I can count on one hand the number of books that I have disliked so intently that I stopped reading. No matter how disengaged or insulted, I just can’t leave a book incomplete, but I usually come away with one of two reactions: 1) Wow, I can’t believe I just wasted part of my life on that; or 2) I’m glad I stuck with that; it was worth it. Unfortunately, Frank Delaney book was mostly the former. Sure, my World War II-buff heart pitter-pattered occasionally at the intriguing new perspective of the well-known events, but the characters bordered on unlikeable, their motivation was unclear, and the foreshadowing was so overdone that it hindered the plot’s progression. I was sorely disappointed that such an eloquently written tale could be so lacking in substance. Book Chick Rating: YY
