Our book today is Max Hasting’s smashingly good 2004 Armageddon: The Battle for Germany – 1944-1945, a fat, heavily-detailed account of the final months of World War II in Western Europe, the fitful and protracted mopping-up about which Winston Churchill said in February of 1945, “Tonight the sun goes down on more suffering than ever before in the world.”
One of the many, many strengths of Hastings’ pitiless book is its willingness to assign a chunk of that suffering to Churchill himself, who insisted on continuing the savage, comprehensive carpet-bombing of German cities long after they posed any strategic or logistical threat to anybody. But there’s plenty of blame to go around here, from the German populace displaying itself every bit as callous and jingoistic in defeat as it had been in victory to the remorseless Red Army troops raping and pillaging their way across Eastern Europe in a whirlwind of destruction the other Allies disgracefully allowed to the British and American troops slogging their way deeper and deeper into the German heartland, increasingly concentrating on all the wrong things:
A contemporary British report identified three causes for sluggish forward movement: enemy resistance, difficulty of supply and repair; and “the desire of soldiers to enjoy ‘the fruits of victory.'” Bing, one of 13 Para’s Alsatian dogs which had jumped at the Rhine in special harnesses, disappeared one morning and was found hopelessly drunk in a German wine cellar. Loot had become the chief preoccupation of some men. “Did he have a Luger? Did he have a Luger?” a captain in Private Charles Felix’s battalion demanded, almost jumping up and down with excitement, when he heard that his men had captured a German officer.
Hastings is one of our best living military historians, and the Second World War is his speciality. He delves in primary sources like few historians of any period, always in search of the telling human details that make his writing so dramatic:
When front-line soldiers escaped from imminent peril for a few hours, their desires were usually pathetically simple. Soldiers talk much about women, but on the battlefield their private cravings were seldom sexual. A British officer described his men’s priorities as “char, wad, flick and kip” – tea, food, a movie, and sleep.
This is necessarily a brutal story. The Third Reich was in ruins by this point, and the German army was split between swaths of surrender and many hard chunks of desperate, last-man fighting after all hope was lost. It’s to this period that the famous confrontations at Arnhem and the Hurtgen Forest belong, as well as what Hastings refers to as an “American Epic,” the Battle of the Bulge. As the net inexorably tightened on Germany, it caught more and more civilians; Hastings’ book, almost always supremely uneasy reading, is full of women who are clearly outrageously traumatized (at one point a British officer exasperatedly tries to explain to a bawling German housewife that her misery was only a small fraction of the misery her nation had visited on countless others, but he soon gives up). And it’s full of children who’ve been blasted completely out of childhood:
A British tank officer glimpsed some tiny figures beside a wood half a mile away, from which a German half-track had just emerged. He fired a few rounds of high explosives from his gun, then followed up with a long burst of Bess machine-gun fire. Trees caught fire. He saw survivors start to move across the tanks, hands held high. “To my horror, they were civilians,” wrote William Steel-Brownlie, “followed by a horse and cart on which were piled all kinds of household goods. They were children, a boy and a girl, holding hands and running as hard as they could over the rough ploughed earth. They came right up to the tank, looked up at me, and the small boy said in English, ‘You have killed my father.’ There was nothing I could say.”
In addition to being superbly talented, Hastings is also prolific – a happy combination that isn’t as common as it once was – and Armageddon is one of his best books. A hard, horrifying book, but a great one.
As many of you know, this is the category closest to my reading heart. I try to read actively along a broad range of subjects (there are some books on this list that surprised me by ending up here), but my deepest loves are history and biography, and 2011 was an exceptionally strong year for both – so much so that, unlike most years, picking only ten was a torturous process (hence the swollen size of the Stevereads Honor Roll). There are thin years and fat years, in publishing as in all else, and 2011 was a very fat year.
10. The Selected Canterbury Tales (Norton) – We’ll prefer to call this edition of Chaucer’s book ‘nonfiction’ because it never comes to us ab ovo anymore but rather encrusted in decidedly non-fictional critical afflatus. And the critical apparatus here is elegant and eye-opening (as, indeed, is the book’s cover, the best Chaucer cover I’ve ever seen): Professor Sheila Fisher has given us a ‘selection’ from the poem, a selection far meatier and more enjoyable than many un-shortened versions. With its lightly-worn erudition, its extremely judicious adaptations of some of Chaucer’s indigestible bits, and especially in its barely-suppressed grin of very Chaucerian amusement, this edition rather handily beats out the half-dozen new translations and adaptations that have appeared in the last five years. To adapt the old ad-speak slogan: if you only buy one version of Chaucer any time soon, make it this one.
9. Under the Sun (the letters of Bruce Chatwin) – This big, well-annotated (I found only one gaffe) compilation of Bruce Chatwin’s chatty, urbane, unfailingly substantial letters is that rarest of epistolary conglomerations: a volume that can be read sequentially like a novel, with mounting pleasure (that enormous volume of Kingsley Amis’ letters from a few years ago was the same way – alas, pre-Stevereads!). And it’s a Bruce Chatwin-centric production from first to last, full of incredibly learned asides, dipsy speculation, an the most wonderful collection of boldfaced lies this side of The Book of Mormon. Although he vigorously denied it, Chatwin always intended to live on through his letters (there was nothing more insincere in the whole universe than his hastily-appended ‘burn this’), and this pleasingly fat volume will certainly aid in that endeavor.
8. The Information by James Gleick – Another unlikely entrant, James Gleick (author of the incomprehensible gobbledegook that was Chaos) has written a new book that is a natural history of this baggy, vast second world mankind has been generating since the stone tablets of Sumeria, ‘the information,’ a sprawling other country to which this book is a trotting Baedeker. How we generate it, how we store it, how we use it – and also how it changes on its own, while we’re not looking. Ordinarily, such technical mumbo-jumbo would have me hitting ‘delete,’ but when Gleick writes that ‘Not all information is knowledge, and not all knowledge is wisdom,’ he utterly wins me over. The Information will be by far the most important … thing of the 21st century, and this book is its best herald. I hope it approves.
7. George F. Kennan: An American Life by John Lewis Gaddis – The long-suffering author of this book agreed to wait until his subject, fraidy-cat cold warrior George F. Kennan, died – which Kennan finally did in 2005, aged 237, the last surviving signer of the Declaration of Independence (which he called “a potentially inadvisable step”). Gaddis does a superb job fleshing out the man who sculpted so much of the 20th century’s political landscape and then spent the last 157 years of his life trying every trick in his Walter Mitty little imagination to keep the spotlight on himself without looking like that was what he was doing (mostly by disagreeing with everything said or done by anybody in the entire world, and by maintaining that nobody understood him). Gaddis deals evenly with this low-boil egomania, and the warts-and-all portrait that results is one for the ages – ages which will be unknowingly forever in Kennan’s debt (and, at last, spared his Eeyore presence on the sidelines).
6. Inferno by Max Hastings – Hastings takes 800 pages to achieve the damn near impossible: an indispensable one-volume history of the most-chronicled war in human history. Inferno is always taut, takes nothing for granted, keeps the pages turning every bit as though its readers didn’t know how it all turns out. New angles and insights are generated on even the most shopworn subjects, and the narrative strikes the perfect balance between clinical and compassionate. No serious reader of history – especially those who, like me, think there’s nothing new under this particular sun – should miss this magisterial tome.
5. Britain After Rome by Robin Fleming – Post-apocalyptic writing is far from being the sole property of science fiction – the lessons gain weight from living history. In Fleming’s intense, cinematic rendering, we see the first full-blown apocalypse of the West – the departure of Roman forces from the imperial outpost of Great Britain in the fourth century. Fleming’s portrait shows an incredibly resilient group of societies left to fend for themselves against the quick-witted barbarians who are always waiting at the periphery of any power’s fall. These little kingdoms are forced to re-invent themselves, and the author tells the story with great attention to detail, great humor, and a sure-footed synthesis of all the new findings that keep turning up in British fields.
4. The Hemlock Cup by Bettany Hughes – It’s been over 20 years since I. F. Stone’s best-selling The Trial of Socrates, and it at last has a worthy successor – and a narrative superior – in Bettany Hughes’ engrossing study of the famously contrarian 4th-century philosopher and the Athenian polity that eventually consigned him to death. Hughes breathes new life into all the well-worn details of Socrates’ life, trial, and death, so even readers familiar with it all will find themselves rapt with attention, no matter which side of the great ‘did-he-deserve-it’ debate they find themselves on.
3. 1812: The Navy’s War by George Daughan – The author tackles his still-too-neglected subject with an unflagging enthusiasm, focusing on the fledgling U.S. Navy’s efforts, outnumbered and out-gunned, to wage the new nation’s war against the greatest naval power on the face of the Earth. Daughan is a master of evocative set-pieces (no history buff will want to miss his account of the Constitution v.s the Java, which actually manages to out-do the fictional version in Patrick O’Brian’s The Fortunes of War), thrilling battle-narratives, and pithy exposition, but he’s also adept at the broader scene-setting so many accounts of the this war either lack or overdo. This volume supercedes all other accounts of the War of 1812, even, I’m melancholy to observe, Pierre Berton’s great two-volume work from a few decades ago, and it’s the single best work of history I read all year.
2. Worm by Mark Bowden – The subject of this lively, fascinating story, the incredibly insidious Conficker computer virus, is almost certainly present in whatever device you’re using to read these words – and in all your other networked devices (or in devices you’ve even once connected to a network, like your printer), just sitting there, interfering with nothing, self-propagating like crazy, occasionally sending out quick signals to its Dark Overlord, telling that person where in the world it’s physically located. Bowden deploys his entire grab-bag of nonfiction-specialist tricks in order to craft a fast-paced, gripping story about the likely origins of this super-virus, and the intrepid band of petty, nerdy, back-biting, non-hygienic, arrogant, utterly insufferable computer-experts who dub themselves ‘the X-Men,’ vow to stop the Conficker, and then proceed to spat with each other, issue grandiose public announcements every time they turn around, and do precious little to stop the Conficker. Indeed, this may be the very first potential major-level public threat that was ignored specifically because of how God-damn annoying its watchdogs were, and Bowden tells the whole story with surgical skill. I haven’t read a book this horrifying since Mattie Stepanek’s Heartsongs.
1. The View from Lazy Point by Carl Safina – The genre of nature-writing is particularly embattled in shthe 21st century, especially in the United States, still reeling from eight years of President George W. Bush’s unrelenting legislative hatred of the environment. All the more remarkable, then, that Carl Safina, author of the gorgeous Song for the Blue Ocean, should produce a work as personal, as heartfelt, and as ultimately full of hope as The View from Lazy Point, which instantly joins such classics as Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and The House on Nauset Marsh on the shelf of the best, most evocative, and least delusional hymnals of nature, itself embattled by a choking tide of plastic and waste. Safina’s Lazy Point isn’t some far Erewhon where it’s still possible to see an egret – it’s only a few miles from New York City, which makes the wonders he captures that much more meaningful. No nature-walker should miss this great book, the Stevereads Best Nonfiction Book of 2011.