D.C. Thomson & Co. Ltd | 24p | Edited by Bill Graham
I’ll start with a confession — Warlord was never one of mine.
By 1985, my weekly haul was more likely Tiger, Roy of the Rovers or any other sporty comic. But Warlord? Not really. Even at fifteen, I wasn’t drawn to tales that made war sound like a lark. I only joined the Army Cadets because a few mates had and they sold Twix in the tuck shop.
Looking back now, that instinct was right. Warlord was a product of its time — bold, brash and proudly patriotic, full of heroics that blurred the line between courage and cartoon violence. Yet it’s a fascinating read in hindsight: not for what it glorified, but for what it reveals about the Britain that printed it.
Code-Name Warlord
The headline strip and D.C. Thomson’s answer to Bond, Flint, or any number of square-jawed patriots. Peter Flint wakes up in a fake hospital run by the Gestapo and proceeds to punch, bluff, and shoot his way back to freedom with his usual mix of charm and certainty.
It’s slick, well-paced and confidently drawn, but also uncomfortably clean. War here isn’t messy or tragic — it’s a series of neatly choreographed victories, always ending in a wink and a one-liner. That was Warlord’s formula, and for readers of the time, it worked.
Sniper
New story, new tone. Sniper opens on the Eastern Front, where a German marksman witnesses the assassination of his own General. The story builds not from heroism but paranoia — who pulled the trigger, and who’s next?
For once, Warlord slows down. The artwork is tighter, the atmosphere more claustrophobic. There’s tension, doubt, and even a hint that the “enemy” might be human after all. It’s easily the most interesting strip of the issue, even if the ending retreats back to familiar tropes.
The Sea Slug
A Royal Navy adventure with more explosions per square inch than any health and safety officer could condone. Sea Slug, a pint-sized sailor with a big mouth and a bigger heart, tangles with submarines, sea mines and superior officers in equal measure.
It’s pure escapism — funny in places, daft in others — but at least it knows what it is: comic relief in a comic that often takes itself too seriously.
Union Jack Jackson
The dependable centrepiece. Union Jack Jackson and his US Marine pals O’Bannion and Lonigan crash through occupied Europe leaving rubble and confusion behind them. It’s all here — shouting sergeants, explosions on demand, and a total disregard for subtlety.
You can see why readers loved it: fast, familiar, and clear-cut. But there’s no nuance, no pause for breath. Every problem ends with a grenade, and every story assumes the moral high ground automatically belongs to the man with the Union Jack on his helmet.
The Raiders – “Lightning Strike”
A short factual piece recounting the US mission to shoot down Admiral Yamamoto — the planner of Pearl Harbor. It’s the calmest story in the comic: all text boxes and neat aerial diagrams, told without the shouting or bloodlust.
For a brief moment, Warlord feels like a history lesson rather than a cheerleading exercise — proof that these weeklies could inform as well as entertain when they wanted to.
Massacre
A grim one-off about the Boulton Paul Defiant, a real-life RAF fighter fitted with a rear turret and no forward guns. The crew know they’re outmatched but fly anyway — a decision that ends exactly as you’d expect from something titled Massacre.
It’s drawn with conviction, the final frame lingering long enough to make you pause. It’s the closest this issue comes to admitting what war really is: waste and futility.
Fraser’s Vow
From Europe to the frozen wastes of Labrador, where Trapper Fraser hunts down the crew of a stranded U-boat. They burn his forest, he burns their camp, and nature takes care of the rest.
It’s a rugged, well-drawn strip that plays like a revenge western with snow instead of sand. Impressive on the surface — but beneath it, another story that celebrates killing the “enemy” as cleansing justice.
Cassidy
Cassidy, a US Marine pilot disgraced for disobeying orders, gets one last chance in the sky. Naturally, he disobeys again. The dogfights are spectacular: smoke trails, diving Zeros, bullet-riddled wings.
Unlike most of the comic, Cassidy shows cost and consequence. You can feel the exhaustion in every line, the sense of men surviving by instinct rather than swagger. It’s pulp, yes, but it has a heartbeat.
Letters, Club Pages & Adverts
The Calling Warlord Agents page still has kids writing in from across Britain, proudly using their codenames and pretending they’re on missions for Peter Flint.
It’s charming — and slightly chilling — how easily play merged with militarism back then. A generation raised to think orders and honour were the same thing.
Then, like a hard cut to another world, the Transformers Dinobots ad explodes in colour across the page. Plastic, bright and harmless — an accidental symbol of how quickly childhood moved on.
Verdict
No, I didn’t read Warlord as a boy — and I’m glad I didn’t. It’s loud, confident, and sure of its own righteousness, which is exactly what makes it worth revisiting now.
It’s not a celebration of war, even if it thought it was. It’s a record of how we once tried to make sense of it — through adventure, simplicity and denial.
Read today, it feels like a relic from another moral universe: one where heroes never miss, villains never cry, and war always ends with a tidy moral.
And that, more than anything, is why it still matters — not as escapism, but as evidence.