Dorothy Sayers's opening words, published shortly after the fall of France and the symbolic resurrection of Dunkirk, typically capture that moment of splendid isolation – dichotomously tensioned by patriotic resolution, yet fearful uncertainty – of the summer of 1940 which, in turn and in so many ways, encapsulates the popular image of Britain in the Second World War then and now. In 1940 Britain stood alone in Europe, and, according to Sayers (and many others), curiously was resolutely glad of this (‘Now we know where we are! No more bloody allies!’, was apparently a common refrain); an island defeated yet still unconquered, vigilant, historically defiant, and despite ‘The flying death that swoops and stuns’, with God's help ready to ‘keep, by might and main,/ Inviolate seas, inviolate skies’ and fight again. This English War (which in its retelling overtly bypasses Celtic sensibilities) was, when so simply put, a war of survival against tyranny; a war England had fought and won before (against Louis, Philip, ‘the conquering Corsican’) so that even foreigners – those ‘men who love us not, yet look/ To us for liberty’ – might too be free. And it was a war Britain now had to win once more.