Cauldron of Blood (17 page)

And
all the while, the emaciated men in the trenches, who had not expected to outlive this day cheered and cheered....

*

Peiper eyed the burning horizon with grim pleasure, not because he delighted in killing his fellow human beings, but because he knew that this slaughter of the Russian armour would undoubtedly save what was left of the German garrison down below. Now he judged it was time to move again, before the enemy guns ranged in on them or the Russians sent in dive-bombers. He pressed his throatmike.

  ‘
Excellent, excellent!’ he snapped. ‘Remind me to send you a letter of recommendation one of these days. It will look nice in your papers.’ Next to him the smoke-begrimed, sweating gunner chuckled throatily and told himself the Old Man was a complete cynic. Peiper’s voice hardened. ‘To all, we’re going on now. Alternate HE for their stubble-hoppers and AP for their armour. Advance now. Over and out — and good hunting!’ He kicked the driver’s right shoulder. ‘Carbide... carbide!’

The
driver didn’t need the codeword for accelerate to get him moving. He, too, was eager to get out of their present stationary position before the Ivans reacted. He rammed home first gear and revved the great 400 HP engine.

The
Panther reared up out of its cover, scattering snow and soil everywhere. Peiper hung on, his gaze fixed on the burning T-34s above him. The driver hit the gas. The Panther started to crawl up the steep incline more rapidly. It swung by the blazing command tank, its commander burning steadily, slumped over the glowing turret, blue flames wreathing his charred head. Tracer rattled along the turret. Peiper ignored it. Only a direct hit with a heavy calibre shell could stop the Panther.

A
T-34 spotted the Panther advancing towards it. Its driver smashed home reverse and it backed off, firing as it went, cutting a great swathe of screaming dying soldiers through the infantry which had been following it.

Peiper
pressed the throatmike. ‘To all. Close up now!’ he ducked instinctively as the first 105 mm shell zoomed overhead with a hoarse exultant scream. ‘They’re ranging in, halftracks in the middle.
CHARGE
!’

In
a tight V the Panthers swept forward, rattling at top speed across the steppe, their guns blazing to left and right, with the gunners in the halftracks scything the Russian tank crews who were scurrying for cover on all sides with their machine guns.

T-34
after T-34 was hit. At that range the Panthers could not miss, although they did not stop and fire as was standard operating procedure, but fired on the move, their gunners desperately trying to keep their long cannon on their targets as the tanks bucked up and down across the uneven steppe. Hulls bulged under the tremendous impact of the one hundred pound shells. Molten steel rolled down to the decks from burning turrets like red-hot tears. Chassis shook crazily and disintegrated showering the snow with burning oil and gas. Now it was no longer a battle — it was a massacre.

*

‘Oh, it is a great killing... a great killing indeed!’ the Spanish Major chortled, jumping up and down with excitement like a wildly enthusiastic spectator at one of his homeland’s bullfights, the cork forgotten now.

‘
Don’t piss yerself!’ Matz said contemptuously, but even he could not refrain from shouting out aloud, every time another enemy tank was struck and the Panthers emerged unscathed from beneath the thick, black, oily smoke.

And
then the relief force was through and Schulze could make out the skeleton key insignia of the SS’s premier armoured division on the side of the leading Panther. ‘It’s the Bodyguard, Matzi,’ he exclaimed. ‘The Bodyguard!’

‘
Those shits,’ Matz responded, not too impressed. ‘The old Flat-Foot Guards!’

But
even the cynical little corporal was impressed when the lead Panther braked to a stop in a flurry of snow and the turret opened to reveal a well-known, handsome face, smiling down at the wildly enthusiastic soldiers on the ground.

‘
Peiper,’ he whispered in awe. ‘
Obersturmbannfuhrer
Peiper. Now I know we’re gonna live to see nineteen-forty-three....’

THE
BIG BREAKOUT

‘Sometimes, mates, even generals wet their bloomers.’

The
Sayings
of
Sergeant
Schulze

ONE

The
balding, bespectacled radio operator was bored. It had been a long night and there had been little doing. Ever since the Kessel had been closed, the front had seemed to have gone to sleep. If it had not been for the fact that the Fireball had a nasty habit of sneaking out to do the rounds of the regiment’s various positions and duty stations at odd times, he would have attempted to have had a little nap on the pile of sacks at the back of the radio shack. Now he could hardly wait for the first cup of steaming hot nigger sweat. Ersatz though it was, it was still warm and wet. He licked his dry lips in anticipation and turned once again to the well-thumbed pornographic novel in the plain-brown cover which was kept permanently in the radio shack on Fireball’s orders. It was supposed to keep the duty radio operator on night shift awake.

  ‘
Countess
von
Bassewitz
reclined
on
her
chaise
-
longue
once
more
,
clad
but
in
a
sheer
black
negligee
and
riding
boots
,
toying
with
her
cruel
-
looking
riding
crop
,
while
young
Fritz
gazed
up
at
her
magnificent
body
,
his
innocent
,
beardless
face
a
mixture
of
fear
and
admiration
...’

The
radio operator closed his weary eyes and recited the next bit by heart; he had read the book often enough. ‘“You are now to be my slave, young sir,” the Countess said in that deep commanding voice of hers, “to carry out my every whim and order without the slightest hesitation. Or else!” Playfully she flicked the lash across his slim young boyish shoulder, and for the first time he enjoyed the delightful pleasure of the whip...’

The
radio operator opened his eyes suddenly and forgot Countess von Bassewitz and her long-winded initiation of young Fritz von Hase. Opposite him the radio receiver had begun to crackle. Mindful of Fireball’s notoriously bad temper, the operator flung himself behind the receiver and started to adjust the dials in order to increase the volume.

The
voice was very faint and distorted by static, but one word that he did manage to grasp was sufficient to make the operator gasp and use all his skill to obtain the message. It was Peiper....

*

‘
Peiper
!’ Fireball exploded, his face brick-red. He dropped the leg of wild duck he had been nibbling for his breakfast. ‘Did you say Peiper?’

‘
Yessir,’ the radio operator answered unhappily, telling himself that the Old Man did himself pretty well for a frontline commander. On the table before him were the remnants of a game-pie, as well as a huge hunk of goat-cheese, plus a half-empty bottle of red wine.

Fireball
snapped his fingers irritably. ‘And what did the arrogant SS swine have to say — read it to me, man, I haven’t the patience for it.’

‘It’s in clear, sir.’

‘
Natürlich
,’ Fireball sneered. ‘Do you think that pig pays any attention to army regulations? You know what happened at the bridge? Friend Peiper is a law to himself.’ He reached over and poured himself a large cognac. ‘Read!’

The
operator raised the flimsy while Fireball watched him moodily, sipping his cognac. ‘I don’t know whether I got it all sir. There was a lot of interference and the signal was very weak, but it goes something like this. “Battle Group Peiper reached Fedorovka — blank”, I didn’t get the next word, sir.’

‘
Oh, in three devils’ name, get on with it!’

‘“
Garrison in poor shape. Many casualties. Ammunition and food supplies... blank”.’

‘
Low,’ Fireball supplied the word automatically and took another drink of the fiery spirit.

‘
“Request anyone” — I think he means anyone receiving this message sir “— to forward to SS Corps Dietrich. Demand immediate relief”.’

‘
Demand
immediate
relief
!’ Fireball exploded, his blood-shot eyes almost popping out of his head. ‘What sheer blind arrogance! He just doesn’t care that the Popovs will be waiting for any relief force. After all the red bastards have got radios too, haven’t they operator?’

‘
Yessir,’ the soldier agreed miserably, knowing that the sting was in the tail of the message and Fireball never liked being stung.

Fireball
tossed off the rest of the cognac in one quick gulp and smirked suddenly, his little eyes evil and malicious.

‘
Right,’ he snapped, ‘I have made my decision. Operator you never received that message. At the time it was sent you were unfortunately detained by a long session in the thunderbox or were enjoying yourself with the one-handed widow. You look the weedy type who would enjoy that kind of solitary pleasure!’ Fireball laughed uproariously at his own crude humour. ‘So that’s it. Peiper can roast in hell out there for all I care.’

‘
But there’s radio log, sir,’ the red-faced operator protested.

‘
I shit on the log, operator,’ Fireball replied in high, good-humour. ‘It won’t be the first time we have faked such things in this regiment, you know.’ He beamed at the soldier.

‘
There’s something else, sir,’ the operator quavered.

‘
What, pray?’

‘
The message isn’t complete.’

‘
Well, don’t just stand there like a fart waiting to hit the shithouse wall, man, read it to me.’

Hesitantly,
already dreading the tremendous explosion which would occur when Fireball realized that his hand was being forced, the operator looked down at the flimsy once more. ‘“Among the — blank —“’

‘
Garrison, perhaps?’

‘
Yes, garrison, sir, there is Gauleiter Kirn....’

‘
Great God in Heaven,’ Fireball thundered, the veins throbbing an angry purple at his temples,
‘
Munich
-
Kim
,
the
missing
golden
pheasant
!’

‘
Yessir,’ the operator said in a small voice, not daring to look up any more as Fireball reached over and seizing the cognac bottle took a great enraged swig from the neck, ‘And the message ends with, “
Please
inform
the
Fuhrer
at
once
!”’

Hastily
the operator ducked, as Fireball flung the bottle at him, his face steaming with rage with the knowledge that his hand had been forced....

*

Dietrich frowned and strode the length of the big conference room, while his staff watched him apprehensively. Dietrich had been Peiper’s commander ever since the eighteen-year-old officer-cadet had joined the
Bodyguard
back in 1933, but the Commanding General did not particularly like his youngest colonel. Peiper was too smart and too distant for the Bavarian bully-boy whose highest military rank in the Regular Army had been that of a sergeant-major. General Dietrich liked men of his own sort: womanizers and hard-drinkers, given to dirty stories and scatological jokes.

Dietrich
suddenly paused and his officers waited expectantly, knowing that if he could get out of it, the commanding general would not aid Peiper; he would be very happy to let the young colonel stew in his own juice to teach him a lesson.   ‘
Unmöglich
!’ he snapped in his thick Bavarian accent. ‘Quite impossible!’

‘
There is Munich-Kirn, Sepp,’ Panzermeyer reminded him, his hands moving nervously, as he tried to suppress that electric energy of his.

‘
I don’t care if he’s got the
Reichsheini
out there with him, it’s still impossible. The men are exhausted and at the most I’ve got seventy runners, to tackle a whole Ivan Army out in the Kessel.’ He slapped his side with his big butcher’s fist. ‘I might be an SS general, but I’m not Jesus Christ or a miracle worker, Panzermeyer.’

‘
I know, I know, Sepp,’ Panzermeyer said soothingly, lowering his voice as he did so, something very difficult for such a vital man. ‘But you know once this gets to the Fuhrer, he will demand action.’

Around
the dark-eyed colonel, the other staff officers nodded their approval. Panzermeyer was using exactly the right tactic. If anybody was going to save Peiper now, it would be Adolf Hitler. Sepp Dietrich was unimpressed.

‘
You need not tell me anything about the Fuhrer or that blown-up baker-boy, Kirn, Panzermeyer,’ he snorted. ‘I knew them both when you were still pissing in yer pants.’

Panzermeyer
flushed and Dietrich laughed coarsely.

‘
I could tell you some tales about both of them which would make your hair curl, but I won ‘t. All right,’ he made his decision, ‘we’ll kick the problem upstairs.’ He swung round on his excellent cynical chief-of-staff Lammerding. ‘Lammerding, inform the Fuhrer HQ of the situation, inform them of our situation here in the
SS
Panzer
Korps
and tell them we have exactly thirty runners in the whole Corps—’

‘
Thirty, General?’

‘
You heard me –
thirty
!’ Dietrich snapped. ‘And let Adolf decide.’ He grinned at the use of the first name, knowing it would shock them to hear the Fuhrer addressed thus.

Panzermeyer
breathed out a sigh of relief. The rescue of the youngest member of the old ‘Flat-Foot Guards’ had been taken a stage further.

*

It was already late afternoon at the Fuhrer HQ located near the Ukrainian town of Vinnitsa, when the signal from SS Corps HQ reached the place. It was already dark when the message was passed on to Hitler’s Chief-of-Staff Colonel-General Jodl.

In
his usual cold-eyed manner, his deathly pale face revealing nothing, Jodl studied it while Keitel, Hitler’s Chief Military Adviser, who already knew its contents, watched him, waiting as always for his subordinate to make the decision. Inside the timbered map-room there was silence, disturbed only by the excited barking of Blondi, Hitler’s alsatian bitch, as the Fuhrer, as merry as a schoolboy, threw snowballs for it to run after.

Jodl
placed the message on the desk and looked at the immensely tall, wooden-faced Keitel, who toadied to Hitler’s every wish, knowing exactly what the Chief Military Adviser wanted from him, but perversely not wishing to make it easy for his superior. ‘Kirn,’ he mused after a few moments, ‘a baker by trade, I believe.’ Inwardly, he smiled, knowing that Keitel was a tremendous snob and would writhe at having to plead with him on behalf of such a person.

Outside
the Fuhrer was gasping to one of his enormously tall aides, busy forming the snowballs for his master to throw at the yapping alsatian, ‘Most times you can’t trust a man, not to mention a woman, Lieutenant, but you can always trust a dog, can’t you, my sweet little Blondi? ‘

‘
What a soft sentimentalist he really is, this Master of Western Europe!’ Jodl told himself and he began to toy with Keitel. ‘Naturally the Fuhrer will immediately demand the sending of troops to relieve the Godforsaken place once he hears this baker chappie is there,’ he said.

‘
Of course, of course,’ Keitel said eagerly, his wooden-face showing as much animation as it could ever show.

‘
But naturally we must drive that idea out of his head,’ Jodl snapped.

Keitel
‘s face dropped. ‘Why?’ he asked crestfallen.

‘
Because we haven’t got the troops to involve ourselves in an adventure,’ he emphasized the word with a sneer, ‘of that kind. We need everybody we can find to hold the river line. Because that’s where the other chaps will attack next.’

‘
I expect you’re right Jodl, you always are—’

‘
Mostly,’ Jodl agreed, with a little smile on his thin calculating lips, as he wondered how long it would take Keitel to begin his special pleading for the Kirn fellow.

‘
Of course, there is Peiper to consider,’ Keitel countered unexpectedly, ‘I know the Fuhrer regards him highly and he is one of our boldest and best young commanders. He’ll be a general before he’s thirty. The Fuhrer himself told me that.’ He looked expectantly at Jodl.