Henriques' last book, No Arms, No Armour, was a metaphysical bit of writing with more plot and adventure and romance, a sort of African-British Bengal Lancer, which won the All Nations Prize in January 1940. This is wholly an adventure of mood and mind and spirit; although set in the backdrop of a commando raid on Norway, one has a sense of being suspended in a vacuum of time and space and thought. The Captain, a poet of no mean parts, puts into words the thought pattern, the symbolism of his mental processes, now objectively, now subjectively, with flashbacks to moods and minor incidents that loom large in a distorted world, all interlaced with a highly sensitized awareness of the undercurrents in his men, of fear, of fatigue, of occasional exhilaration. At times it seems to have a dream quality of unreality in slow motion -- perhaps because we think realistically of Commando raids as speeded up action. A strange -- sometimes a beautiful -- book, to which Stephen Vincent Benet's preface helps give co. Not a book for the masses, but something different for the jaded palate.