Cauldron of Blood by Leo Kessler Page A

opponent — then if he wasn’t, the lights gave away his position completely.
    The gunner needed no urging. He jerked back the firing bar. The gun erupted. The breech shot backwards, ejecting the glistening golden shell-case with a stream of smoke and clatter of metal onto the steel floor.
    ‘ Dead on, gunner!’ Peiper cried joyously, as the anti-tank gun exploded in a ball of angry red-flame, its barrel peeling back like a skinned banana, its crew flying to all sides in a mess of flailing arms and legs. ‘Now the shit will really hit the fan!’
    Peiper was not exaggerating.
    Flame began to stab the darkness on all sides. Abruptly the night was hideous with the noise of battle, as tracer and shell zipped back and forth, with the V-shaped Panthers firing to both sides like old-style men-of-war. They relentlessly pushed forward towards the crest and the relative safety they hoped to find on the other side.
    Metal clanged against metal. At the right side of Peiper’s head, the inner wall of the turret glowed an angry red. They had been struck by anti-tank shell. Would it penetrate ? the frightening thought flashed through his brain. If it did, then within seconds every man in the tank would be a moaning, mangled wreck, for the shell would fly round and round in the confined space, ripping man and metal apart.
    With a howl, the shell ricocheted off the sloping metal of the turret. Peiper breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his brow. They’d got away with it once again.
    Now the flying V started to slow down, as the lead tanks hit the incline that led up to the tree lined ridge. Peiper’s brow creased in an anxious frown. This would be the spot where the trouble could really start. Any Popov hero with a grenade could hit them at this slow speed. ‘Gunner,’ he ordered, ‘man the m.g. Keep your eyes peeled for infantry.’
    ‘ Sir!’
    Knowing the risk he was taking, for the Soviets had excellent snipers, Peiper threw back the hatch cover and peered over the edge of the turret.
    Behind him, the timber bridge, or what was left of it, was burning fiercely, outlining the dark shapes of men running everywhere. Hastily he counted the number of tanks crawling up the slope behind him. He nodded his head in silent approval. They were all still there. Then he concentrated on his front, as below him the driver slammed through the gears and the tank’s progress up the steep slope was reduced to almost a walking pace.
    It happened so abruptly that he was almost caught off guard. Suddenly, a dark shape raced out of a hole and was pelting towards the command tank. Expertly, he ran right up the steep glacis like a bold child might do up a slide and was on the deck, sticky anti-tank grenade clutched in his hand. At the very last moment, Peiper automatically whipped out his pistol and pumped a wild volley at the Russian. He screamed shrilly, his hands clawing the air, as if he were climbing the rungs of an invisible ladder. Next instant he was over the side and being churned to a bloody pulp by the tracks of the following tank. But the bold Russian was only one of several. Now the bombers were streaking out of their hiding places all around the slow tank formation, running forward, ducked low against the hail of tracer and desperately attempting to fix their sticky grenades to the Panthers’ sides.
    Man after man was bowled over by the hail of fire. Then tragedy struck the little force. Even above the racket kicked up by his command tank, Peiper could hear the fatal clang of metal adhering to metal. Just behind him in the second Panther, one of the attackers had managed to attach a sticky grenade to its side — there was no mistaking the noise as the powerful magnets made contact. He swung about and fired a burst from his pistol at the running man. Too late! He ducked into a shell-hole out of sight. ‘ Bail out ... bail out ...’ Peiper screamed hopelessly. The crew of the other tank had buttoned