An action-packed spy hunt set in the Second World War at the start of the Battle of France, this book barely takes a breath. The premise is interesting, but if you know anything about history, you know the protagonist is never going to succeed in his ultimate goal of stopping the Fall of France.
Tennyson Drake is a lieutenant in the British Army. At the start of the book, he's on a covert mission with his captain and 14 other men, but very quickly, that small force is reduced to just Drake and his grizzled Scottish sergeant, McTaggart, a lifelong professional soldier and a veteran of the Great War. Honestly, these two are made of Teflon. Completely indestructible, no matter what happens to them. And a lot happens to them. They run through multiple fields of crossfire, escape countless bombs, and more.
The spy mystery is a bit meh, and the story gets a bit Boy's Own. There's too much description of the same thing over and over. When Drake opens a throttle on a motorbike, he opens it wide. And then he opens it wider. And then he opens it wider. Rinse, repeat. If he puts his foot to the floor in a car, a paragraph later, he's pushing it further to the floor, and then further to the floor. It's a wonder his boot wasn't on the road. It's the same with the bullets and the bombs. This book could have been much tighter without all the repetition. And the number of times McTaggart is "a marvel" is the true marvel.
Drake is all right as a character, but he's a little too perfect. There isn't anything he can't do. Disdained at first by McTaggart as a 'schoolie', a schoolmaster for the troops, he seems to be the ultimate soldier, which seems odd when an old hand like McTaggart didn't clock that. He speaks French and German. He's a dab hand at advanced navigation techniques despite never having been trained. The list goes on and on. He doesn't need sleep, barely needs food; the man's an automaton. That, along with his talent for evading every bullet and bomb thrown his way, requires some suspension of disbelief.
I may well read the next book, but not quite yet. I need a break from the breathless pace and repeated descriptions of zipping bullets, crunching shells and whistling bombs.