Restrained, precise, illuminating, moving - this book is a fine piece of work that should be better known.

Phillips masterfully blends the experience of one US battalion with the wider picture of torture across the War on Terror. Throughout he handles his material astutely, whether portraying the trauma of soldiers who took part or analysing the culture that inspired it. The book is filled with powerful insights, for example how gung-ho TV and films post 9/11 encouraged the idea that torture worked (when expert interrogators knew it was counter-productive), and the ways in which the practice spilled out from Guantanamo to Afghanistan and Iraq.

The story is gripping, the content finely balanced between human stories and analysis, and the writing style simple, direct and engrossing. I swept through it.

It also carries vital revelations: that brutal treatment of prisoners was widespread even in the smallest US military bases and detention facilities let alone Abu Ghraib; and that therefore the numbers of victims are far greater than has ever been reported, at least in the thousands.

The voices of those prisoners - and the young soldiers who tortured - stay with you long after you put the book down.

This book packs a mighty punch. A nerve-wrecking story told in sharp, spare and precise prose, it reads more like a thriller than a memoir.

The first section of the book covers Brabazon's experiences in Liberia during that country's brutal civil war. It is an astonishing account, full of the worst horrors of modern conflict: marauding child soldiers, executions and cannibalism of prisoners. The tales of atrocities are striking for the author's use of detail ("the close-up, messy process of gutting a human being") and his honesty. He does not stint in describing the complex emotions he felt as a witness to such events - or in tracing how long weeks on the frontline messed with his moral compass.

Yet the story is far from unremittingly bleak. Brabazon captures the humour and spirit of the characters caught up in the war, from the spliff-smoking rebel commander Deku to the retinue of refugees, journalists and spies he meets along the way. It is also strangely redemptive to read how, amid the carnage, he forged a lasting friendship with his shady mercenary bodyguard, Nick du Toit.

Beyond the zipping bullets and booming rocket-propelled grenades, the book is also compelling when the author describes the difficult process of coming home: having flashbacks of rotting corpses while on a date with his girlfriend, for example. It is a powerful and, again, sharply honest insight into the trauma that his experiences inflicted.

The final third disentangles the story of the coup attempt in Equatorial Guinea, the `project' that Nick du Toit took on after Liberia. It offers a fascinating insider's view into the world of modern espionage and just how one sets about toppling a government in the twenty-first century. No doubt essential reading for anyone with an interest in the coup. My one quibble might be that the level of detail in this section can be slightly overwhelming - and misses some of the humanity and simple nail-biting tension of the Liberian stories.

Yet it's a minor point and overall the book deserves five stars: if you are looking for a true story with action, adventure and insight, you will not find anything better.

Desperate Glory is genuinely unputdownable - I read the whole thing in just two sittings.

The first thing that hit me was the vivid depiction of combat: relentless, exhilarating, and horrific. Kiley's words fly at you like a hail of bullets; his prose puts you there, in the heat and the dust, with rounds zinging past your ears.

It also reveals the depressing reality of our war in Helmand with specific, shocking revelations.

I had never understood before that British troops can't walk more than 2km outside their Forward Operating Bases without coming under Taleban onslaught.

Or that insurgents are so good at removing their dead, the British often don't know how many they've killed. That fact alone detonates a bomb under the neat round-number body counts of ISAF press releases - echoes of Vietnam.

Yet the aspect of the book I found most interesting - and disturbing - was its insights into the mentality of our soldiers, almost one hundred years after the slaughter of the First World War.

Gone is the agonising of Wilfred Owen, whose Dulce et Decorum Est gives the book its title. Today's soldiers don't just want to fight; they love fighting. Killing seventeen human beings is a great day at the office.

Not that I condemn them for it. But it's disturbing to know that, despite all the advances of our civilisation, war can still be a source of joy as much as horror.

So exciting, revelatory, thought-provoking... this book comes highly recommended.