
Book #162 of 2025:
Angel Down by Daniel Kraus
A harrowingly propulsive rush through the trenches of World War I, full of sickening visceral images of war in service to a bizarre speculative twist: the presence on the battlefield of a literal angel screaming in agony, whom our protagonist, unaware of her identity, has been sent to either silence or retrieve. And that’s the sort of cadence deployed by author Daniel Kraus to deliver this tale, which takes the form of one long unbroken sentence as the staccato bursts of its unending clauses pound steadily away at our remaining nerves.
(“…and Bagger runs, oh shit, and with his arms over the woman, his legs have to do all the work, oh shit, tendon-stretching strides, heels planted into muddy marsh, warped metal, mushy organs, crackling bones, oh shit, and he sees at his periphery the red starbursts of Jerry’s grenades and feels the hawkwind of the resulting shock waves, shit shit, feels fallen men claw at his shins, desperate for water, desperate for a bullet, hands that are really only rogue weeds, oh shit,
and he scrambles arcs around craters he can see and splashes through craters he can’t, shit shit, while Arno’s noises grow increasingly distant as the kid keeps stopping to shoot, oh shit, and all Bagger thinks is how he’s never checked his ammo, why would he, he never shoots any, but cartridges bloat in wet weather, his Springfield might blow up in Arno’s hands, shit shit shit,
and there, fifty yards off, is the long, toothless grin of the Allied trench, a shade darker than the sackcloth day, only first here’s a dead soldier propped against an oak stump, facing the Hun trench like a spectator, a bullet caught between his front teeth, the guts in his lap still wispy with steam, and Bagger thinks this is why they call U.S. soldiers doughboys, you slit them open and their guts roll out like dough,
and Bagger looks at the dough too long, his right boot clips the corpse’s knee, and that’s it, his adrenalized dexterity is disrupted, he’s spun, the battlefield a carousel of yellow gun blasts, his legs cycling too fast, can’t extend his arms for balance, he’s a runaway wheel, not falling, not yet falling, not quite falling…”)
As the hero and his squadmates bicker and quarrel throughout their mission, they find that their angelic visitor has a way of bringing out everyone’s worst impulses in their push to seize and claim her for their own — especially as she never looks the same from man to man, taking on the appearance of some girl or woman from his past whom he longs to hold and protect. Together with the other minor miracles she can perform, it’s a wonder that does little to stem the surrounding horrors and inevitably yields greater harm.
The overall effect is a real trip, and an altogether bleak look at humanity’s ugly penchant for violence as filtered by the male-dominated sphere of warfare in that era. The historical setting is exquisitely rendered by the stylistic prose, and while the soldier characters within it might feel more like archetypes than full individuals, they serve the purpose of the narrative well and help sell the plausibility of the fantastical premise. Between this 2025 title and the writer’s earlier Whalefall — a radically different and yet equally haunting exploration of self-destructive masculinity — Kraus is quickly becoming a must-read for me.
[Content warning for racism, ableism, suicide, and rape.]
★★★★☆
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