Quartered Safe Out Here: A Harrowing Tale of World War II

Quartered Safe Out Here: A Harrowing Tale of World War II

George MacDonald Fraser

Language: English

Pages: 264

ISBN: 1629142034

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


George MacDonald Fraser—beloved for his series of Flashman historical novels—offers an action-packed memoir of his experiences in Burma during World War II. Fraser offers a firsthand glimpse at the camaraderie, danger, and satisfactions of service. A substantial epilogue, occasioned by the fiftieth anniversary of V-J Day in 1995, adds poignancy to a volume that eminent military historian John Keegan described as “one of the great personal memoirs of the Second World War.”

In this rattling-good memoir, novelist, historian, and screenwriter Fraser vividly recounts the nerve-racking frontline action he saw while serving as a nineteen-year-old soldier during what turned out to be the last great land campaign of World War II—the British army’s ferocious campaign against the Japanese in Burma. The realism of his story, combined with the skills of a talented novelist, create a book of sentiment and excitement. This is unforgettable reading, both for fans of Fraser’s novels and for anyone interested in one of the great battles of World War II.

Skyhorse Publishing, along with our Arcade, Good Books, Sports Publishing, and Yucca imprints, is proud to publish a broad range of biographies, autobiographies, and memoirs. Our list includes biographies on well-known historical figures like Benjamin Franklin, Nelson Mandela, and Alexander Graham Bell, as well as villains from history, such as Heinrich Himmler, John Wayne Gacy, and O. J. Simpson. We have also published survivor stories of World War II, memoirs about overcoming adversity, first-hand tales of adventure, and much more. While not every title we publish becomes a New York Times bestseller or a national bestseller, we are committed to books on subjects that are sometimes overlooked and to authors whose work might not otherwise find a home.

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do you want to know?” That makes them think.) Such considerations don’t arise when the human target appears in the V of the backsight. You’re just thankful for the chance and concentrate on keeping the aim steady – which is not easy when you’re excited, and fearful that they’ll get away. First pressure and second pressure is all very well for the first five shots, but by the time I was at the bottom of my magazine I must have been snatching at the trigger, and Nick was pausing between shots to

many rupees it would take to buy a Japanese .300 rifle. Nine Section weren’t at the pits; they had walked across to the main highway, a battered bit of tarmac which wouldn’t have qualified as a B road at home. Men were marching down it, past our positions and towards the town, long lines of jungle green and bush-hats, one section on the right margin of the road, the next on the left, the third on the right, and so on — that way you don’t eat the dust of the section in front. They were swinging

deluge comes with a great roar, crashing against the leaves and rebounding from the earth for perhaps a minute — after that the earth is under a skin of water which looks as though it’s being churned up by buckshot. Before you know it you are sodden and streaming, the fire’s out, the level in the brew tin is rising visibly, and the whole clearing is a welter of soaked blaspheming men trying to snatch arms and equipment from the streams coursing underfoot. The din is deafening, partly from the

my back. When you’ve just escaped from your teens you have doubts about your ability to control and direct that kind of hard-bitten gang for two days in the field, there and back across twenty-odd miles of roughish country. However, the officer, who was possibly even more nervous than I was, seemed to take me for granted; he gave me a map and a compass and wished me luck, and Hutton cuffed my shoulder and said: “Awreet, son? Tek time, stick wid the river, an’ ye’ll be fine. Aye, and see if ye can

training combined, for I was scrabbling my rifle forward as I fell and turned together. And I can see him now, and he doesn’t improve with age. Five yards away, not far from where the bunkers must have been, a Jap was looking towards us. Half his naked torso was visible over the lip of the bank – how the hell he had climbed up there, God knows – and he was in the act of raising a large dark object, about a foot across, holding it above his head. I had a glimpse of a contorted yellow face before

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