There's a new exclusive interview with David McCullough that give's an inside look into his thoughts on the Revolutionary War. Check it out here.

Here is the book run-down:

In 1776, David McCullough's bestselling account of a pivotal year in our nation's struggle, readers learned of the greatest defeats, providential fortune, and courageous triumphs of George Washington and his bedraggled army. Now, in 1776: The Illustrated Edition, the efforts of the Continental Army are made even more personal, as an excerpted version of the original book is paired with letters, maps, and seminal artwork. More than three dozen source documents -- including a personal letter George Washington penned to Martha about his commission, a note informing the mother of a Continental soldier that her son has been taken prisoner, and a petition signed by Loyalists pledging their allegiance to the King -- are re-created in uniquely designed envelopes throughout the book and secured with the congressional seal.

Lieutenant St. Vincent Halfhyde is a late-19th-century British naval officer with a sharp tongue, a quick mind, and a very low tolerance for fools (regardless of rank). He occasionally exasperates superior offficers who like him, and routinely enrages those who don't. He's the sort of person who's indispensible in time of war, but a square peg in the round holes of the peacetime navy. Even in peacetime, however, there are threats to Britain's security that are best met by an officer of Halfhyde's unique credentials. McCutchan wrote 15-odd books about Halfhyde, of which this is the third (and the first that I've read).

Philip McCutchan was a competent, though not gifted, storyteller. The plot of "Halfhyde and the Guns of Arrest" (involving Halfhyde's pursuit of a British traitor who has stolen top-secret naval documents and intends to turn them over to Germany) is involving without being thrilling, and most of the supporting characters are straight from central casting: the eager young midshipman, the prissy executive officer, the sneering German captain, and so on. The middle section of the book takes place in Africa, but the setting seems curiously underdeveloped. The story's principal strengths are Halfhyde himself, first-rate scenes of action at sea, and a climax that generates considerable suspense before wrapping the plot up in an unexpected and extremely satisfying (if not altogether plausible) way.

Naval history enthusiasts are likely to be fascinated (as I was) by McCutchan's evocation of the late Victorian navy. The 1775-1815 and 1939-1945 eras are well represented in naval fiction, as are the present day and the near future. The Halfhyde stories are virtually the only naval adventures set in the decades around 1900, when coal-fired, steam-driven steel battleships ruled the waves, torpedo boats were new, and the diesel-electric submarine was still on the drawing board. McCutchan superbly captures the technology and the social fabric of the late Victorian era, from the dirty business of "coaling ship" to the art of taking a steam-driven launch through heavy surf to the formality of even casual conversations between officers.

The chronologically exotic setting is, for me, unusual enough and well-handled enough to be worth an extra star in the rating . . . but I've always been fascinated by the steam-and-coal era of naval history. If your taste in naval adventure runs more to Jack Aubrey, Horatio Hornblower, and the rest of the wood-and-canvas gang, you may want to adjust accordingly.

Aggie Cotter grew up in a world where birds meant everything. There's an entire Table of Significance about them in fact. And she has it memorized. You see, in Aggie's world, the Almighty is the Eagle. There are Birds of Light and Birds of Night, and one must carry protection against the latter, so as not to risk harm to one's soul.

There is a story of a people called the avia--people who were not content with their lot, who longed to sore with the birds, to leave the earth behind for the sky. It's said they were punished by Eagle, their souls bonded with the bird form, allowing them no rest as they would never truly be bird or human again.

Aggie's life, as it happens, is entirely wrapped up in these ideas. More so than even she knows.

When it comes time for her schooling to end, and her working years to begin, Aggie fears she will waste away as a spinner. So when Silas Seed comes to the village and offers her a job at the mysterious Murkmere, the estate at which her mother worked so long ago, Aggie excepts, albeit apprehensively. Her Aunt Jennet, who raised Aggie from the time she lost her parents, doesn't want her to go, but allows it.

At the gates of the estate, Aggie begins to lose her nerve. When the gates are opened for her by none other than the handsome Silas himself, she finds she can't bring herself to walk in. The Rooks nesting near the house speak to her of doom. Until Silas reminds her that Rooks nesting near a house actually signify good luck. She shakes her head at the contradictions of The Table of Significance, clutches her amber, and enters.

Once inside the manor itself, it becomes clear to Aggie immediately that life here shall be no easy, or even enjoyable, thing. Mistress Crumplin takes an apparent dislike to her, as do most of the rest of the staff, only the little girl Scuff even bothering to talk to her. Worse still, her first encounter with Miss Leah, whom she is to be companion to, consists of Leah telling her to pack her things and go.

Leah loses her battle with the Master on this point, as it was he who hired Aggie in the first place. But it will be a long time before she truly warms to her companion. At best, she will tolerate her.

Similarly, it is a long while before Aggie earns any kind of respect from her fellow workers. It takes much less time for her to lose her respect for Silas Seed, who is not at all who he first seems.

Hoping to escape life at Murkmere, Aggie plans to run away during a trip to the village to fetch the Sweep to clean a chimney blocked with a Rooks' nest. (The staff are afraid to touch it.) Her plan is foiled on many levels. The Militia are in the Village. Only her employment at Murkmere (the Master is a member of the Ministration) saves her from questioning and capture. Worse still, her aunt has been arrested for stealing. The soldiers found forbidden books bearing the Murkmere crest hidden in her cottage.

Again using her employment status to her advantage, Aggie manages to see her Aunt and question her about the books. Which is when she learns the truth of her mother's story, and of Leah's as well. Knowing what she now does, she realizes she can't abandon Leah. In addition, the Master is her only hope of rescuing her aunt.

Her return brings joy to some at the manor, and much anger to the Master, who wasn't told of the militia's presence. He does send Silas for the Captain though, to free her aunt.

From then on, life at Murkmere becomes more and more treacherous. She has a falling-out with Leah, after they had grown so close. She knows Silas can't be trusted, and yet the Master does trust him, with everything in fact. Not knowing what she can do to change things, Aggie lives day to day, hoping to repair the bonds she's broken, and somehow find a way to set things right.

It all comes to a head at Leah's coming of age. In her honor, a ball is thrown. The ministration is invited. Plots unfold.

_________

I'm not sure how I missed this one in my fantasy readings. I remember picking it up a couple of times, but I never brought it home. Then while I was perusing our new Teen holdings a couple weeks ago I picked up Ambergate, which is the sequel, and brought them both home. It was definitely worth it.

The idea of a religion based on bird is intriguing. And watching Aggie struggle with her upbringing versus new knowledge she gains at Murkmere is reminiscent of the entire human struggle for meaning.

Highly recommended.

Novelists who specialize in stories about naval combat in long-ago wars are thick on the ground, and those who specialize in battles on land are nearly as common. Historical novels about aerial warfare tend, by contrast, to be one-off efforts. Martin Caidin, Len Deighton, Jack Higgins, Elleston Trevor, and John Harris have all done good ones, but none of them have made a career of it. The lone exception is Spencer Dunmore, a Canadian who’s built a literary career on realistic stories about combat flying in WWII Europe (“Means of Escape,” “Bomb Run,” “Ace”) with occasional forays into present-day aviation (“Collision,” “The Sound of Wings”).

“Squadron” is something a bit different: not only for Dunmore but for the historical military fiction genre in general. It’s not a novel but a collection of short stories about the members of a single (unnamed) Royal Air Force heavy bomber squadron operating out of a base in Yorkshire some time in 1943. Each of the stories is complete in itself, but major characters from one frequently turn up as minor characters (or passing references) in another. A final chapter, more an epilogue than a fully formed story, brings a number of the characters together at a squadron reunion several years after the war. The cumulative effect is something more unified than a short story collection but less unified than a traditional novel. There is no overarching “plot” beyond the characters efforts to get the job done and live to tell about it, but the end of the book brings a satisfying sense of completeness nevertheless.

The individual stories are named after their characters’ roles in the squadron or in their individual crews: “The Bomb-Aimer,” “The Rear Gunner,” “The Adjutant,” and so on. Many include combat scenes, but what happens in combat is rarely the point of the story. Dunmore focuses, far more often, on the characters and how they respond to a “job” that stands an excellent chance of killing them before they complete it. Flying, according to an old joke, is “hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror,” and for RAF bomber crews the effect was multiplied several times over. One of the book’s strengths is the way it brings that home, and illustrates it’s corrosive effects on the men’s sanity.

The plots of the individual stories are generally straightforward . . . right up to what is frequently a twist ending. A few of the endings work brilliantly, including a deftly handled updating of Ambrose Bierce’s “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.” Too many, however, come across as obvious, contrived, and unnecessary . . . cheap gold paint slapped onto a modest but well-crafted statue. It’s a shame, in many cases, because Dunmore takes considerable care to set up his situations and his characters.

The characters aren’t plaster saints, by any means. They drink, they swear, they chase women, they sometimes treat their comrades in less than charitable ways . . . and they make mistakes, sometimes catastrophic ones. “Squadron” is far from a conscious exercise in debunking, like Derek Robinson’s novel “Piece of Cake,” about RAF fighter pilots, but it’s also far from the hagiography of (say) Stephen Ambrose’s non-fictional “The Wild Blue.” I found myself thinking about Kipling’s description of another generation of British fighting men as “single men in barracks, most remarkable’ like you.”

“Twelve o’ Clock High” was published in the late 1940s and has been, for decades, the classic novel about American bomber crews. “Squadron” isn’t quite in that league, but it’s close enough to be worth the attention of anyone interested in high quality WWII fiction.