His portrait of Churchill is as masterly as ever: a wonderful compound of bluster, sentimentality, grumpiness and indefatigable physical energy. There are the usual elegant metaphors... In the tragedy of Poland burning while statesmen fiddled, Dobbs has found a theme worthy of his powers.
How do you delight the profit-maximising big retailers while at the same time writing something dark and moving? Michael Dobbs knows how...Dobbs knows his sources, but the dialogue is his own: good, clean, moving briskly and underpinned by the record, it conveys historical truth. As for Poland, it suffered all the horrors. Dobbs writes about the country with tight passion, transferring to his fictional village, Piorun, the rape, murder and savage enforcement by Germans and Russians which, so far away and so little regarded, actually happened. The old women weeping, the houses burned down, the bodies left promiscuously on the street are history set out for the attention of novel-readers, memorable instruction in human grief... Furiously told and compelling, Churchill's Triumph is a thinking man's bestseller.
Dobbs astutely and dramatically portrays the real story of Yalta, the mighty tussle between the three men upon whose political skills and strength of character the rest of the world would depend... The novel is a triumph because of the author's fine appreciation of history and his meticulous eye for detail.
Michael Dobbs brings the Second World War to a resounding close... Dobbs portrays Churchill as being all too human - oversensitive and easily hurt by friendship betrayed, and conjures up Roosevelt's stricken response beautifully... Dobbs is a fine writer and neatly sums up the appeal of historical novels. Not only can they fill in the gaps left by an inaccurate, incomplete or contradictory factual record, but they can capture the spirit of the thing. Dobbs has certainly done that here.
The Mail on Sunday
It's all too easy to forget that you're not reading an insider's account of ht real events that shaped the modern world. Dobbs clearly has an instinctive feel for what makes powerful men tick.
Although it's a novel rather than a work of non-fiction, Churchill's Triumph brings into vivid focus that one wintry week in Georgia when Europe's fate was decided. It's a compelling story, expertly told, and builds on the totally credible portrait of Britain's cantankerous but brilliant wartime leader Dobbs has drawn in his earlier novels.... Dobbs is one of the brightest and best mass-market storytellers around.
A brilliant drama tracing the human side of the leaders who held the future of the world in their hands, showing the delusions, paranoia, compromises and betrayal which come with statesmanship in times of crisis.
Scottish Sunday Post
The novel is also a reminder that war is about people and interwoven with the events at Yalta are tales of other individuals, from Polish refugees and starving Russian children to Churchill's own children and the German troops fleeing the advancing Red Army. It's a moving story of human tragedy you won't want to put down.
Western Morning News
The real Churchill brought to life.
Dobbs provides an absorbing account of the events that took place at Yalta. The book vividly brings to life one of the pivotal events of the twentieth century. Dobbs' impeccably researched novel brings flesh to the bones of a highly significant historical event.
The drama and despair of this momentous meeting are captured perfectly and Dobbs shows rare talent for reading between the lines of official history.
Nottingham Evening Post
Dobbs presents the historical facts with such skill and pace... A rattling good yarn. This is another winner.
Teesside Evening Gazette
The novel brings the passion of war to life.
South Shields Gazette
A huge success.
Dobbs (Never Surrender) extends his historical fiction series starring Winston Churchill with this title focusing on the Yalta Conference. As WWII winds down, Churchill, Joseph Stalin and FDR meet in Yalta to sort out postwar Europe. All in less than vigorous health (FDR is at death's door), the big three hammer out differences in their competing agendas, a process Dobbs fills with rich historical detail and dramatic flair as "Uncle Joe" Stalin extracts large concessions, particularly land reparations-such as in Russian-occupied Poland-from a deferential FDR and a scrappy Churchill. Meanwhile, Roosevelt lobbies for the formation of the United Nations and simultaneously keeps secret the atomic bomb. Minor characters, notably a Polish plumber trying to flee Yalta, point to the brutality behind what Churchill later dubbed the "Iron Curtain." Perhaps the weakest negotiator of the trio, Churchill nevertheless maintains, with able assists from Dobbs, his famous eloquence, humor and shrewdness. History buffs and readers with at least a casual interest in Churchill will get the most out of this. (Mar.)Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
School Library Journal
Dobbs's fourth Winston Churchill novel (after Never Surrender), and his 12th book, attempts to humanize the Yalta Conference of February 1945 by presenting the thoughts and feelings of Churchill with an occasional glimpse into the minds of President Roosevelt and Marshal Stalin. Interspersed with the historical events of the conference's eight days, Dobbs's novel tells the story of a Polish cavalryman who witnessed the massacre of Polish officers in the forest at Katyn and now, a plumber for the Soviets, wants Churchill to rescue him before he is unmasked. In Dobbs's reconstruction, Churchill is a drunken fighter; Roosevelt, a doddering fool interested only in creating the United Nations and in enlisting Soviet assistance against Japan; and Stalin, a ferocious bully but a shrewd negotiator. The betrayal of the novel's subtitle is that of "dull-witted" Roosevelt, who seems set on appeasing the Soviets at Poland's expense. Churchill's triumph, revealed only in the epilog, turns out to be saving France and Germany as a bulwark against further Soviet expansion. He is thus credited with the eventual fall of communism and the freedom of Poland! While the rape of Poland is graphically portrayed, Dobbs's three protagonists come across as unsympathetic caricatures. Roosevelt is so odious that one wonders if any American other than a die-hard Anglophile will enjoy this book. A marginal purchase. [The author of the best-selling House of Cards, adapted into a popular PBS series, served as a chief adviser to prime ministers Margaret Thatcher and John Major.-Ed.]
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Read an Excerpt
Excerpt from Chapter 1
SATURDAY, 3RD OF FEBRUARY, 1945 SAKI AIRSTRIP, SOVIET CRIMEA
This must be, Churchill thought, the most Godforsaken place he'd ever seen, at the very edge of the earth. As they flew in for the landing he could see an army of women bent over the runway, sweeping away the snow with twig brooms. The runway itself was little more than a series of uneven concrete slabs cast upon the frozen ground, with a control tower that had been thrown together from rough-planed timber. It had a machine-gun nest on top. The insistent grayness of it all burrowed inside Churchill and froze his doubts so hard he wondered if they would ever leave him.
Sarah Oliver, his daughter, a flight officer in the WAAF, sensed his misgivings and squeezed his hand. "Still feeling poorly, Papa?"
The previous day he'd had a temperature of 103 degrees, not the best way to begin a hazardous journey, not for a man of seventy. But he shook his head. "I never wanted to come here, not to the Crimea. Nothing but lice and typhus plague and... blessed Russians. My God, I hope the whisky will last, otherwise we might end up dying in this place."
"So... why here?"
"Had no choice. Neither did poor Franklin. A man in a wheelchair has to fly six thousand miles because Stalin refuses to travel more than six hundred. The supreme gathering of the three most powerful men in the world-in a hole like this!" He stabbed his finger at the scene outside. "If we'd researched the matter for ten years with all diligence, I swear we could have found no more miserable spot. Russia in blasted February!"
The conference of the three Allied war leaders hadn't yet started and already Stalin had won the first round.
"They call you the Holy Trinity, you three," Sarah said, smiling, trying to reassure him.
"And Stalin says I'm the Holy Ghost," he replied morosely, "because I'm the fool who seems to be forever flying about." He scratched at a blob of grease on his lapel. "But I think we rather resemble the triumvirate of Ancient Rome-you remember your Shakespeare?"
"You know I prefer more modern pieces."
"After the fall of Julius Caesar, the three of them-Mark Antony, Octavius, Lepidus-gathered together to carve up the world. Just like us. Then they fell upon each other's throats."
It was clear his spirits were not to be easily raised. They'd left Malta eight hours earlier, bound for their ultimate destination of Yalta on the coast of the Black Sea, which in February could freeze as hard as Iceland. The nearest operational airfield was Saki, although from five hundred feet up it seemed an utterly reckless place to land. As the four-engined Douglas Skymaster made its approach it gave another sharp lurch through the cold air and Sarah gripped her father more urgently. She wasn't enjoying this, either. "Why couldn't we have come by ship?" she moaned.
"My sentiments entirely, but the Germans departed the Crimea only a few months ago. They left behind a wasteland drenched in blood and a harbor packed with mines. Regrettably, the bastards failed to leave behind a map for their minefields. So, we endure."
Then, at last, the tires were hitting the ground, squealing, once, twice, and the Skymaster was clawing slowly to a halt, bouncing on every rut. When finally the aircraft had stopped, Churchill was pensive, remaining in his seat for awhile, staring at the guard of honor lined up at the side of the field, lost in his misgivings.
Sarah waited for him, staring sadly at her father in the light of a winter's afternoon. The sparse hair, the sagging jowls, the eyes that were losing the battle against time. He was an extraordinary man who seemed to possess an almost supernatural capacity for revival and for restarting the motor that had driven him full tilt through a lifetime of hazard, but the gears were now worn, they kept slipping, and each time he set out, the engine was forced to race ever harder to make any headway. Sarah knew why she'd been asked to accompany him to Yalta, for much the same reason as Roosevelt's daughter, Anna, was also coming. For comfort, yes, to make sure their fathers had those little personal things around them that made them feel content, but although no one spoke about it, the daughters were also there just in case. To be by their sides, just in case anything were to happen. No man can easily contemplate the thought of dying far away from his home, on his own.
Yet there was still plenty of life left in the old dog. Suddenly he launched himself from his seat. "Let's get on with it," he muttered grimly.
The American president was waiting for him. Franklin Roosevelt had arrived on a plane some twenty minutes earlier and had been lowered in his wheelchair on a specially constructed lift. Now he was seated in the back of a Lend-Lease jeep, wrapped heavily against the cold as the two leaders set out to inspect the guard of honor together. Roosevelt looked frail, disinterested, and the prime minister tried to give the occasion some semblance of dignity by walking beside him. Afterwards they were taken to a tent heated by wood-burning stoves where their Soviet hosts had laid on a feast-suckling pig, caviar, smoked sturgeon, black bread, with endless quantities of vodka and the sweet local champagne. All the while, outside, the guard of honor continued to stand at its post, bayonets like icicles.
When, at last, Churchill climbed into the back of his car alongside Sarah, his mood had not improved. She left him to his thoughts. Of all the Churchill children, she resembled him most closely-the same intense blue eyes, gold-red hair, passionate temper, so stubborn she was known as "Mule." It often made words superfluous between them and their silences were never painful. She tucked a rug round his legs and held his hand.
It would take them almost five hours to reach their destination. Yalta was barely more than eighty miles away but the road was slushy, rough, heavily potholed, with signs of hasty repair. At every two hundred paces they saw members of the Soviet militia, many of them women, saluting with their rifles as the convoy passed. And still it snowed.
"I am in agony about Franklin," he began at last.
"I think we all are," Sarah replied. "He looks so desperately ill."
"He is also desperately misguided. Infirmity and imprudence. The combination could be calamitous. You know, I asked him if we might share the journey to Yalta. He declined. Said he needed to rest. He won't talk to me, Mule. Has pushed me aside."
"He couldn't do that. You're mistaken."
"I am most certain of it."
"Because he thinks he knows better. Trusts Stalin. Believes we may all live together in harmony once the slaughter is over. He's one of those most dangerous of men, Mule, an idealist. Thinks he can win over Stalin simply by the force of his own personality."
"Only if I've got a bloody grenade in my pocket."
"But you've said such nice things about Marshal Stalin."
"And I shall continue to do so. It's called diplomacy, and it is filled with terminological inexactitudes."
He sighed, as though already exhausted. "In a few hours' time I shall embrace the Marshal warmly and he, just as warmly, will embrace me. Doesn't mean we like each other. Nearly thirty years ago I sent an army to Russia with the intention of crushing the Bolshevik infant in its cradle. I failed. Stalin hasn't forgotten that. Neither have I."