This week I've been buried in Flight to Arras, a book so good it was banned in France and helped swing America behind an unpopular war. It's a terse read, one hundred and thirty pages with barely a wasted word, recording a futile mission over a burning town in an already defeated country.
We had reached the last days of May, 1940, a time of full retreat, of full disaster. Crew after crew was being offered up as a sacrifice. It was as if you dashed glassfuls of water into a forest fire in the hope of putting it out.
Read it here. Then buy the book anyway.