The mammoth tome Gallipoli by Les Carlyon is one of the most useful single-volume accounts of the campaign I have ever read. It is well researched without becoming unreadable, and it manages to tie together the political decisions, the operational failures, and the experience of the men on the ground. What makes it particularly effective is the way it uses letters and diaries to keep the narrative anchored in lived experience rather than drifting into abstraction.
The book opens with the strategic thinking behind the campaign, especially the role of Winston Churchill and the push to force the Dardanelles. Carlyon makes it clear that the idea was not irrational in itself, but it was built on weak assumptions and poor intelligence. There is a consistent thread of overconfidence and a failure to properly account for Ottoman capability, which runs through the planning from the beginning.
When he turns to the landings in April 1915, particularly at ANZAC Cove and Cape Helles, the narrative shifts quickly from plan to reality. The landings were confused, badly coordinated, and immediately contested. What had been intended as a decisive entry into the peninsula became a fight just to hold on. That transition from intention to improvisation is one of the key themes running through the book.
The sections on trench life are where Carlyon is at his strongest. He does not overstate things, but the cumulative effect is clear: heat, flies, disease, lack of water, and constant pressure. Movement is limited, and the strain builds over time. The campaign becomes less about manoeuvre and more about endurance, which is an important corrective to more simplified accounts of Gallipoli.
His treatment of command is consistently critical. There is a clear sense that senior leadership struggled to adapt, that coordination was poor, and that opportunities were missed or mishandled. This is most evident in the August fighting, particularly at Lone Pine and The Nek, where tactical bravery is obvious but ultimately wasted.
The evacuation at the end of the campaign stands in sharp contrast to everything that came before. Carlyon presents it as the one phase that was properly planned and executed, and it shows. It is efficient, controlled, and largely successful, which only reinforces the failures of the earlier stages.
Overall, the book works because it keeps the scale balanced. It does not lose sight of the broader strategic picture, but it never lets that override the experience of the soldiers. It is not a theoretical study of warfare, but it does make clear how poor assumptions, weak planning, and command failure can shape the outcome of a campaign. For understanding Gallipoli in a practical and human sense, it is hard to go past. a must for any one interested in the campaign.
Bob Wurth’s Australia’s Greatest Peril: 1942 takes readers back to the most anxious year in modern Australian history, when invasion seemed not just possible but imminent. Wurth writes with the pace of a thriller, yet the backbone of the book is careful research. The result is a narrative history that feels urgent without sacrificing substance.
The central argument is clear. In early 1942 Australia was exposed, underprepared, and strategically isolated after the fall of Singapore and the rapid Japanese advance through Southeast Asia. Wurth reconstructs the shock that ran through government, military leadership, and the public. He pays close attention to the collapse of British power in the region and the sudden realisation that Australia would have to look to the United States for survival. The political tension between John Curtin and Winston Churchill is one of the strongest threads in the book, handled in a way that shows both strategic calculation and personal strain.
What stands out is Wurth’s ability to convey atmosphere. He captures the fear generated by the bombing of Darwin, the submarine attacks in Sydney Harbour, and the steady drip of alarming intelligence reports. The sense of uncertainty is constant. Readers are reminded that hindsight makes outcomes look inevitable, but in 1942 nothing felt secure. Decisions were made with incomplete information and under enormous pressure.
Wurth also devotes significant space to the Kokoda campaign and the battles in Papua, placing them within the broader context of Japan’s expansion and Allied recovery. He avoids turning these into simple heroic set pieces. Instead he shows the logistical chaos, the exhaustion, and the improvisation that defined Australia’s response. Political leadership, military command, and frontline experience are woven together rather than treated as separate stories.
The prose is accessible without being simplistic. Wurth does not overload the reader with technical detail, but he includes enough operational and strategic context to make the stakes clear. At times the dramatic tone edges close to popular history territory, yet it rarely tips into exaggeration. The peril was real, and the book makes that convincingly clear.
Not a book I would normally read. In fact the subject is something I have tended to steer away from. I picked this one up in an op-shop almost by accident, more out of curiosity than intention, and once I started it I found myself reading through to the end. It lingered afterwards as well, enough that it felt worth sharing a few thoughts about it with others.
Camp Z by Stephen McGinty tells the story of one of the more unusual and lesser-known prisoner-of-war camps of the Second World War, set not in Europe but in rural Canada. The camp held high-risk German prisoners, including committed Nazis and SS personnel considered too dangerous or ideologically hardened for ordinary facilities. Drawing on diaries, reports, and personal accounts, McGinty builds a picture of a place where captivity did little to soften beliefs and where tensions remained high long after the front lines had moved elsewhere.
What makes the book engaging is its focus on the people inside the wire and the atmosphere that developed among them. The camp comes across as a kind of contained battlefield, shaped by loyalty, fear, and rigid ideology. Some prisoners remained fiercely committed to the Nazi cause and imposed their will on others, while a smaller number tried quietly to distance themselves or simply endure. Guards, often not fully prepared for the depth of conviction they faced, had to manage internal rivalries, threats of violence, and the constant possibility of escape. The sense that the war continued in miniature within the camp gives the narrative its tension.
The writing is straightforward and readable without being superficial. McGinty lets the detail do the work rather than pushing drama too hard. He has a good sense of when to step back and allow small incidents and personal stories to illustrate larger themes, particularly the persistence of belief and identity even as Germany’s defeat became inevitable. There is also a strong sense of place: the remoteness of the Canadian setting, the practical challenges of running such a facility, and the uneasy awareness among nearby communities that committed Nazis were being held in their midst.
Camp Z ended up being a more compelling read than I expected when I picked it up off a second-hand shelf. It opens a window onto a lesser-known aspect of the war and shows how ideology and conflict did not simply end with capture. For something outside my usual reading, it proved thoughtful, well researched, and surprisingly absorbing, and well worth passing on to others who might also come across it by chance.
Growing up I was lucky to have two loving parents that provided great guidance. Dad was warm, kind and caring mum was a hard-nosed b#$#h whose harsh upbringing made it hard to show affection except with the showering of gifts which I loved!
Despite this they had one thing in common neither had a single gram of prejudice in their bodies, except for maybe cross-town footy team rivalry. This was unusual with the White Australia Policy, post war migration, and the deep stereotyping of Indigenous Australians. When Martin Luther King was assassinated in 1968 my father sat me down and explained why he was a wonderful man and why he should be a role model. As a result I have always “had a dream”, never standing still and never being happy with the status quo. This book helped to re-kindle those lessons.
Godfrey Hodgson’s Martin Luther King is a slim book, but it carries more weight than its size suggests. It isn’t a sweeping, romantic biography, and it isn’t written in the tone of reverence that sometimes surrounds King. Instead, Hodgson approaches him as a historian of American power and politics. The result is a portrait that feels grounded, occasionally cool, and sometimes deliberately resistant to myth.
Hodgson is best known for writing about American political culture, and that background shapes the book. King is not treated simply as a heroic moral figure, but as a product of a particular America—Cold War America, segregated America, a nation that talked endlessly about freedom while denying it at home. The civil rights struggle is set firmly inside that contradiction. Hodgson keeps circling back to the idea that King’s rise was possible not only because of his brilliance and courage, but because of structural shifts in American politics, media, and global image. In that sense, King is both a transformative leader and someone who emerges at a precise historical moment.
The early chapters sketch King’s upbringing in Atlanta and his intellectual formation with steady, economical prose. Hodgson doesn’t linger in sentimental detail. He’s more interested in what shaped King’s mind—his theological training, his reading of Reinhold Niebuhr, his study of Gandhi, his immersion in the Black church tradition. The Montgomery Bus Boycott is handled as the catalytic moment it was, but Hodgson is careful to show that King did not invent the movement; he stepped into it, and then rose within it. That balance—between individual agency and collective struggle—runs through the whole book.
One of the book’s strengths is how clearly it situates King within the machinery of American politics. The Kennedy and Johnson administrations appear not as moral bystanders but as cautious actors calculating costs and risks. Hodgson shows how federal power was reluctant, reactive, and often cynical, even while ultimately enacting transformative legislation. The Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act are framed as hard-won outcomes of sustained pressure, not inevitable moral awakenings.
Hodgson is also attentive to the fractures within the movement. The tensions between King and more militant activists are not softened. The emergence of Black Power, the impatience with nonviolence, and the sense that integration might not be enough are treated seriously. Hodgson makes it clear that King’s later years were marked by growing isolation. His opposition to the Vietnam War is presented as morally consistent but politically costly. It strained his alliances and complicated his standing with white liberals and parts of the Black leadership.
The final sections, dealing with King’s assassination and legacy, avoid triumphalism. Hodgson is wary of the way America has absorbed King into a safer national story. He hints, sometimes quite directly, that the King celebrated in monuments and public holidays is not quite the same man who condemned American militarism and economic injustice. That tension between radical critique and national commemoration hovers over the book’s closing pages.
Stylistically, Hodgson writes in a clean, restrained way. He doesn’t aim for lyrical flourish. The tone can feel detached at times, especially if you’re used to more intimate or emotionally driven biographies. But that restraint also gives the work credibility. It reads like a historian trying to make sense of a giant figure without surrendering to hagiography.
If there’s a limitation, it’s that the brevity sometimes compresses complexity. King’s inner life, his doubts, his personal struggles, and the emotional texture of the movement don’t receive the depth you’d find in longer biographies. The book works best as a sharp, interpretive overview rather than a definitive life.
In the end, Hodgson’s Martin Luther King feels less like a monument and more like a corrective. It reminds you that King was not just a dreamer on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, but a political actor navigating power, backlash, and contradiction. It’s thoughtful, measured, and quietly unsettling in the way it suggests that the America King challenged still exists.
One cannot help but see the parallels with the way the Civil Rights Movement was treated in Luther’s day and the way I.C.E. are treating anti-Trump protesters today, reflecting a troubling trend that undermines the foundations of democratic expression. Many individuals brave enough to voice their dissent or advocate for social change face not only scrutiny but also systemic retaliation, reminiscent of the challenges faced by civil rights activists in the past. Even in Australia, the right to peaceful protest is becoming significantly reduced, as laws increasingly curtail the freedoms that citizens once took for granted. This pattern of suppression raises significant concerns about the state of civil liberties in modern society. If only that dream of unimpeded expression and justice for all came true!
Freedom without justice will never be achieved, as the two concepts are intrinsically linked; true freedom can only flourish in an environment where fairness prevails, where everyone’s rights are protected, and where the rule of law is upheld, ensuring that each individual can live without fear of oppression or discrimination. Without justice, freedom becomes merely an illusion, a hollow promise that is easily undermined by inequality and injustice, leaving society fractured and vulnerable. To realize a world where freedom takes root, we must strive tirelessly to establish a foundation of justice that empowers every voice, validates every struggle, and champions the cause of equity for all.
Thus endeth the rant.
Great book. A must read.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 5 out of 5.
PS “Strength to Love” by Martin Luther King is also a must have. Although a compilation of sermons even the non church goer should enjoy. The sermon “Be as wise as serpents and harmless as doves” is especially worth a look. King often used this verse (Mathew 10.16) to explain the strategy of non-violent resistance during the Civil Rights Movement. For him, it captured a tension. Wisdom of serpents equating to strategic awareness, intelligence, realism about injustice. Harmlessness of doves to moral integrity, refusal to hate or use violence. He argued that effective social change required both, not just one.
Roland Perry is the master of writing popular military history, achieving the difficult bond between readability and well researched military history. This makes him one of my favourite authors.
Bill the Bastard is one of those true war stories that sounds too big to be real until you remember that the First World War produced characters like this everywhere. Roland Perry leans hard into the legend, but in this case the legend earns it.
At the centre of the book is Bill, a massive, half-wild Whaler horse considered unmanageable, dangerous, and basically useless for polite military purposes. He bites, kicks, refuses to cooperate, and terrifies anyone who gets too close. Naturally, he ends up with the Australian Light Horse. The match is perfect. What the regular army sees as a problem animal, the Light Horsemen recognise as raw toughness.
The book follows Bill and his rider, Major Michael Shanahan, through training and then into the Sinai and Palestine campaign. Perry writes the desert war well — heat, flies, long patrols, bad water, and the constant grind on men and animals alike. Horses weren’t background equipment in that theatre; they were everything. Without them there was no mobility, no shock action, no campaign. Perry makes that clear without turning the book into a lecture.
Where the story really takes off is in combat. Bill becomes a battlefield monster in the best possible sense — carrying wounded, charging when others baulk, surviving things that should kill a horse several times over. The famous episode where he carries multiple wounded men to safety under fire is told with plenty of pace and a fair bit of pride. Perry is not shy about celebrating Australian grit and improvisation, but he mostly keeps it readable rather than overblown.
The tone is straightforward and very accessible. This isn’t a dense academic history. It sits somewhere between popular history and campfire storytelling. Perry likes a good anecdote and he tells them well. At times he leans into the myth-making — Bill becomes almost super-equine — but given the way soldiers talked about their mounts, that feels appropriate rather than excessive. Light Horse memoirs are full of this kind of affection and exaggeration.
One of the strengths of the book is how it treats the bond between rider and horse. Perry keeps bringing the story back to the practical realities: feeding, watering, grooming, calming a frightened animal in the dark, trusting it in a charge. The relationship isn’t sentimental fluff. It’s survival. When Bill behaves badly, it’s because he’s built to survive. When he saves lives, it’s because that same stubbornness refuses to quit.
If there’s a weakness, it’s that the book occasionally repeats itself and sometimes drifts into general background that slows the pace. Perry also writes with a strong admiration for his subject and for the Light Horse in general, so readers looking for critical distance won’t really find it here. But that’s not the point of the book. It’s meant to celebrate a remarkable animal and the men who rode with him, and it does that very effectively.
Overall, it’s a solid, enjoyable piece of popular military history. Easy to read, full of character, and a good reminder that war stories aren’t always about generals and plans. Sometimes they’re about a difficult horse who turned out to be tougher than anyone expected and ended up carrying a small legend on his back.
The Scrap Iron Flotilla by Mike Carlton is an engaging and easy-to-read account of an important but often overlooked achievement of the Royal Australian Navy during wartime. The book narrates the journey of five old destroyers—Stuart, Vampire, Vendetta, Voyager, and Waterhen—sent to the Mediterranean at the start of the Second World War. Although these ships were seen as outdated and referred to as “scrap iron” by Nazi propaganda, Carlton illustrates how their crews transformed this insult into a source of pride through hard work and bravery in some of the most perilous seas of the war.
Carlton’s writing style is key to the story’s success. He uses clear and simple language, which helps keep the narrative engaging. Naval warfare can be confusing or too technical, but Carlton avoids this by explaining events in straightforward terms and highlighting their importance. He describes battles, patrols, and convoy escorts in an easy-to-understand way, even for readers who know little about naval history. The focus is always on clarity and keeping the story moving, rather than unnecessary technical details.
A key strength of the book is its focus on people, not just ships and operations. Carlton uses letters, diaries, and personal stories to depict life aboard destroyers. He describes the cramped conditions, tiredness, and constant danger that crews faced, helping readers grasp the human cost of long months at sea. His vivid yet reserved descriptions allow small details—heat, noise, fear, and exhaustion—to illustrate the pressure on sailors.
Carlton’s background as a journalist shines through in the book. His writing is clear, engaging, and aims to reach a broad audience. However, this can also be limiting. At times, the text uses familiar themes from Australian war history, such as dry humour, stoicism, and the underdog’s triumph through resilience and friendship. While these elements resonate and are often true, they can come across as predictable, glossing over the more complex or uncomfortable realities of the war and fostering admiration instead of deeper thought.
There are times when the writing rushes through uncertainty or disagreement. While it mentions strategic mistakes, poor decisions, and overall Allied failures, it doesn’t always delve into them deeply. Carlton usually draws clear conclusions instead of focusing on doubt or moral complexities. Readers seeking a more questioning or analytical style might feel that some issues are resolved too simply.
Despite these limitations, the book has many strong points. Carlton understands his audience well and writes purposefully throughout the narrative. His clear style makes a complex naval campaign easy to understand for a wide range of readers while still being thought-provoking. The balance he maintains between action, detailed explanations, and personal experiences keeps the story interesting from start to finish. Additionally, his use of historical context and vivid descriptions of the sea enhances the reader’s understanding, helping them fully engage in the intense world of naval warfare. This approach encourages readers to think about the larger impacts of the events and connects them to the personal stories of those involved.
Overall, The Scrap Iron Flotilla is a strong and compelling history book that draws readers in with its focus on a lesser-known part of Australia’s naval heritage. Its clear language, steady pace, and attention to human experiences make it a great introduction to Australia’s naval war in the Mediterranean. The book combines factual details with personal anecdotes that create emotional resonance. Although the writing style is straightforward and does not explore complex themes, it effectively presents the importance of these naval operations. Additionally, it honors the ships and crews, emphasizing their bravery and sacrifice while fostering a greater appreciation for their contributions during wartime. Ultimately, the book serves as a powerful reminder of how naval warfare shapes national identity, ensuring the legacy of the Scrap Iron Flotilla continues to be remembered.
I am not a fan of Mike Carlton s writing, but found this was one of his better ones. As a book it is not one I would read again, but it citations, bibliography and extensive index make it a good source for early naval warfare in the Mediternean.
I have already completed a review of Marcher: Empires at War, but did not compare it with the other “Weird War options out there.
Marcher: Empires at War sits in an interesting middle ground when compared with Konflikt ’47 and Secrets of the Third Reich. All three explore alternate twentieth-century warfare, but they differ sharply in how spectacle, balance, lore, and cost are prioritised and integrated into play.
Marcher is best understood as a dieselpunk alternate-history system rather than a full weird-war game. Its setting is rooted in a reimagined pre-Second World War world, where advanced machinery, speculative technology, and diverging empires drive conflict. Unlike K47’s rift-science escalation or SOTR’s occult foundations, Marcher’s lore stays comparatively grounded. Its technology feels like an extension of industrial warfare rather than a rupture of reality, which gives the setting a clear internal logic without relying on magic or dimensional catastrophes.
That grounding carries through to the mechanics. Marcher uses a structured D10 action-economy system, where units typically receive two actions per activation. Command decisions, objective play, and timing are central. Units are effective not because they are inherently overwhelming, but because of how players sequence actions, exploit terrain, and prioritise objectives. This produces a play experience that rewards planning and positioning rather than dramatic power spikes. In contrast, K47’s rules actively encourage explosive moments, while SOTR emphasises friction, denial, and controlled escalation.
In terms of balance, Marcher’s design intent is closer to SOTR than to K47. While still evolving, its rules focus on role clarity and objective contribution rather than raw lethality. Units tend to justify their inclusion through what they can do—hold ground, manoeuvre, support, or apply pressure—rather than how much damage they can inflict in a single activation. This avoids many of the internal balance problems that plague K47, where some units dominate simply because their output overwhelms the system’s ability to respond.
Cost and accessibility further distinguish Marcher. The core rules are freely available, and the system openly supports 3D-printed miniatures, significantly lowering the barrier to entry. This reinforces the game’s philosophy: forces are meant to be built, experimented with, and played regularly, not treated as premium centrepieces. In this respect, Marcher aligns more closely with the practical hobby ethos I value in SOTR than with K47’s more commercially driven escalation model.
Lore integration also reflects this difference. Marcher’s background exists to contextualise mechanics rather than justify excess. K47’s rift-tech framing encourages ever-greater escalation with minimal narrative cost, while SOTR’s occult logic explicitly explains why power is dangerous, unstable, and constrained. Marcher occupies a third position: it limits excess not through mysticism or horror, but through a plausible industrial-era logic that keeps escalation within bounds.
Taken together, Marcher offers a tactical, decision-heavy experience that rewards sequencing, objective play, and combined arms rather than dominance pieces. It lacks the gothic atmosphere and moral weight of SOTR’s occult war, but it also avoids K47’s tendency toward spectacle-driven imbalance. For players who want an affordable, coherent, and tactically grounded alternate-history game without leaning fully into weird-war fantasy, Marcher presents a compelling alternative.
Summary Comparison
In context, Marcher sits between K47 and SOTR in both tone and design. It lacks the occult weight and deliberate constraint that make Secrets of the Third Reich your preferred system, but it shares SOTR’s respect for structure, decision-making, and cost-to-effectiveness—while avoiding the spectacle-first imbalance that defines Konflikt ’47.
I’m not sure if I prefer SOTR or Marcher, but both are definitely better than K47, which will dominate the Weird War space due to Warlord Games’ market presence.
I have finished reading this book by Ray Kerkhove. The book is called How They Fought: Indigenous Tactics and Weaponry of Australia’s Frontier Wars. It was published by Boolarong Press in 2023. Ray Kerkhove wrote about Australia’s Frontier Wars in this book. By the way of disclaimer, the book was provided to me by the author for review, but this has in no way influenced my comments below.
Ray Kerkhove’s book, How They Fought: Indigenous Tactics and Weaponry of Australia’s Frontier Wars, serves as a guide to how Indigenous people fought. It does not focus on a specific battle or location. The book is organized into sections about how Indigenous people organized themselves, the strategies they used, the weapons they fought with, and how they defended themselves. It includes many tables, diagrams, and maps for better understanding, making it unique among other books on the Frontier Wars. Kerkhove presents it like a handbook, providing facts and details about Indigenous tactics and weaponry. He does not follow a timeline but emphasizes that First Nations peoples in Australia fought in smart and adaptable ways using clever strategies. Kerkhove believes we can analyze these fighting practices across different regions and time periods, showing that First Nations peoples used effective tactics.
Ray Kerkhove’s research reframes the Frontier Wars as a sophisticated and deliberate military campaign rather than a series of random, disorganized skirmishes. He argues that Indigenous resistance was driven by clear purpose and advanced strategy, challenging the traditional view that these fighters were merely reacting to settler violence. Instead, Indigenous groups were proactive military actors who used their deep knowledge of the land to control the conflict. They employed clever guerrilla tactics, such as setting ambushes in the bush, utilizing “hit-and-run” maneuvers, and luring enemies into traps through feigned retreats.
Beyond physical combat, Indigenous fighters engaged in strategic warfare by gathering intelligence through extensive family networks and scouting parties. They also launched calculated strikes against the settlers’ economy, targeting livestock and supplies to make the occupation unsustainable. Kerkhove highlights that people living at the time recognised these events as a formal war. Ultimately, the book portrays Indigenous people as smart, resourceful, and highly organized leaders who fought a coordinated defense of their country, rather than just participating in isolated, desperate clashes.
Kerkhove’s work is similar to Henry Reynolds’ work on frontier violence, which Reynolds argues was perceived as war. In books like The Other Side of the Frontier (2) and Forgotten War (3), Reynolds highlights how this violence is often forgotten, not due to a lack of evidence, but because of our historical memory. Kerkhove doesn’t discuss this directly but uses it to explore the realities of war on the ground. Together, their works complement each other: Reynolds focuses on the broader picture while Kerkhove provides detailed accounts of what transpired, showing that Indigenous resistance was indeed a war. Both authors write about war, but Reynolds emphasizes the overall view, whereas Kerkhove dives into the finer details.
The difference between John Connors’ book, The Australian Frontier Wars, 1788-1838 (4), and Kerkhove’s is important. Connors focuses on early Australia, discussing events, battles, and the roles of the British army, settlers, and police in increasing violence. Kerkhove’s book spans a longer period and covers more ground without a strict timeline. Connors is helpful for understanding events over time in the frontier, while Kerkhove’s is better for comparing different regions. It shows how Indigenous people in various places found similar ways to respond to invasion and coercion. Both authors provide valuable insights in different ways.
When comparing How They Fought to The Black War (5) by Nicholas Clements, you also notice a difference. Clements examines the events in Tasmania closely. He describes the fighting as a harsh guerilla war that seemed endless. People felt scared, and both sides made many mistakes, leading to worsening conditions. Clements also closely examines how people interacted with each other and the land, considering the impact of violence on communities.
Kerkhove’s book How They Fought takes a broader approach, sacrificing detail in the process. It provides examples from across the continent to show various tactics and patterns over time. While covering a wide array of topics for comparison, the book lacks in-depth detail on specific tactics. Those wanting to understand the reasons behind tactics in certain locations might prefer Clements’ detailed storytelling, whereas Kerkhove’s book is better for an overview of different tactics.
Another useful comparison is with Jonathan Richards’ The Secret War (6). Richards examines the violent systems used by authorities, like the police and government, highlighting issues with inaccurate records. He also addresses unfair records. In contrast, Kerkhove focuses on how Indigenous people resisted these authorities, paying less attention to colonial control. While both scholars explore the same time period, they emphasise different aspects: Richards studies colonial powers and Kerkhove examines Indigenous resistance methods. Together, their perspectives complement each other. Richards outlines the oppressive systems faced by Indigenous fighters, while Kerkhove details how these fighters attempted to outsmart or manipulate that system. Their viewpoints fit together like two interlocking pieces, with Richards depicting the organised system and Kerkhove illustrating the resistance efforts.
The strengths of How They Fought come from its guidebook format with images, which is helpful for teaching and comparisons. However, when it presents war perspectives from different countries, it tends to oversimplify Indigenous fighting methods. Additionally, the organization of the content can obscure important questions about how things change over time. The aim wasn’t to detail those but to reconstruct the ‘general pattern’ of tactics, and structures across Australia. Although the section on weaponry modifications such as the use of iron, glass, guns and horses does demonstrate adaptions over time.
How They Fought is an important book for those who study the Frontier Wars. Rather than recounting a specific event, it focuses on how Indigenous people engaged in battle and the tools they used. The book highlights that Indigenous people were indeed engaged in a war, providing a clearer understanding for researchers and educators about the nature of this conflict. Ultimately, How They Fought helps us recognise Indigenous resistance as a war and not a one-sided conflict against an unsophisticated and disorganised opponent.
I thoroughly enjoyed the book and read it in just a few sittings. A must buy for those interested in the Australian Frontier wars and Indigenous warfare in general. Those wishing to game this period will find it an invaluable resource.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 5 out of 5.
Footnotes
Ray Kerkhove, How They Fought: Indigenous Tactics and Weaponry of Australia’s Frontier Wars (Brisbane: Boolarong Press, 2023).
Henry Reynolds, The Other Side of the Frontier: Aboriginal Resistance to the European Invasion of Australia (Sydney: UNSW Press, 2006).
Henry Reynolds, Forgotten War (Sydney: NewSouth Publishing, 2013).
John Connor, The Australian Frontier Wars, 1788–1838 (Sydney: UNSW Press, 2002).
Nicholas Clements, The Black War: Fear, Sex and Resistance in Tasmania (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 2014).
Jonathan Richards, The Secret War: A True History of Queensland’s Native Police (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 2008).
I went into Zero Option with some idea of what the book was about. Chris Ryan does not let the reader down. The book starts off as a paced military story where action is more important, than thinking deeply about things. I got caught up in the story straight away because it feels like things are already happening before the first chapter even gets going. People are getting orders things are not going well. It seems like the plan is already starting to fall apart. Zero Option is a thriller that moves quickly and Chris Ryan keeps the momentum going from the start. The book is really good at making you feel like you are there, with the story. This immediacy is one of the things that makes the book so strong. It kept me reading the book at a pace. I did not want to stop reading the book because of this immediacy.
As I read the book, I noticed that the real tension comes not only from Geordie Sharp’s missions but also from being caught between different groups trying to control him. His situation is complicated, with jobs to do, secret activities happening, and personal pressures from people wanting to manipulate him. I appreciated that the author, Ryan, shows how difficult these pressures are for Geordie Sharp to handle. Even when he is performing at a high level, there is an ongoing sense of strain in his decisions. This made the story feel more realistic than a typical tale about an elite soldier saving the day.
I really like how the action parts of the story are written. The author, Ryan writes them in a way that’s easy to understand. He does not use a lot of terms that would confuse the reader. Instead Ryan gives us enough information to make the fight scenes feel real. The firefights are short and intense they do not go on and on to be exciting. When the characters make mistakes they have to deal with the consequences. The action sequences, like the firefights are well done. The plans that the characters make do not always work out when they are fighting the enemy. The characters have to think on their feet and come up with plans, which feels like something that would really happen. I really liked the way the story was told because it did not make the hero sound too good to be true. The hero of the story is shown to be competent by the decisions he makes than, by doing crazy and flashy things. The narrative voice of the story is something that I found myself trusting, because it does not overstate the heroics of the hero.
What also struck me was the pacing in the middle of the novel. The book does not build up to one moment. Instead it keeps the pressure on by adding problems. When the characters achieve one thing another problem comes up. It is often a bigger problem than the one before. I never felt like the story had a moment where everything was okay. The story always kept moving. This constant movement forward really suits the theme of the novel, which’s about being trapped by things that happen to you. It is also like Sharps situation in the novel, where Sharp has no time to catch his breath. The novel is, like that too it keeps going and going with the characters facing one problem after another.
I think the book moves too quickly and doesn’t explore the story in depth. The characters, except for one, aren’t well described; they appear, do their part, and then disappear, often before you remember them. The book mentions important moments but doesn’t dwell on them. I sometimes wished the story would slow down to reflect on what happened, but Ryan keeps it moving. The book goes on without allowing you to feel the impact of events. It moves fast, which is its main characteristic. While this isn’t necessarily bad, it highlights the book’s limitations. These limits define what the book is.
By the end, I felt that Zero Option delivered on its promises. It provides tension and action while keeping things realistic and not overly complicated. I was satisfied after finishing the book. While it may not stand out among military thrillers, it effectively fulfills its role. Zero Option is a confident thriller that succeeds as a straightforward, engaging read focused on momentum, danger, and clean storytelling rather than deep psychological themes.
I picked it up at a Thrift Shop in the free bin and that is about all I would want to pay!
Having recently played the rules (see yesterday’s post) I decided to have a good read of them and let you know my thoughts.
Bryan Ansell’s “Street Fight” is a fast modern wargame for close combat, focusing on street violence and gang warfare. Published by his company, Wargames Foundry, it is simple and quick to play, appealing to both beginners and seasoned players. The game uses a small number of 28mm miniatures, often from Foundry’s Street Violence range, for intense battles where tactics and luck matter. It works well for narrative campaigns, integrating character progression and experience growth into the gameplay.
The core engine of “Street Fight” is a modern take on Ansell’s influential Old West rule set, The Rules With No Name. This background focuses on simple, clean gameplay. A key feature highlighted by players is the Fate Deck (or an adapted standard deck of playing cards) used for character activation. This approach removes the typical “I go, then you go” turn order, adding chaos and unpredictability that reflects the nature of a real street brawl. Characters activate based on the drawn cards, creating tense situations where a fighter may act multiple times or be stuck while their opponent takes control.
Combat in “Street Fight” is simple and relies on a basic dice mechanic, usually using a variable number of six-sided dice (D6s), where a ‘6’ typically indicates a successful hit. The combat resolution is “clean” and very fast, keeping the game from slowing down with endless tables or complex modifiers. This efficiency keeps the focus on movement, positioning, and tactical choices instead of dice calculations. Importantly, the rules have ways for character advancement, allowing fighters to “make their bones” and gain new skills or better stats over time. This aspect makes the rules appealing for players who enjoy crafting ongoing stories for their street gangs or crime outfits.
“Street Fight’s” emphasis on fun over absolute realism or technical complexity is a real bonus. Bryan Ansell’s writing style is known to be conversational and encouraging, giving players permission to adapt and extend the rules to suit their specific tastes, a trait reminiscent of older-school wargaming philosophies. It serves as an excellent, flexible framework for a variety of small-scale modern skirmishes, from armed gang confrontations to police actions, and is often considered a perfect choice for an evening’s worth of quick, enjoyable, and tactical miniature gaming.
The “Street Fight” rules divide fighters into four classes: Citizen, Gunman, Shootist, and Legend. This ranking affects their stats and how they use the Fate Deck for extra actions. It enables experienced leaders to take charge while beginners find it hard to contribute effectively.
The beauty of Bryan Ansell’s “Street Fight” rules lies in their flexible framework, which can support a wide variety of narrative scenarios perfectly suited to small-scale skirmishes. While the core rules are simple, the mission design is key to leveraging the character progression system and the unique drama created by the Fate Deck. The rule set generally encourages quick, narrative-driven missions that reflect the chaotic reality of street-level conflict.
The have stood up to the test of time and I like them. Don’t love them but like them.
⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 3 out of 5.
Illustrations are taken from the rules, which can be found here.
