The Voice of War: The Second World War Told by Those Who Fought It [Paperback]

Hugely varied, endlessly fascinating, remarkable. I got the feeling that this is how it really was.

A "must buy" volume, as it is of significant historical importance and a valuable source of reference for the future.

'Extraordinary'

A literary treasure-trove...read and be dazzled. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Most of human life and death is here...the choices are invariably well-made, and given generous amounts of space. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Hugely varied, endlessly fascinating, remarkable. I got the feeling that this is how it really was. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

A "must buy" volume, as it is of significant historical importance and a valuable source of reference for the future. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

The Second World War was the first truly global conflict and sixty years on its consequences continue to shape the modern world. Season by season The Voice of War charts the course of the central event of the twentieth century using the diaries, letters and memoirs of those who were there, from Russian women fighter pilots to the prisoners of the Japanese to Londoners enduring the Blitz. Their first-hand accounts place us on the ramparts of Colditz, in the hiding places of the Warsaw Ghetto, aboard a dive bomber at Pearl Harbor, with Rommel in the desert and by Churchill's side in Downing Street. Unrivalled in the immediacy, range and power of the experiences it contains, it includes writing by, among others, Joseph Goebbels, Benito Mussolini, Christabel Bielenberg, Noel Coward, Robert Capa, Airey Neave, George Patton, Hermione Ranfurly, Arthur Koestler, James Lees-Milne, Martha Gellhorn, Sophia Loren and Primo Levi. Ambitious, instructive and entertaining, this is the definitive portrait of a world at war.

James Owen was latterly acting editor of The Daily Telegraph Obituaries page and now writes regularly for the Financial Times and Conde Naste Traveller. He is also contributing editor to The New Dictionary of National Biography. He is presently working on his first book, a study of colonial life during WWII.

A former journalist on The Times, Guy Walters is the author of The Traitor, a thriller set during the Second World War which was published in 2002. His second book The Leader was published in Spring 2004.

Summer 1940

John Colville, 25, was seconded from the Foreign Office shortly after the outbreak of war to be one of the Prime Minister’s Assistant Private Secretaries. His diaries provide an intimate portrait of Churchill, here seen in pugnacious mood.

'After tea I accompanied the P.M. to a rifle range nearby, where he fired with his Mannlicher rifle at targets 100, 200 and 300 yards away. He also fired his revolver, still smoking a cigar, with commendable accuracy. Despite his age, size and lack of practice, he acquitted himself well. The whole time he talked of the best method of killing Huns. Soft-nose bullets were the thing to use and he must get some. But, said Randolph, they are illegal in war; to which the P.M. replied that the Germans would make very short work of him if they caught him, and so he didn’t see why he should have any mercy on them.'

Summer 1942:

The French Foreign Legion, commanded by Pierre Koenig, makes a dash for it through Rommel's lines. General Koenig's chauffeur was the English-born Susan Travers, the only woman ever to serve in the Legion.

'The general stuck his head out of the roof and started to speak. "We’re going to have to get a move on now – " he began.
Amilakvari suddenly reached across and clamped his hand over the general’s mouth. He’d heard what we could all hear now, German voices, speaking very close to us in the fog.
"Halt! Wer ist dat?" a German soldier barked. "Stehen bleiben! "
I was tempted to respond in the German I had learned in Vienna all those years ago. I wondered for a moment what they would think if they heard a woman’s voice speaking in aristocratic tones in the middle of nowhere.
"Drive! Vite! " Amilakvari shouted, jumping back into the vehicle at the same time as the general kicked my left shoulder ferociously. I floored the accelerator once more, bumping off into the white shroud. Gunfire rang out again, and the vehicle juddered as the bullets found their mark. Looming on either side of us in the mist, we could just make out the sinister shapes of German tanks. We had inadvertently driven straight into a magnificent laager of panzers, no doubt resting up before their planned attack on Bir Hakeim in the morning. My heart was in my mouth as I flew past the menacing silhouettes and on into the darkness, speeding as fast as I could across the desert floor. Behind us, in close pursuit, were several enemy armoured cars, headlamps full on, their beams cutting through the mist like searchlights.'

Spring 1945:

Traudl Junge was Hitler's secretary.

'30 April begins like the days that went before it. The hours drag slowly by. No one knows just how to address Eva Braun now. The adjutants and orderlies stammer in embarrassment when they have to speak to the ‘gnädiges Fräulein’. "You may safely call me Frau Hitler," she says, smiling.
She asks me into her room because she can’t spend the whole time alone with her thoughts. We talk about something, anything, to distract ourselves. Suddenly she opens her wardrobe. There hangs the beautiful silver fox fur she loved so much. "Frau Junge, I’d like to give you this coat as a goodbye present," she says. "I always liked to have well-dressed ladies around me – I want you to have it now and enjoy wearing it." I thank her with all my heart, much moved. I am even glad to have it although I’ve no idea how, where and when I can wear it. Then we eat lunch with Hitler. The same conversation as yesterday, the day before yesterday, for many days past: a banquet of death under the mask of cheerful calm and composure. We rise from the table, Eva Braun goes to her room, and Frau Christian and I look for somewhere to smoke a cigarette in peace. I find a vacant armchair in the servants’ room, next to the open door to Hitler’s corridor. Hitler is probably in his room. I don’t know who is with him. Then Günsche comes up to me. "Come on, the Führer wants to say goodbye." I rise and go out into the corridor. Linge fetches the others. Fräulein Manziarly, Frau Christian, I vaguely realize there are other people there too. But all I really see is the figure of the Führer. He comes very slowly out of his room, stooping more than ever, stands in the open doorway and shakes hands with everyone. I feel his right hand warm in mine, he looks at me but he isn’t seeing me. He seems to be far away. He says something to me, but I don’t hear it. I didn’t take in his last words. The moment we’ve been waiting for has come now, and I am frozen and scarcely notice what’s going on around me. Only when Eva Braun comes over to me is the spell broken a little. She smiles and embraces me. "Please do try to get out. You may yet make your way though. And give Bavaria my love," she says, smiling but with a sob in her voice. She is wearing the Führer’s favourite dress, the black one with the roses at the neckline, and her hair is washed and beautifully done. Like that, she follows the Führer into his room – and to her death. The heavy iron door closes.' --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.