That question isn't even wrong.
Because, weary (and angry) at how all the talking heads out there relentlessly label everything that comes within the grasp of their yammering maw, and then strive to cram each creative work into its cramped and rigid plywood cubbyhole--I wrote my novel to be uncategorizable.
So it's historical fiction. Frequently serious. But it's also, at times, hysterical fiction. And it's a splendid business book for you if you own a unique, bespoke business. And it tells the story of a man's life. And it's a ripping war yarn. You'll also have encounters with a pulpit-shaking Episcopalian sermon and a reflective three-part exposition of Jewish philosophy. (And there's hamentaschen.)
The Man Who Wore Mismatched Socks is about Spitfires, Hurricanes and Me 109s. War. The infinite sadness of loss. But it's also about women's shoes, and beer, and Externalities, and steam locomotives, and beer, and the most remarkable candy store in the whole wide world. Funny Socks. Bacon riffs. Transparency. The insights of one's children. A strong and flirtatious marriage. And it's about music and peace marches and Diffusion of Innovations and Bad Tables and Permission Marketing and Long Tails.
And wainscoting, of all things.
To borrow and tweak an old Colonial motto, "Don't pigeonhole on me!"
Or, as Smith would put it, "I've brisked up me barkin' irons. Don't make me send y'all to the bone orchard!"