Cauldron of Blood (13 page)

With
frenzied, hysterical cries wrenched from their gaping mouths, they streamed from both flanks, the deadly glass bottles clenched in their fists, attempting as they ran to continue puffing at the cigarettes and cigars they had clenched to their bottom lips, each of the men armed with the bottles protected by two riflemen.

‘
Give
them
hell
,
spaghetti
-
eaters
!’ the Wotan troopers roared from the cover of their holes, relaxed now that their part of the plan had been carried out successfully. ‘
Make
their
rags
flutter
...
Give ’em
it
up
the
arse
...
Happy
Christmas
,
Ivan
,
here
comes
the
roast
duck
...’

The
massed Russians woke up to the new danger too late. Here and there a gunner ripped off a wild burst and mowed down a couple of the undersized figures racing across the surface of the hard-packed snow. But by now the Spaniards, screaming their battle-cries and prayers to the Holy Virgin were in among the stalled, confused tanks, Molotov cocktails sailing through the air. Everywhere they landed on the flat metal decks of the T-34s, exploding in a burst of ugly yellow, oily flame, instantly swamping the tanks in fire.

At
once all hell broke loose. In an instant the whole first line of tanks was ablaze, with burning tankers dropping off their vehicles to roll back and forth in the snow in exquisite agony, trying to put out the flames or running crazily away from them, trailing the flames behind them until they could not run anymore and lay there moaning as they were consumed by the cruel fire.

A
great sheet of black smoke, tinged with flame, started to rise to the leaden sky, through which came the screams and unearthly whimpering of the dying, blasted apart at regular intervals as yet another T-34 exploded, its tracer ammunition zig-zagging wildly through the smoke like some gigantic pre-war fireworks display.

Schulze
could stand it no longer. With the last of his strength he blew the three shrill blasts on his whistle which were the signal for the Wotan troopers to withdraw and then, sick at heart and drained of all energy, he started to trail back to the little town, followed by a silent Matz, who, like Schulze, tried not to hear those terrible cries which went on and on....

The
defenders had won the first round of the Battle for Fedorovka but in spite of the exited, wildly triumphant ‘vivas’ of the Spaniards who rose from their foxholes to cheer the weary SS veterans, they all knew in their inner hearts that they were doomed. In the end the Russians had to win....

SIX

It was snowing softly again. Thick, wet persistent flakes that would undoubtedly bog down any enemy attack this particular day. Not that the defenders would have cared. There had been so many attacks these last forty-eight hours that they had become hardened to them. Now it was not the Ivans, but the weather which seemed their greatest enemy.

Like
a black cloak, the tremendous frost had folded itself over the bloody, battle-torn steppe the previous night. Now all this long day they had frozen in their holes and trenches, numb with cold, their weapons white and glittering with frost — like Christmas decorations in another and happier time. When they spoke, which was rarely, their breath was as dense as cigarette smoke and solidified on the rims of their helmets in gleaming silver crystals of ice.

Now
the occasional shell which came across from the Russian positions hit the deeply frozen ground with a new hard ringing resonance and the clods of earth and snow thrown up by the explosion were like lumps of concrete.

Heads
tucked deep inside their frozen collars, their shoulders already powdered with the new snow, their footsteps muffled by it, Schulze and Matz did the rounds of the Wotan men.

All
were filthy and lice-ridden, eyes lacklustred, their skin stretched loose over their protruding facial bones, grey with exhaustion and hunger. Schulze plodded on from post to post in silence, noting just how much weight his men had lost in these last forty-eight hours, although the Spaniards had shared their rations with them — a handful of millet boiled in salt water. But it would not take long before the first one would decide he was no longer afraid of death and fall to the ground for good, like an engine that has used its last drop of fuel and will run no more.

It
was the Butcher, who shared a foxhole with the Golden Pheasant (now shrunk so much that his fancy uniform hung around him in loose folds), who finally put his own gloomy thoughts into words.

‘
Schulze, you’ve always had a big trap,’ he growled, wiping his hand across his parched, cracked lips. ‘Well, what about using yer turnip instead of yer trap and providing us with some grub.’

Schulze
looked at him sourly, as the snowflakes whirled around his broad shoulders, but said nothing.

‘
Those cardboard soldiers of yours won’t last much longer if they don’t get something fat and hot between their ribs, yer know,’ the Butcher persisted, while the Golden Pheasant licked his lips sadly, as if remembering better and happier times.

‘
And where do you think we’re gonna get something fat and hot from, eh — from up our candycracks?’ Matz sneered. ‘There ain’t a shining roof-hare left in the whole town! Why the spaghetti-eaters are even sieving the seed from horse-apples and boiling out the flour-glue from wallpaper in order to fill their bellies.’ Matz’s skinny body heaved with the effort of so much explanation.

The
Butcher remained unconvinced. ‘You two are the best skivvers in the whole of Wotan. You always have been and always will be till yer cash in yer chips one of these days.’ He looked challengingly at a wooden-faced Schulze. ‘All right, smart-ass,
skiv
!
Find
us
some
chow
!’

‘
But where?’ Schulze asked almost plaintively, knowing that the big NCO was right. Most of the younger men wouldn’t last much longer without warm food.

The
Butcher ‘s face broke into an ugly grin as he raised his hand and pointed to the east. ‘There, in the Popov lines, smart-ass...’

*

‘Schulze — now!’ Matz hissed.

The
big NCO doubled forward, grateful for the hiss of the falling snow which deadened any sound he might make. The Ivan never knew what hit him. Schulze’s right hand grabbed up and pulled the back of the sentry’s helmet. The strap slipped back and tightened around his adam’s apple, stifling the man’s cry of alarm. Next instant, Schulze’s knee dug into the small of his back. With both hands the big NCO pulled at the rim of the helmet, swiftly garrotting him to death. One minute later Schulze lowered the dead sentry gently to the snow.

For
one moment, the two lone German raiders crouched there on the edge of the Russian encampment, hearts pounding furiously, ears alert for the slightest sound. But there was none, save the howl of the wind, the hiss of the snow, and the muted drunken singing far away.

Matz
pressed his mouth close to Schulze’s right ear. ‘All right?’

‘
All right,’ Schulze whispered back, the words snatched from his mouth by the wind. ‘Move in five metres behind me. Any trouble — use the Hamburg Equalizer.’ He indicated his brass knuckles which now adorned Matz ‘s right fist.

‘
Will do... But watch it, yer big shit. Remember if you don’t bring home the bacon this night, it’s gonna be a piss-poor Christmas.’

Schulze
looked at him aghast, the tension and their present situation forgotten for a moment, ‘What did you say?’

‘
You heard me. Or have you got tin-ears. It’s Christmas Eve tonight.’ Matz replied.

‘
Great God and all His Triangles! Christmas Eve —
was
fur
eine
Bescherung
!’ Schulze exclaimed. ‘Now you lot really have got me by the short and curlies.’

‘
Get on with it, you big oaf,’ Matz hissed urgently and pushed him forward to where there was the faint glimmer of a blacked-out lantern. ‘My guts is doing a double back-flop, I’m so starved. Let’s see what we can get our biters into.’

Together
they plodded through the knee-deep snow, bodies tensed for action and bent double against the driving snow. The going was terrible, but for once Schulze was grateful for the murderous Russian weather — it would undoubtedly keep the Popovs under cover.

Carefully
they skirted the white-covered hump, surrounded by already rusting barbed wire, which would be an advanced Observation Post, their nostrils taking in the typical Popov smell of
Marhorka
and sour black-bread. The place was occupied all right. Now they started to veer to the right, drawn automatically in that direction by the magical smell of cooking.

Closer
and closer they came to it, now aware of muffled voices, occasionally glimpsing a flash of light through the whirling white wall of snow. Suddenly Schulze halted and clasped Matz’s arm in warning. ‘Look!’ he whispered.

‘A
rseholes up —
heil
Amerika
!’ Matz hissed in delight as the snow storm parted for an instant and he could see the two fat-bellied goulash-cannon, tended by three sweating Popovs, bubbling away merrily, as one of them opened the lid of the mobile oven and stirred its contents with a great wooden spoon. ‘
Vittels
!’

‘V
ittels indeed,’ Schulze agreed, ignoring the almost fanatical look which had now appeared in Matz’s eyes, concentrating on sizing up the situation.

To
left and right there were the snow-covered mounds of what were, he knew, Popov dugouts with here and there a tin-pipe chimney sticking up through the snow. They were occupied all right, but assuming the Popov stubble-hoppers were no different from their German equivalents, they’d be hugging the underground warmth this particularly miserable day. If they played their cards right, there would be little difficulty from that quarter.

‘
What yer waiting for, you big barn-shitter?’ Matz hissed urgently. ‘A written invitation! That’s good old giddi-up goulash cooking over there and you’re standing here like a virgin scared to take her knickers off after she’s just seen her first bit of salami.’

‘
I’ll give you a piece of my salami in a minute, right between yer cheeks.’ Schulze growled. ‘A bloke can’t hear himself think with you rabbiting on.’

‘
I didn’t know you loved me, Sergeant Schulze!’ Matz simpered. Schulze made his decision. ‘Matz, we’re taking ’em back with us to the lads.’

‘
The whole lot — goulash-cannon and all!’ Matz hissed incredulously.

‘
The whole shoot!’ Schulze said firmly. ‘This is where we act like a whole sodding army... follow me, my peglegged friend.’

Thus,
before an astonished Matz could stop him, Schulze strode boldly forward into the circle of light cast by the mobile ovens, hands dug deep into his greatcoat pockets, as if he had not a care in the world.

The
three Russians, greasy, unshaven, their uniform stained with cooking in the fashion of army cooks the whole world over, swung round and stared open-mouthed at the gigantic figure in German Army uniform who had appeared from nowhere.

Almost
casually, Schulze commanded: ‘
Rukki
verkh
!’, hands still dug deep into his coat-pockets.

Behind
him Matz watched in amazement, as the three greasy cooks begin to raise their hands, the middle one still holding the ladle with which he had stirred the soup, their dark eyes abruptly full of fear. Schulze did not seem to notice. Instead, he started to rap out commands to left and right, as if the little grove was surrounded by a large force of German infantry, ordering the machine gun section to take up its positions to the rear, hurrying scouts out to both flanks, commanding the radio operator to signal their success to HQ.

Behind
him an impressed Matz whispered, ‘Christ on a crutch, Schulzi, you ought to have been on the stage!’

Schulze
was not listening. His mind was concentrating on the problem of how to get the goulash-cannon safely back to their own lines and whether the three cooks were sufficiently impressed by his little trick to be trusted that far. He decided to make the attempt.

Approaching
a little closer and feeling a little faint as he caught a delicious whiff of the sweet smell of boiling horsemeat, he barked, ‘
Ponemayista
vu
pa
nemeski
!’

The
middle one with the ladle nodded his head cautiously. ‘
Da
,
da
, speak German,’ he said in thick, heavily accented German.

‘
Horoscho
!’ Schulze said and indicated with a nod of his head the three of them could lower their hands. ‘See this?’ he indicated the SS runes on his coat collar. ‘We SS... we killers,’ He drew a thick finger across his throat to make his point quite clear. ‘No prisoners.’

‘
No prisoners,’ the one with the ladle quavered and for one moment Schulze thought he might burst into tears.

‘
But today, German holiday. Christmas Eve,’ he continued, speaking in slow clear whisper so that the cook could understand him. ‘We friends.’

‘
Druga
,’ the cook explained to his terrified comrades and instantly their mood changed and they rolled their eyes and made kissing sounds with their lips, repeating the word several times.

‘
Christ,’ Matz said in disgust, ‘they’re a lot of warm-brothers!’

‘
Knock it off,’ Schulze snarled out of the corner of his mouth. ‘It’s all brotherly love and goodwill to men now.’

He
turned to the beaming Russian cooks once more. ‘You come with us. No harm. German – Russian friend.’

Behind
his back Matz sneered.

Schulze
ignored him, a big fake-smile on his broad face. ‘You help German with food,’ he indicated the bubbling goulash-cannon, ‘we friends.’

‘
Da
,
da
,’ the cooks agreed excitedly. ‘We help.’

Schulze
stepped forward, confident now that he had the situation well in hand. But that was not quite so. He froze suddenly. There was a low menacing growl to his right and from beneath the second goulash-cannon, an ugly beast emerged, ears flat against its wolflike skull, large pointed yellow teeth bared threateningly. Schulze shot a quick glance at the cooks.

‘
Sotnik
dog,’ the one with the ladle explained. ‘
Ne
horosscho
. Bad, bad...’

As
if to emphasize that he was really bad, the evil black dog poked its ugly snout forward and made a quick snap at Schulze’s leg. The big NCO darted back swiftly, hand fumbling for his pistol, while the frustrated animal, cheated of its prey, growled menacingly, its tail rigid in the manner of a dog which is about to do battle.

The
cook raised his ladle. ‘I kill?’ he queried, indicating that he was quite prepared to smash the dog’s head with the heavy wooden instrument.

‘
Yes, you k—’ Schulze caught himself just in time, a sudden unholy smile flashing across his broad face. ‘
No
, no, kill! Take with us.’ He picked up one of the pile of horse-bones which lay on the top of the second goulash cannon and tossed it to the brute. With a reluctant growl the animal squatted in the snow and deigned to accept the bribe. ‘Good doggie,’ Schulze soothed it. ‘Good little doggie. You eat nice and quiet now while Uncle Schulze does a little wheeling-and-dealing.’