"Masterton, Graham - The Devils of D-Day" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

ARMY OF EVIL...

At the bridge of Le Vey in July I944, thirteen black tanks smashed through the German lines in an unstoppable all-destroying fury ride. Leaving hundreds of Hitler's soldiers horribly dead.

Thirty-five years later, Dan McCook visited that area of Normandy on an investigation of the battle site. There he found a rusting tank by the roadside that was perfectly sealed, upon its turret a protective crucifix. Sceptical, he dared open it, releasing upon himself and the innocents who had helped him an unimaginable horror that led back to that black day in I944. And re-opened the ages-old physical battle between the world and Evil Incarnate...

From today's master of the occult thriller, here is a riveting, mega-chill novel of modern-day demonism.

THE DEVILS OF D-DAY

IS ABOUT A NEW SATANIC KIND OF WAR.










AUTHOR'S NOTE



All of the devils and demons that appear in this book are legendary creatures of hell, and there is substantial recorded evidence of their existence. For that reason, it is probably inadvisable to attempt to conjure up any of them by repeating out loud the incantations used in the text, which are also genuine.

I would like to point out that the Pentagon and the British Ministry of Defence strenuously deny the events described here, but I leave you to draw your own conclusions.

- Graham Masterton, London, I979











CHAPTER ONE



I could see them coming from almost a mile away: two small muffled figures on bicycles, their scarves wound tightly around their faces, pedalling between the white winter trees. As they came nearer, I could hear them talking, too, and make out the clouds of chilly vapour that clung around their mouths. It was Normandy in December - misty and grey as a photograph - and a sullen red sun was already sinking behind the forested hills. Apart from the two French labourers cycling slowly towards me, I was alone on the road, standing with my surveyor's tripod in the crisp frosted grass, my rented yellow Citroen 2CV parked at an ungainly angle on the nearby verge. It was so damned cold that I could hardly feel my hands or my nose, and I was almost afraid to stamp my feet in case my toes broke off.

The men came nearer. They were old, with donkey-jackets and berets, and one of them was carrying a battered army rucksack on his back with a long French loaf sticking out of it. Their bicycle tyres left white furry tracks on the hoar frost that covered the road. There wasn't much traffic along here, in the rural depths of the Suisse Normande, except for occasional tractors and even more occasional Citroen-Maseratis zipping past at ninety miles an hour in blizzards of ice.

I called, 'Bonjour, messieurs,' and one of the old men slowed his bicycle and dismounted. He wheeled his machine right up to my tripod and said, 'Bonjour, monsieur, Qu'est-ce que vous faites?'