An extract from the latest Sven Hassel book, Division of the Damned, a searing insight into the frightful tribulations of the poor modern Premiership footballer, who apparently has to endure a terrible existence based upon army life.

Standardenfuhrer Wenger surveyed his group of men who had assembled in front of him in a perfectly straight line. The long scar that ran in a jagged streak from his forehead, over his right eye and all the way down his face to his chin seemed even more redder and uglier than usual. He walked slowly in front of them, looking them over in his habitual contempt. ‘You pathetic scum!’ he yelled. ‘I have never seen a more disgusting collection of uselessness in my life!’ With his top lip curled in disgust, he halted in front of a trembling young man who had become the epitome of fear.

‘You!’ Wenger shrieked. ‘What is your name?’
‘Private Ljungberg, sir! Swedish Squad!’
‘Why were you not part of our last attack?’
‘I lay injured in action, Herr Standardenfuhrer!’
‘And what was the extent of your injury, you dog?’
‘I… I...’

The silver skull and crossbones on Wenger’s immaculate black peaked cap seemed to be laughing at Ljungberg.

‘Spit it out, you vermin!’ The Standardenfuhrer roared.
‘I… had a sore leg, sir.’
‘A sore leg!’ Wenger screamed. ‘You were lying down on the field of glory because your leg was sore!’
‘Well, it was really sore and…’
‘Silence, you swine!’

Wenger slowly circled around the trembling Swede, his nostrils quivering at the young man’s dread. Finally, he stopped in front of Ljungberg and with malicious glee said, ‘I’m transferring you to the East End front.’

‘You don’t mean…’
‘Yes! You will leave immediately for West Ham!’
‘No, Standardenfuhrer! Please, I beg you! It will mean certain oblivion! I will never be heard of again!’
‘Akers, Primorac!’ Wenger barked to his henchmen. ‘Take him away!’

He turned to the rest of the group, their faces ashen with terror. ‘Let that be a lesson for you all!’ he bawled. ‘Now, singing practice. After me: Oh, Ashley Cole, is a …’