I was familiar with preserved Civil War fields like Gettysburg, where there are national parks and monuments all over the place. They're places that are hallowed and sacred and interpreted with text and park rangers. The whole mechanics of history is brought to bear on these places.

She's a painter who is not afraid of color. It's not just the saturation of color, but the number of colors and the complexity of the color combinations. And she's not afraid of beauty, either.

He's worked each year to add something to his repertory. He has medium-range shooting, and can take the ball to the basket.

The First World War was a horror of gas, industrialised slaughter, fear, and appalling human suffering.

The U.S. dropped more high explosives on Vietnam than the Allies used on Germany and Japan together in the Second World War.

The sergeants are shunted forward and they blink and stare up at Gonzo as he leans on the edge of his giant mixing bowl. MacArthur never addressed his troops from a mixing bowl--not even one made from a spare geodesic radio emplacement shell--and certainly de Gaulle never did. But Gonzo Lubitsch does, and he does it as if a whole long line of commanders were standing at his shoulder, urging him on.

"Gentlemen," says Gonzo softly, "holidays are over. I need an oven, and I need one in about twenty minutes, or these fine flapjacks will go to waste, and that is not happening."

And something about this statement and the voice in which he says it makes it clear that this is simply true. One way or another, this thing will get done. Under a layer of grime and horror, these two are soldiers, and more, they are productive, can-do sorts of people. Rustily but with a gratitude which is not so far short of worship, they say "Yes, sir" and are about their business.