Some comics you read without smiling. Monochrome eyes glare beneath furrowed brows and speech bubbles burst from gritted teeth: Gott im Himmel! and Take that, Fritz!
You march into the Hall of Death hungry for heroes-and-villains, us-and-them, man-to-man. But old sagas sag between behemoths from forgotten battles, rusting hulks still reeking of leather and lubricant – artillery, jeeps, tanks – parked any-old-how as though abandoned by ghosts in a hurry.
You squeeze past huge metal coffins in darkness, gagging on cordite. A sudden shaft of daylight illumines a staff-car’s upholstery. On it, a dry bread-crust.
Well, you think, a Crumb of Comfort!