There’s something deliciously ironic about reading 1945 in that end-times year. Conroy’s novel is about the world refusing to end—about history squeezing out one more act when the curtain should’ve fallen. Japan has lost, and Hiroshima and Nagasaki have burned, but in Conroy’s alternate world, the Japanese leadership decides to fight on, summoning the ghosts of Bushido for a last stand.
This single deviation births an inferno. And Conroy, unlike the quieter chroniclers of occupied Britain or Nazi dystopias, doesn’t lean on melancholy or political dread—he wants scale, smoke, strategy, and sweat. His prose doesn’t so much walk as march.
While Len Deighton in SS-GB imagined the moral exhaustion of a conquered London, Conroy envisions the kinetic chaos of an unfinished war. Deighton’s protagonist, Douglas Archer, moves in murky rooms and moral ambiguities; Conroy’s generals move armies. Where Deighton whispers intrigue, Conroy bellows artillery.
Yet both share an obsession with consequence—the terrifying plasticity of history. Deighton makes you feel the slow suffocation of a defeated civilization; Conroy makes you hear the thunder of a world that refuses to die quietly. His talent lies not in character psychology but in architecture — the architecture of warfare, of decision, of brinkmanship.
That’s what makes 1945 weirdly hypnotic. Every page feels wired with purpose, even when the dialogue veers into melodrama. You sense Conroy’s military background in his comfort with operational detail — amphibious landings, bombing runs, casualty estimates. He builds his fictional campaign like a wargame analyst, mapping contingency upon contingency. But within this machinery hums an almost tragic futility — as if he’s saying, 'No matter how brilliant our strategies, we remain servants to our own destruction.'
Compare this to C.J. Sansom’s Dominion, a novel of politics and quiet rebellion. Sansom’s postwar Britain is grey, bureaucratic, morally bruised; Conroy’s world is blindingly bright with fire and noise. Sansom writes like a historian with a novelist’s conscience — interrogating how societies rationalise evil. Conroy, meanwhile, writes like a tactician who’s seen too much.
His characters don’t muse; they react. But that difference isn’t necessarily a flaw. It’s a statement of genre — 1945 belongs to the lineage of military alt-history rather than political dystopia. If Dominion asks, “How do we live under tyranny?”, 1945 asks, “How do we survive the moment before peace?”
There’s something cinematic about the way Conroy structures his narrative — multiple perspectives, cross-cutting between the Pacific front, Washington, and Tokyo. It’s Saving Private Ryan meets The Man in the High Castle, minus the metaphysics. His depiction of Japanese fanaticism and American resolve could’ve easily fallen into caricature, but Conroy’s restraint — his insistence on the war’s horror — saves it from jingoism. The violence isn’t fetishised; it’s procedural, terrible, and relentless. Every airstrike feels like a moral argument.
Still, when you juxtapose 1945 with Owen Sheers’s Resistance, the contrast is staggering. Sheers writes like a poet; his alternate WWII is a whisper of loss. Conroy writes like a war correspondent embedded in chaos. Sheers gives us quiet fields; Conroy gives us flaming skies.
And yet — both are elegies, in their own way. Resistance mourns what might have been human; 1945 mourns what might have been spared.
Harry Turtledove’s In the Presence of Mine Enemies makes for another fascinating comparison. Turtledove, the undisputed godfather of alt-history, thrives on world-building — his Nazi-dominated 21st century is as psychologically complex as it is chilling. But he and Conroy share a fundamental curiosity: the moral elasticity of history. Both men obsess over the thinness of our moral armour. In Turtledove’s Berlin, humanity resurfaces under tyranny; in Conroy’s Pacific, it struggles to remain under pressure.
J.N. Stroyar’s The Children’s War, sprawling and philosophical, deals in psychological realism — trauma, identity, resistance. Conroy deals in material realism — logistics, terrain, command decisions. One explores the soul; the other, the machine. But what’s fascinating is how both authors converge in spirit: both see war as a distortion of human potential, a vortex that consumes meaning. Stroyar lingers on the aftermath; Conroy fixes his gaze on the moment before the end.
Now, here’s where 1945 becomes almost prophetic. Beneath the battle maps and the smoke, Conroy is writing a moral thriller about escalation — about how easily nations talk themselves into annihilation. In that sense, his book feels eerily modern, especially in the shadow of nuclear sabre-rattling, ideological polarisation, and proxy wars. The idea that a single act of pride, a single refusal to surrender, could unravel the world — that’s not just 1945; that’s every year since.
And yet, despite its grim premise, the novel pulses with vitality. You can feel Conroy’s thrill in the possibilities of storytelling — in the freedom to rewrite the unrewritten. He doesn’t aspire to literary elegance; he aims for impact. When Truman debates the second bomb, when Japanese soldiers prepare for Ketsugo (the homeland defence), you sense the weight of decision, the dizzying vertigo of power. It’s speculative history as moral calculus.
Reading 1945 in 2012, with apocalypse memes swirling around, must have felt surreal. The world outside was joking about endings; Conroy’s world was living one. The Mayan prophecy fizzled out, but his war kept burning in your imagination — because 1945 doesn’t offer closure. It ends with ash, fatigue, and the uneasy knowledge that survival isn’t triumph.
If Sheers writes elegy, and Sansom writes lament, Conroy writes detonation. His novel lacks polish in places — dialogue can creak, characters blur, sentiment occasionally overpowers subtlety — but the force of it carries you. He reminds you that alternate history isn’t just about “what if”, but “how close”. Every bomb that doesn’t fall, every peace that barely holds — these are the hinges of civilisation.
In the end, 1945 stands as the rowdiest, most cinematic cousin in the family of alternate WWII fictions. Deighton gives you noir; Sansom, despair; Sheers, elegy; Turtledove, ideology; and Stroyar, trauma. Conroy gives you the drumbeat — the crash of inevitability meeting imagination. His book may not make you weep or philosophise, but it makes you feel the stakes of history — and maybe that’s the purest form of respect a storyteller can pay the past.
Because the real miracle is that 1945 didn’t happen this way. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were enough. Humanity, battered and bloody, stopped itself just before tumbling over the edge. And that’s the quiet subtext of Conroy’s explosion-filled novel — a strange, stubborn hope: that even in our bloodiest dreams, we still sometimes choose to wake up.