the worst of the bunch, a general who managed to win one battle in one setting and then applied that same philosophy the rest of the way, whether or not such tactics fit the situation at hand. When he does not get the resources he wants, or is denied the command he seeks, he purposely slows his progress down and causes numerous casualties to his fellow commanders as a way of showing that he should have been given this support or command all along. How many thousands of unnecessary casualties were caused by this self-absorption? How long was the war extended by this prima donna? Perversely, Montgomery was the most successful of the three post-war, only because he was the only one to survive the hostilities.

Patton, Montgomery, Rommel illustrates all of this and shows how and why these gifted if difficult leaders of men succeeded and failed, and all without any obvious prejudice. Would that all histories were this enlightening.