Wheels of Terror (Sven Hassel War Classics)
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'This is a book of horrors, and should be left alone by those prone to nightmares. Sven Hassel's descriptions of the atrocities committed by both sides are the most horrible indictments of war I have ever read ... A great war novel!' Alan Silitoe
Stationed on the Russian Front and now equipped with armoured vehicles, Sven Hassel and his comrades from the 27th Penal Regiment fight on remorselessly...
All of them should be dead: life expectancy on the Russian Front is measured in weeks. But Sven, Porta, Tiny and The Legionnaire fight to the end, not for Germany, not for Hitler, but for survival.
WHEELS OF TERROR is a sobering depiction of war's brutalities, and the violence and inhumanity that the history books leave out.
all other human beings, but - a large but - a sinister but - this particular being wore a black leather coat, patent-leather boots, Sam Browne and gold stars on plaited silver shoulder-tabs. To Reinhardt he was God, Devil, World, Power, Death, Life, everything connected with destruction, torture, promotion, degradation and, last but not least, he was able to pronounce the few words which could send a certain Sergeant Reinhardt to a battle unit. Behind that, under its ghostly snow, waited the
his knees with blood spurting from his nose. Quietly The Old Un stepped out of the column and with the barrel of his pistol pointing at the kneeling giant said calmly: 'Get up and join the ranks where you belong, or we'll kill you. If you're not in place in ten seconds, I shoot!' Tiny stood shakily up and growled, but a well-timed thrust from the muzzle of The Old Un's pistol silenced him. 'Split up,' von Barring's voice came out of the darkness. 'Put the fags out.' Whee! Crump! exploded a
bushes half-asleep on top of our weapons. Every sinew and muscle ached. Some civilians had not been able to keep up with the tough-trained troops who were now lying on the edge of the forest waiting for darkness. Porta removed his boots. His feet were bloody. Carefully he cut the lacerated skin away with his combat-knife. He sniffed it with interest, nodded with satisfaction and went on cutting. 'Doesn't it hurt?' asked Tiny, who was sitting with his legs outstretched chewing a piece of wood.
these boys become unemployed they look for something that compares favourably with the lazy officer-life. And what does? A parson's life, dear friends. Nowhere else can a man nurse his laziness so well and also camouflage his stupidity. Another thing too: remember how simple souls look up to the cloth. On top of that the devil-dodgers are able to tell people off from the pulpit without anybody answering back - it reminds them of barracks tyranny.' Peters went on with his tragic tale: 'Little by
into their positions behind the main front-line without a single shot, and had travelled in route-formation. We could easily have shot them all as they stood round the tanks. But firstly, firing was forbidden, and secondly I don't think one of us had the heart to fire at these nosy colleagues standing there joking and teasing us. Over an hour passed. Then a terrible swearing started up in front of the column. Shots were fired. Some machine-guns coughed hoarsely. We disappeared into our tanks