Free Cauldron of Blood by Leo Kessler Page B

then nodded to the young lieutenant who was going to lead the advance. ‘Give them every chance,’ he ordered. ‘Every chance possible, but,’ he hesitated momentarily. ‘But if they don’t get out of the way, you know what to do?’
    ‘ I know, sir,’ the teenage second-lieutenant said suddenly realizing that he was going into action for the first time — against his own people! He clambered inside the turret, slipped on his earphones and mike. Giving the controls in the turret a quick check, he ordered: ‘Carbide!’
    Peiper smiled momentarily. Like all greenhorns, the youngster tried to cover his inexperience by using the old soldier’s slang. He stepped back hurriedly as the Panther’s motors roared into violent life, its exhausts spouting thick blue streams of smoke as it started to rattle down the snow-covered slope towards the bridge.
    Peiper climbed up to his own position in the turret of the command-tank and said through the intercom: ‘To all. We’re going in. As soon as we’ve passed our own lines, button up and keep your eyes skinned. There’ll be three days inside the building for anyone who manages to let some Ivan pop an anti-tank grenade up his arse. Over.’
    There were chuckles everywhere.
    ‘ All right, roll ’em! Over and out !’
    *
    ‘ Wer da ?’ The challenge came just as the Panther swung around the ninety-degree angle, spraying up snow and mud on both sides, and came to a noisy halt just in front of the barbed-wire hurdle which barred the entrance to the bridge. On either side were two dug-in 57 mm anti-tank cannons. The young lieutenant blinked as the bright light caught him directly in the eyes.
      ‘ For god’s sake, douse that shitting light!’ he cried. ‘You want every Ivan this side of Moscow to see us?’
    The man with the light, who had challenged them, a burly bearded middle-aged man, laughed heartily. ‘What makes you think they don’t know all about us already, sonny boy?’ he demanded, but he lowered the torch.
    ‘ Don ‘t call me sonny boy. I am a German officer.’
    ‘ Yes, and I’m the shitting Queen of the May, sonny boy !’ the bearded man replied easily. There was a low, tired rumble of laughter from the anti-tank gunners on both sides of the road.
    ‘ Listen, old Fireball has told us all about you young fellas from the SS. We know you’re full of piss and vinegar like all the SS, ready to die for Folk, Fatherland and Fuhrer so that yer mothers can collect a bit of tin and stick in a cupboard to gather dust — when yer dead. But I’ll tell you this, sonny boy. I’ve been out here since 1941 and before that I was in France and Jugoslavia and Greece and all the rest of those shitty places. I’ve got a whole shitting room of tin. You can have it if you want. But understand this, kid, you’re not passing this point as long as old Fireball is in charge here.’ The hardness disappeared from the old soldier’s voice to be replaced by a tone of understanding. ‘Don’t try to shit old heads like me and the rest of the boys. Go back to where you came from and forget all about it.’
    Trying to fight back his tears at this unfair treatment, the young officer had the presence of mind to kick the driver down below in his compartment with his right foot — the signal to keep moving forward.
    Gently the driver eased off his brakes and almost imperceptibly the Panther rolled a few centimetres closer to the barbed-wire hurdle which barred the entrance.
    With surprising speed for his age, the man with the lamp flashed up his machine pistol, snapping off the safety-catch as he did so. ‘I’m warning you, sonny boy. Another move like that — and I’ll fillet yer! SS lieutenant or not, I’ve got my orders. I’ll feed yer lead as soon as I look at yer.’
    ‘B ut we’re only trying to do our duty,’ the young officer cried, his voice a mixture of rage, frustration and desperation. Already he could hear the rest of the small task-group clattering down