Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

Namarov nodded slowly and drew his sabre, advancing on the youth who did likewise. Namarov struck downwards and the boy parried it, the impact making his hand ring. He ducked as a second measured swipe missed his head by inches. Then he struck out with his own blade, aiming for Namarov’s side but the major twisted round and struck the blade away, countering with a thrust that would, if it had connected, caught the youth just below the larynx. But Boniak saw it coming and threw himself down, simultaneously swiping at his superior’s legs. But the one-eyed officer jumped over the sword and, and Boniak got to his feet, he found another short jab aimed at his chest. It missed and punctured a tree trunk behind him but Namarov tore it free in time to parry the boy’s downward swipe. Once, twice, three times Boniak brought the sabre down and Namarov backed off laughing.

“Enough,” he called finally, grabbing the boy by the shoulder. He tugged on his cheek and smiled. “You learn fast, my young friend.”

Boniak smiled, feeling proud of himself.

The trio of cossacks turned as they heard the whinneying of a horse close-by and, astride his grey mare, sat Mig. “Major,” he said. “There is a column of German troops moving West, about two miles from here.”

Namarov nodded.

“How many of them?”

“Perhaps sixty and some lorries,” Mig told him.

“Tell the squadron commanders to prepare their men,” snapped the major. “We’re going hunting.”

Mig nodded and rode off to relay the message.

Namarov turned to Boniak.

“Now we’ll see just how much you have learned.”

Namarov peered through the binoculars, brushing some flecks of snow from one of the lenses. He adjusted the focus until everything swam into crystal clarity then he scanned the forlorn column of German troops moving slowly along the road below.

Mig had been right, there were about sixty of them and he also counted two lorries, probably containing more men. The Germans were in a sorry looking state, some of them wounded, hobbling along with the aid of makeshift crutches but, the major noticed, all were still heavily armed.

He lowered the binoculars and handed them to Kuragin who also took the time to study the column.

The road was flanked on both sides by a gentle slope, devoid of trees, it would provide perfect fighting conditions for the cossacks.

“How do we take them?” asked Kuragin, passing the glasses on to Rostov.

“We have the advantage of the slope,” said Namarov.

“I’ll take my men around and come at them from the other side,” offered Rostov handing back the binoculars.

“No need to split the force,” said Namarov. “We can take them here, as one.”

The two squadron commanders nodded.

“Bring your men forward,” the one-eyed officer told them.

He took one last look at the motley collection of men and vehicles below him then turned and rode back to the head of his own squadron. One either side, slightly to the rear, Kuragin and Rostov sat, awaiting the order to move. Rostov checked that his pipe was securely tucked away in his pocket then, almost unconsciously, his right hand fell to the hilt of his sabre and he drummed gently on it.

Kuragin pulled a hip flask from his overcoat pocket and unscrewed the cap. It was solid silver, taken from a dead German officer a week earlier. He held it in his hand for a moment before taking a long swallow.

Boniak, sitting next to Petrovski swallowed nervously and scanned the faces of the men around him. One, Ammasova, was chewing tobacco and every so often he would project a stream of brown juice into the snow. He looked across at Boniak and smiled thinly. The youth nodded then looked at Petrovski who was checking the magazine on his sub-gun.

In the front two ranks of each squadron, the men had taken a good grip on their lances, securing them to their wrists with leather thongs. The lethal javelins bore no pennants and were little more than sharpened stakes but they were iron-hard and tipped with steel, like the sabres rough-sharpened for maximum effect.

“Now,” roared Namarov and the air seemed to fill with a deafening metallic hiss as over two hundred sabres were drawn.

Boniak felt his heart quicken, thumping hard against his ribs now as he saw the major wave his sword three times in the air and then point it towards the crest of the ridge. The horses began to move forward, first at a walk then a trot. The smell of so many animals mingled in the youth’s nostrils with the odour of his own sweat. The three squadron leaders quickened their pace to a canter and the cossacks following did likewise.

The ground began to rumble as the horsemen gathered speed and, with the wind and snow rushing past him, Boniak felt a kind of wild exhilaration sweep through him. He was breathing quickly, excitedly and, as the mass of cavalry reached the crest of the ridge they broke into a gallop and, with Namarov at their head, thundered down the far slope towards the Germans, many of whom had stopped moving and stood rooted to the spot. Held by a mixture of awe and terror, they seemed immobile as the cossacks swept towards them.

The squadron leaders reined back momentarily, and the leading ranks of riders opened up, allowing their commanders in, then, lances were lowered and, a chorus of yells went up from the charging cossacks. Swords glinted in the early morning sun and the pounding of horses’ hooves filled the air as the snow was ground flat.

The Germans, however, seemed to have come out of their stupor and many were running for cover behind the two lorries. Boniak saw a group of them setting up a machine-gun and, seconds later, the bullets from an MG34 sent dozens of tiny geyses flying into the air as the slugs drilled holes in the snow. But the cossacks charged on, now just fifty yards from their foe.

More automatic fire came from the Germans and half-a-dozen horses in the leading rank crashed to the ground, their riders hurled from the saddles, some to be crushed by the horses behind. Others were dead before they hit the ground. Lances fell from dead hands, one of them sticking upright in the snow as a kind of marker.

Namarov waved his sabre wildly in the air and rose in the stirrups as, amidst a final furious eruption of machine-gun fire, the cossacks ploughed into the terrified Germans.

A German sapper held up his hands in surrender, only to be transfixed by a lance which ripped through his stomach and erupted from his back, tearing away a kidney and most of his liver on the way.

Namarov himself hacked a private’s arm off just above the elbow, watching as the man staggered around, the bleeding stump shooting fountains of crimson into the air. The screaming German stumbled into the path of another lancer and was despatched by a thrust which tore open his throat.

Other Germans were trampled to death by the rush of horses, their bodies kicked and stomped into unrecognisable pulp by the large animals.

An MG42 had been set up in the back of one of the krupps and, as the first wave of cossacks swept past, the Germans manning it opened fire. The bullets were lethal from such close range and men and horses went down in heaps. Wounded riders, thrown form their mounts rose, bewildered, only to be shot down by other German troops. One trooper dragged himself away from his dead horse, his kneecap shattered by a bullet. A German sergeant ran at him with a rifle but the cossack deflected the bayonet thrust and, with one powerful blow, hacked open the sergeant’s thigh. From the amount of blood which erupted from the wound it seemed that the German’s femoral artery had been severed and, screaming insanely, he collapsed next to the wounded cossack who drove the sabre forward again, this time through his opponent’s throat.