Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

The black wolf took its chance and launched itself at him. Anatole grunted as it slammed into him, surprised by its weight. Both of them went over, the wolf skidding on the slippery ground, the young Russian swiping at it with the spear. He almost smiled as he saw the double-edged blade slice through the animal’s rump. The wolf growled and spun round, launching itself a second time and, this time, Anatole felt a crushing, vice-like grip on his shoulder as the wolf fastened its huge jaws on his clavicle. He grabbed it by the ears and pulled as hard as he could, the fetid breath of the wolf strong in his face. With a roar he succeeded in tugging it free but, as he scrambled to his feet, it came at him again.

He pulled the second stake from his belt and lashed out at the attacking wolf, catching it in the belly. There was a noise like tearing fabric and the animal’s stomach seemed to split, spilling blood and entrails all over the snow and over Anatole who rolled to one side, grasping for the spear.

The wolf was on all-fours, a puddle of blood spreading out around it. The youth rubbed his shoulder, thankful that his opponent’s powerful jaws had not broken the skin. Then he approached the dying wolf, straddled it and, almost with relish, drove the knife into it at the base of the neck.

He stepped back exhausted and looked at the mangled body of the deer. It was no good to him.

He wondered how wolf would taste.

Anatole stood mesmerised, gazing at the two horses tethered to the tree. One was a magnificent bay, the other a smaller but no less imposing black stallion. He looked around him, moving towards the animals slowly, the spear gripped tight in his fist. It was as he drew closer that he noticed the horses bore harness and, slung across their backs were thick saddle cloths. There were leather saddles on both of them and, across each, lay a PPSh sub-machine gun. Beside the left stirrup strap of each saddle was a small ‘bucket’ and Anatole guessed that a lance fitted into it when not in use.

He stepped back when one of the horses whinneyed loudly. There were no markings on the saddle cloths to tell him whether the animals belonged to Russian or German riders. They looked like cossack horses but could just as well have been taken by desperate Germans. He turned to leave.

The man on the horse behind him was tall, bearded and wore a plain grey overcoat. He had a lance lowered menacingly at Anatole’s chest. The boy, seeing how dense the woods were, decided that he had a chance of escape and turned, running as fast as he could towards the thickly bunched firs. The horseman smiled as he watched him run then he dug spurs into his mount and set off after the boy. The trees didn’t seem to bother the horseman who kept low in the saddle avoiding any branches, allowing his horse to pick its way through the icy woodland.

Anatole looked round in horror to see that the rider was still after him and, furthermore, a clearing was approaching.

The terrified youngster burst from the trees and froze. His jaw dropped open in shock and surprise.

The clearing was full of cossacks. Some astride their mounts, others standing around in groups talking, smoking, eating.

Heads turned in his direction as he blundered out from the trees, followed a second later, by his pursuer. Anatole had forgotten about the horseman until he felt a lance point prodding him in the back. He spun round so fast that his feet slipped from beneath him and went sprawling. A chorus of laughter greeted his trip but the youth didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He jumped up and ran and, if not for a powerful pair of arms encircling his waist and pulling him up onto the horse, he might have made it back into the woods.

“Stop struggling,” a voice told him. He looked up to see that it was his pursuer who had lifted him onto his saddle. Now Anatole sat motionless as the big cossack walked his horse up the slight incline, through the ranks of his comrades towards a group of dismounted men who were standing around a map.

“Major,” the cossack called and one of the group turned.

He was a big man, in his forties with a thick growth of beard greying in places. He wore a patch over his left eye and, as the cossack approached, he stood, splay-legged, hands on his hips and smiling broadly.

“What have you got, Petrovski?” asked the one-eyed man.

“A prisoner I think, Major,” said the cossack, grinning. He pushed Anatole off the horse and the youth landed with a thump at the Major’s feet.

“I think he looks like a German,” said the Major, dragging the boy to his feet and showing him to the other officers nearby. “What do you think, Kuragin?”

A huge man with a red beard and a black fur hat stepped forward and Anatole shuddered as he saw the second cossack officer draw his sabre from its scabbard. There was a metallic hiss as the metal came free, winking in the weak sunlight.

“I think he looks like a German too,” said Kuragin, smiling. He pressed the point of his sabre lightly beneath Anatole’s chin and looked into the boy’s eyes.

“I’m not a German,” rasped the youth, pulling free.

“He’s strong,” said Kuragin.

The major waved a hand in front of his nose.

“I’ll say he’s strong,” he said. “I haven’t smelt anything so strong since I left my father’s farm.”

The men round about began to laugh.

“I’m no German,” said Anatole, angrily. “You all know I’m not.”

“You could be a spy,” said Kuragin.

The youth glared at him.

“Where did you find him?” the major asked, turning to Petrovski.

“In the woods, admiring Brosesku’s horse,” the cossack said.

“Why did you run, boy?” the major wanted to know.

“I was afraid,” Anatole told him. “I didn’t know if the horses might belong to Germans.”

The one-eyed officer stroked his beard and nodded.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Anatole Boniak.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Well then, seventeen-year-old Anatole Boniak, what are you doing out here in the woods dressed in bearskin and smelling like a dead wolf?” The major smiled.

“Have you heard of a village called Prokev?” the youth asked.

From the expression which crossed the major’s face and the weary nod of his head, Boniak could tell that he had.

“We rode through there two days ago,” said the officer.

The youth explained what happened and how he came to be alone in the hills. Those cossacks within earshot listened intently. When he had finished, the major put one hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he said. Then he turned to two of his men. “See that the boy is taken back safely to the nearest village.”

Boniak pulled away.

“No,” he rasped. “Why can’t I ride with you?”

“What we do is the work of men not children,” said the one-eyed officer.

“I am no child. I have survived out here, alone, for all this time. I have done what many men could not have done.”

“But killing is not the business of children,” the major insisted.

“MY mother and father were murdered by the SS. I have a right to revenge. You cannot stop me.”

“Have you ever killed a man?” the major demanded.

Boniak shook his head.

“Your enemies have been wolves, deer and bear. There is more to killing a man than killing an animal.”

“Just who are you anyway?” the boy demanded.

“My name is Namarov. Major Andrei Namarov. These are my men.” He motioned around him.

“Are you regular army?” Boniak asked.

“No,” snapped Kuragin. “We would no more fight for that bastard butcher Stalin than we would for Hitler. I lost two brothers in the purges.”