Sailors’ Stories – a flash historical story

I sat on a stool in front of my cottage, watching the packet ship sail into Falmouth. From up on the headland, it seemed to drift in as pale and silent as a ghost. On the docks, everything would be bustle and noise, people calling back and forth as the ship steered into harbour, bringing news from across the world.

It was a long time since I’d found the courage to face the docks.

“Why are you crying?”

I looked around to see a boy, no more than six years old, his head tilted to one side as he looked at me. He was dressed in a threadbare smock and his feet were covered in dust from the road, but there was a brightness to him beneath the grime.

“I’m not crying,” I said, and held up the frayed ends of rope I’d been twining back together. “Just got a loose strand in my eye.”

“Is it because you’re missing a leg?”

If a grown man had said that to me, he’d have felt my fist, and to hell with whether I could stand up to finish fighting him. But children didn’t know better. You had to make allowances.

“It’s the sea,” I said at last. “It moves me.”

“Have you been to sea?” His face all eagerness, he sat down on the ground next to me.

“Yes,” I said.

“Tell me about it.”

I wiped my eye. “It’s been a long time.”

“I bet you have brilliant stories.”

“Aye, maybe.” I hadn’t told any of them in a long time. They reminded me too much of what I’d lost. But you had to make allowances for children. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Robert.”

“I’m Edward. Let me tell you about the time I was chased by pirates…”

#

I sat on a barrel by the docks, sewing up a torn sail and watching ships come in. It had been a rough winter, the storms battering hard at the Cornish coast. But now the packet was back, the surest sign of Falmouth’s prosperity. It swept towards the harbour, slicing through the waves, the crew waving and cheering in excitement to be home. That sight made me smile, remembering my own returns from long stretches at sea.

“Edward!” Robert strode towards me, a sack slung over his shoulder. He’d grown a lot in eight years, each story I told seeming to add a little more to his height. And though he couldn’t yet grow a proper beard, he took great pride in the patches of stubble that dotted his chin.

“Good to see you, lad,” I said. “Come to see the packet come in?”

“More than that,” he replied, slinging the sack down beside my barrel. “I’m looking to sign up for her crew.”

I hunched over my work, jabbing away with the needle, hiding my face.

“Whatever’s the matter?” he asked, always perceptive for one so young. “Don’t you want me to go?”

I thought of everything I’d seen at sea. Men swept overboard. Others carried away as slaves. My own leg smashed by a shot from a French raider’s cannon, ending my sailing days forever. That was no life for a healthy, happy lad like Robert.

I looked up and saw him staring at the packet ship, beaming with excitement. The same excitement he’d shown when I told him all those stories. The same excitement I’d felt for so many years, in those moments before I set out to sea.

Was it really him I worried for, or me, left here alone on the dock?

“You go for it, lad,” I said, forcing a smile. “They’ll be lucky to have you.”

#

I sat on a crate amid the goods being unloaded from the packet. The ship’s sails hung limp beneath a grey sky. Over the Channel, storm clouds were gathering.

“The lad switched ships in Lisbon,” the first mate explained to me. “Joined a crew heading for the Americas. Said to tell you he was having a grand old time, but he’s thinking of you.”

I pulled myself up on my crutches.

“Thank you kindly,” I mumbled, then headed back up the hill.

#

I sat on a stool outside my cottage. The packet had arrived in the harbour below, one more set of sails amid the rest. One more forgotten dream.

I looked down at the battered satchel in my lap. I’d said I’d have it back to the Reverend Willows days before, but the work never seemed to get done.

“Why are you just sitting there like that?”

I looked up to see a man walking towards me. His clothes were salt-stained and faded, his skin browned by the tropical sun, and he wore a full beard. But the twinkle in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Robert!” I practically shouted in joy.

He hugged me, then sat down in the dirt at my feet, just as he’d done when he was small.

“Are you here to listen to my stories again?” I asked with a laugh.

“I thought I might tell you mine instead,” he replied. “If you’ve a mind to hear them.”

“Aye, I think I could stand that.”

I sat back, closed my eyes, and listened as he told me about his adventures. And in my heart, I was there on the ship with him, carried once again out to sea.

* * *

 

For the reality of Falmouth in the age of sail, check out Philip Marsden’s fantastic The Levelling Sea. It’s full of stories of the amazing people who lived in and sailed from the town.

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Braveheart All Over Again

Last week I was all excited for upcoming historical films. This week though, I learned about Outlaw King

Maybe I’m still hurting from Braveheart. Maybe I’m hyper-sensitive to depictions of periods I’ve studied in depth. Or maybe, just maybe, this is lining up to be something awful.

What are the danger signs?

First, they’re referring to one of the most famous stories in British history as “untold”. Robert the Bruce’s war against the English is one of the most famous incidents in British history. He’s Scotland’s biggest national hero. The only way your version of this story is “untold” is if you’re making it up instead of trying to tell the truth.

Then there’s the version of Bruce they seem to be going for – the struggling hero. Bruce was many things – successful soldier, political manipulator, a man who freed Scotland so that he could rule it. If we want to tell a real story of nationhood and liberation then we should acknowledge that it often happens for selfish ends. Accuracy means not idolising a man who murdered his rival in a church.

That more nuanced story would be more interesting as well as more accurate. We’ve seen plenty of un-nuanced stories of historical heroism. Let’s having something more sophisticated. Let’s trust readers to follow a flawed man achieving great things.

Of course, I’m prejudging. This film could turn out to be fantastic.

But it won’t.

And worst of all, because I love this period of history, I’ll still end up watching it.

The Church Builder’s Hands – a flash historical story

The hammer fell from John’s hand and clattered on the floor. Around him, the tapping of chisels stopped as the younger masons turned to see what had happened. The flash of his angry gaze was enough to send them all back to their work. Nobody wanted to risk the wrath of the master.

John stepped away from the half-carved gargoyle and walked out from under the awning, rubbing at his hand as he went. Father Cuthbert, whose church this would be, stood outside watching him.

“Master mason, how goes the work?” Cuthbert asked.

“Fine, fine.” John tried to ignore the pain in his fingers, but it grew harder with each passing month.

“I hear that you’re having a little trouble with the carving.”

John scowled. Who had told the meddling priest?

“No problem,” he said. “Just need to rest a minute.”

“I hear you rest a lot recently.”

“Need a new hammer. Better grip.”

“Hm.” Cuthbert gestured towards the half-built church. The labourers had stripped off their tunics and were working bare-chested in the summer sunshine. “It’s a fine thing that you’re part of here.”

“It is indeed.” John smiled. “This is the twelfth church I’ve been part of. Every year of my adult life, dedicated to the glory of God.”

“And what will you do when you can’t carve any more?”

John clenched his fist, bringing back the pain. Without a tool between them, there was no hiding that his fingers wouldn’t close as they should.

“There is no life for me without carving.”

“That is a shame. I had hoped that God might still have use for you, but God demands our best, and, well…”

Cuthbert looked pointedly at John’s hand.

John swallowed, fighting back a growing dread. He had been a mason since Master Thomas first took him in. All he had ever known was carving.

Well, that and overseeing the others.

A bright thought burst through the clouds in his mind, like the sun shining down on the church.

“I know how the parts fit together,” he said. “Perhaps I could supervise construction. Just while I rest my hand.”

Cuthbert’s mouth rose in a lopsided smile.

“That is a fine idea,” he said. “Just while you rest your hand. Perhaps you could start by finding someone to finish that gargoyle?”

“Of course, Father Cuthbert.”

John walked back under the awning and looked around. A journeyman carver caught his eye.

“You, come over here. There’s work to be finished.”

As the tapping of chisels resumed, John stepped back outside into the sunshine. He unclenched his hand and let the pain fade away.

* * *

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Some Upcoming History Films

I love historical films. I blame my dad for that. He raised me on a diet of westerns and World War Two movies, in between the sci-fi. It’s part of why I do what I do today, including writing scripts for Commando comics and articles for War History Online.

But there’s a bit of a problem with historical film-making. A lot of the time, it covers stories people already know well. Like superhero remakes, those stories are safer box office options, as the studios know that people will be interested. It’s great that we had a movie about Dunkirk, but that’s an incident that’s already gone down in legend. What about the important stories we forget?

That’s why I’m excited about a couple of upcoming films.

First, there’s Hurricane, the story of Polish pilots flying for the RAF during the Second World War. It’s a reminder that no nation ever stands alone, and therefore important to busting some jingoistic myths. Even without that, I’d want to see the story of men who crossed a continent to keep fighting against the Nazis, who faced prejudice and confusion in a strange land, and who were part of one of history’s greatest conflicts.

The second trailer makes it look a lot better than the first one did, which is a relief. Plus it’s got Iwan Rheon, who was fantastic in Misfits and Game of Thrones.

Then there’s Peterloo, an incredibly timely piece of film-making from Mike Leigh. It’s about the Peterloo Massacre of  1819, in which peaceful protestors were attacked and killed in Manchester.

The Peterloo Massacre has incredible symbolic importance as a reminder of the power of protest and how the powerful treat dissent. It highlights the connections between social, political, and economic factors in reinforcing existing power structures. And sadly most people aren’t aware of it even in the UK. At a time of growing inequality, protest, and political turmoil, it’s a story we could all do with learning again.

Historical films have power. They keep the past alive in our imaginations and so help us understand the present. I can’t wait to see these less familiar stories on the big screen.

Painting Doom – a flash fantasy story

Thomas drew his brush across the wall, leaving a curve of thick red paint. He filled out the space beneath the curve, then added the white points of teeth and the black barbs of a pitchfork. Another demon emerged on the wall, ushering the pale images of sinners into the flames.

Thomas shook his head. Doomsday paintings were so much of his work. Every noble wanted one in their house. But just painting them filled him with dread, driven by the certainty that he would be judged and found wanting.

He mixed more paint on his palette and turned back to the wall. The paint had clearly run, as the new demon’s fork was pointing at a different sinner, and another of the beasts had approached the flames on pigment wings.

Disconcerted, Thomas took a step back. The composition would still work if he added another demon between these two. He brought his reddened brush to the wall.

The demon with the pitchfork tipped its head back.

Thomas screamed and dropped the palette. Precious paint-spattered the flagstones.

The demon grinned. Its companion flexed its wings and started pulling away from the wall, struggling against a sticky mass of paint.

“It’s a dream,” Thomas exclaimed.

He raised a trembling hand and slapped himself across the face. He did it again, but still, reality didn’t return.

“No dream,” the demons hissed as one. “You have given us life.”

“Then I can take it away!”

Thomas grabbed another brush and smeared streaks of white across both fiends, slapping it on over and over. At last, he stood, panting and staring at a pale blank space.

“Not so easy,” the demon voices croaked.

Red hands appeared, then heads, then torsos. The demons emerged like swimmers from a lake.

“We are still here, whatever you paint over us,” they said. “You made us real.”

Thomas gaped in horror. How had he done this?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he could do it. He picked up the black brush and painted a cage over the demons. Bars, floor, roof, hinged and locked door. Red wings batted against the sides in frustration.

“Ha! Thomas said. “Got you.”

“Perhaps,” the wingless demon said, grinning. “Or perhaps…”

It thrust its pitchfork between the floor and bottom of the door. There was a grinding noise as the prongs slid through the slim space. Then it flexed its muscles and heaved. Levered by the pitchfork, the door lifted off its hinges and fell to the floor.

The demons stepped out.

“It’s not fair,” Thomas wailed. “Why couldn’t this have happened when I was painting a landscape or a tavern sign?”

“Where is the power in those things?” the demons said. “Only we would do.”

“What do you want from me?”

The demons grinned.

“Just keep painting,” they said. “Let the fires roar and our kindred emerge to judge the world.”

Thomas trembled in terror. But then he realised, he didn’t have to face them. He turned to run.

With a wet flapping sound, the winged beast burst off the wall, swept around, and hovered in front of him, teeth bared, claws gleaming.

“Really?” it said, cackling. “You think you can flee us?”

“No,” Thomas whispered.

Brush in hand, he turned back to the wall. At least while he did as they asked, they would not drag him down to Hell. And he could paint demons for a very long time.

* * *

 

People in Medieval England were very aware that, according to their Christian faith, they would soon face Doomsday. When fear of Hell is a big part of your moral motivation, life can get pretty terrifying. Especially given the tendency of clergy and nobles to commission paintings of that coming day.

Thanks to Laura for sending me the postcard that inspired this story. If you enjoyed it, then you might want to sign up for my mailing list. You’ll get a flash story to your inbox every Friday, as well as news about my book and comic releases.

Protecting the Prize – a flash historical story

Girish tensed as the white man walked into his shop, followed by a pair of labourers in worn, dusty clothes. It was days since the siege had ended and Delhi had supposedly returned to peace. But could it be called peace when the looting continued, accompanied byviolence against those who tried to cling to what was theirs?

“You speak English?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir.” Girish replied, keeping his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. He could not have run a successful jewellery business if he didn’t have the words to haggle with Europeans.

“I’m working for the prize agent.” The Englishman didn’t offer a name or ask for one in return, just walked into the middle of the shop and looked around. He looked over-dressed for the heat in his tailcoat and cravat, and his expression was stern.

Nodding, Girish took a step back to stand against the wall. He had heard of the prize agent, the man responsible for the plundering of his city. Merely mentioning him sent a shudder through any honest citizen. But their city was not run by honest citizens anymore.

“You can see my wares,” Girish said, pointing to a table by the window.

The Englishman picked up one of the necklaces on the table.

“Cheap paste gems and painted tin,” he said, throwing it back down in disgust. Coloured plaster cracked and fell from one of the gems. “I’m after the real thing.”

“That is all I have,” Girish said, pressing back against the wall, as far from the man as he could get.

“Nonsense.” The agent began a methodical examination of the room, tapping at walls and peering at floorboards. “You all have your hiding places, and I will find them.”

When he looked up, his gaze made Girish tremble.

“Too easy.” The Englishman grabbed Girish and shoved him aside. He peered at the plaster of the wall, then took out a knife and started scraping it away.

“Fresh plaster,” the Englishman continued, as Girish steadied himself against the table. “And look…”

A chunk of plaster fell away, revealing the brickwork and a gap in its midst. The Englishman drew a box from the gap, opened its lid, and sneered at the contents.

“All that for this?” he said. “A few cheap stones and a handful of coins. Pathetic.”

“Please,” Girish said, sinking to his knees. “I have a family. I need that money to feed them.”

“You should have thought of that before you rebelled.”

“I didn’t! I just live here.”

“Only traitors stay in a traitor city. Just be glad we didn’t burn you all to the ground.”

One of the labourers opened a sack and the Englishman tossed the box inside. It rattled against the rest of his looted wealth.

As he headed for the door, the Englishman stopped and peered at the cracked plaster jewels on the table. A fresh wave of tension gripped Girish. He had come so close. Would things fall apart now?

“Pathetic,” the Englishman said, the word almost a snort. Then he walked out, taking his followers with him.

Every muscle in Girish went limp with relief. He sagged against the table and recovered his strength while he waited to be sure they were gone. Then he picked up the necklace the man had examined. Beneath the cracked plaster of a large fake jewel, a real gem was visible. Such a simple trick, and the Englishman had completely fallen for it.

“Pathetic,” Girish said.

* * *

 

Prize agents and their employees were a real part of military history for hundreds of years. They helped soldiers to sell their loot and organized the partitioning of wealth taken by armies. Following the siege of Delhi in 1857, they were responsible for systematically robbing the city’s citizens and dividing the profits among the British. As often happens in war, innocent civilians suffered to make a point, despite the extraordinary lengths some went to to hide their wealth.

I recently read an account written by one of these agents, talking about his actions in Delhi. Completely oblivious to the hardship he had inflicted, he talked indignantly about how little profit he had made and how people wrongly thought he’d come out wealthy. It was an extraordinary example of someone with little perspective on his privileged position and harmful actions. Thanks to Tamlan for showing it to me.

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History, Emotion, and the Unwomanly Face of War

Human life is driven by emotion. Yet most history books show little feeling, focusing on facts over experiences. This is particularly true of military history, despite the intense emotions war evokes, from the exhilaration of combat to the depths of grief.

The Unwomanly Face of War breaks this pattern in extraordinary style.

A Powerful Read

The Unwomanly Face of War was researched and written by journalist Svetlana Alexievich. It details the experience of women serving in the Soviet armed forces during the Second World War. When it was first published in 1985, it was a groundbreaking work, revealing a side of the war that fitted poorly with the USSR’s official accounts. Extraordinarily, despite its huge significance and international impact, it only appeared in English last year, translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky.

Most of the book is filled with veterans’ own accounts of the war. These provide powerful testimonies to the experiences of these soldiers, sailors, pilots, and support staff. Their struggles, their traumas, their losses, their fleeting moments of joy, all are laid bare on the page. From saving lives by leaping upon burning tanks to losing a baby while hiding in a swamp, both the details and the way they are presented catch at the heart in a way that most military history doesn’t.

In this book, we read the human experience of war in a way seldom seen elsewhere.

The Author’s Shadow

Like any history book, this isn’t a simple presentation of facts, but their careful cultivation to prove a point. Alexievich is open about this, making her role explicit throughout. She describes finding and meeting these women, talking with them, and making difficult decisions about what to include.

Making the audience aware of the author can often create a sense of distance. In this case, it brings us closer to the story. Alexievich describes her own reactions and those of the women to being asked about their lives. The way the war still affects them decades later adds to the power of what these veterans have to say.

Another Side of Humanity

This book is important because it shows the underrepresented role of women in fighting the Second World War. It explores the extra challenges they faced and the way the war transformed their lives. It pays tribute to their courage, skill, and tenacity.

In doing so, it reveals how incomplete our view of military history is. These women struggle to express their stories, for a range of social, political, and personal reasons. Yet they are able to reveal aspects of war that few men could discuss, indoctrinated as we are to bury our feelings and hide our weaknesses. I have read dozens, probably hundreds of books based on men’s accounts of war, and never felt like I had a complete view of it as a human experience. The Unwomanly Face of War fills an important gap in that picture.

Reading these stories, it feels like an act of madness to have ignored them for so long. But perhaps that ignorance was protective, a way of hiding ourselves from the traumatic reality of conflict. Never having been a combatant, I’ll never truly know, and I’m grateful for that. But I’m also grateful to Svetlana Alexievich for revealing to me another face of war.

Good Bye Lenin and the Nature of History

On the surface, the 2003 film Good Bye, Lenin! seems like a simple piece of absurdity. During the late days of the Cold War, East German Christiane falls into a coma, only to awake after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Her son Alex, believing that the shock of the fall of communism will kill her, decides to hide the truth. He creates a fiction around her, an imaginary Germany in which communism has triumphed. To protect his mother, he reinvents history. So far, so ridiculous.

But as I watched the film, I was struck by the commentary this offers on real history. History isn’t a straightforward view of reality. It’s something we create with a purpose. Part of that purpose is to understand the past, but we usually have other motives too. Whether we’re seeking entertainment, making a political argument, or trying to keep mum from slipping back into a coma, our reasons for exploring history give it form. Most of the time, we don’t deliberately try to deceive, but our motives and interests filter what we see. If you want to be entertained, you see the action and daring of war, not the civilian casualties. If you want to prove that Britain is a standalone powerhouse, you see the British RAF and not the Eastern European pilots who were part of its squadrons in the Second World War.

Like Alex, we create a history that suits us.

Sure, some people are more blatant about this than others. The way Donald Trump constantly reinvents the recent past, starkly filtering out his own inconvenient statements, is particularly glaring.  But there’s a spectrum of behaviour here, from Alex’s deliberate deception to Trump’s narcissistic denial to more mundane bias.

I know I bang on about this a lot, but history isn’t a window into the past. It’s our relationship with it. Like Alex, we can go to extraordinary lengths to see the past we want to see. But unlike him, we’re seldom aware of the deceptions we create. And sometimes, other people’s deceptions catch up with us.

Try to remember that, next time you cite history to make a point. How far has your purpose shaped what you’re seeing? And what have you left out in the rush to see a history that suits you?

Hunting Vampires and Riding Elephants

I recently took a trip to the Royal Armouries in Leeds. It turns out that they have more than historical weapons…

Jousters practising for an international tournament. People were coming from Australia to knock each other off horses. Got to love that level of enthusiasm for history.
For when a horse isn’t badass enough.
Things start getting weird. This museum has a vampire slaying kit.
They’re also ready to fight aliens.

Blood on the Beach – a flash historical story

By Archives New Zealand from New Zealand – Landing at Gallipoli, CC BY-SA 2.0

We pulled hard at the oars, twenty of us rowing in unison, pushing our boat as fast as we could towards the shore. We wanted to be off the water and on dry ground, where we could fire back at the Turks on the cliffs. But more than that, we were excited to join the fight. The Great War had come, and we were keen to play our part.

With a crunch and a lurch, the boat hit ground. We let go of the oars and grabbed our rifles, leaping out into the shallows. Water filled my boots and soaked me to the thighs.

Billy grinned as he leapt into the water beside me.

“Last one up the beach digs the latrines!” he shouted before heading off at a run.

I followed eagerly, just as I’d followed him into schoolyard skirmishes and into the recruiting station when war came. We’d been lucky, just old enough to sign up. Now here we were, ready to stick it to the Turks.

Our captain stumbled as he climbed out of the boat. Blood streamed from his arm and his gaze was caught on a body bobbing in the surf beside him. My stomach churned but I forced the bile back and raced on up the sand.

Billy halfway up the beach when he suddenly spun around. I thought for a moment that he’d turned to urge me on. Then I saw the stain on his chest and the shock on his face. He fell sideways in the dirt.

I rushed towards him, a scream bursting from my lungs. All around, men were dropping like flies – some dead, others scrabbling in the dirt to dig a safe place. More bullets tore through Billy’s body and the sand beneath. I dropped to the ground and pressed a hand against his wound, but it was too late.

As I stared into my friend’s lifeless eyes, the guns thundered all around.

#

“Private Hughes, isn’t it?”

Captain Arundell approached along the sandy trench. He was the third commander we’d had since the landings. At least this one had the sense to keep his head down.

“Yes, sir,” I said, delivering a weary salute.

“I’m looking for volunteers for a raid on the Turkish lines,” he said. “They say that you’re a tough one, a survivor. I thought you might be a good choice.”

I snorted. “I’m a survivor because I don’t volunteer, captain. There’s nothing here worth sticking my head above the trench line for.”

“I have men who are keen to go,” Arundell said. “But they’re all new and inexperienced. Without some veterans to round out the team, they might not make it back.”

“Then good luck to them,” I said.

Arundell looked at me. We both knew he could order me to join. We both knew how well the rest of the men would view that sort of treatment, given what we’d already been through.

He turned and headed away down the trench.

#

I watched as the corpsmen carried Jones’s body off on a stretcher. He’d survived the landings and months on the beaches, only to succumb to a fever. He wasn’t the only one. Between disease and shelling, our safe positions felt more and more like a death trap.

I huddled against the wall of the trench and prayed for deliverance.

A private from the next platoon scurried along the trench. He paused as he reached me.

“Have you heard?” he said. “We’re leaving.”

I stared at him, hardly daring to believe.

“When?” I asked.

“After Christmas. They’re taking the ANZACs out first, then us.”

His smile was so wide, his face still fresh and innocent, it reminded me of Billy. I felt a moment of warm nostalgia, then one of nausea as I remembered him lying bleeding on the sand.

“Major Arundell’s looking for volunteers for the rear guard,” he continued. “We’re going to make sure the rest of you get out safely.”

My stomach sank at the thought of leaving this kid to face the Turks. But what could I do? My prayers had been answered. We were getting out at last.

#

The air stank of blood, cordite, and loose bowels. Even in the darkness of the night, I could make out the piles of bodies beyond our shell-shattered trenches, the remains of the last great Turkish assault.

I finished setting my rifle in place, rigged up with a tangle of strings and slowly leaking cans. It was a messy device, but a functional one. It would pull the trigger at odd intervals after I was gone, creating the illusion that a soldier was still here. At least, that was the theory.

The Turks had to know that we, the last few men standing, were about to leave. That was why they had launched the attack, to beat us while we were alone, before we could make our escape. And it was why we were still doing every last thing we could. Even if it only bought seconds, this still gave us a better chance of survival.

“Good work,” Major Arundell whispered, patting me on the shoulder. He pointed down the beach to where the boats were waiting. “Now let’s get out of here.”

As we grabbed the oars and set to rowing, I looked back at the cliffs of Gallipoli. I’d never been so glad to leave any place on Earth.

And I’d never been so glad to be alive.

* * *

 

I have a comic out!

“To Win Just Once” is a Commando comic, released yesterday in print and through Comixology. It’s about the experience of New Zealanders in the First World War. It deals with events on the Western Front, but references the Gallipoli campaign, and so this story is meant as a matching piece, showing what that campaign was like. If you want to read more about Gallipoli you could start with this article I wrote for War History Online.

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