Шон Хатсон - Sabres in the Snow

The leading wave of cossacks wheeled their horses and rode at the unprotected rear of the Germans whilst the second and third ranks of Russians came thundering in, swords whistling in the chill air.

Boniak saw a young German private running for his life, pursued by Mig. The Russian rode up alongside the German then, with one powerful blow, shaved off a portion of his victim’s skull as cleanly as if it had been done with a bacon slicer. The German pitched forward into snow which was already beginning to turn into crimson slush.

The MG42 flamed once again and more cossacks went down.

Petrovski growled angrily as his horse was hit, the impact knocking the animal over. It fell heavily, almost crushing the Russian beneath it but he leapt clear and struggled to his feet, catching the reins of a riderless mount which cantered by. He swung himself up into the saddle and rejoined the attack.

Kuragin called half-a-dozen men to him and Boniak saw them heading towards the krupp and its offending machine-gun. Grenades were hurled and, a second later, there was a thunderous roar as the lorry exploded. Men sheltering behind it were blown into the air by the blast and a black and red mushroom cloud of smoke billowed from the wreck. Horses whinneyed nervously at the sight of the flames. The youth saw a German leap from the back of the truck, his clothes ablaze. A cossack swept past and drove his lance into the stricken man’s chest. Pieces of hot metal rained down and the smell of burning petrol filled the air, mingling with the stench of blood and excrement.

Boniak saw two Germans ahead of him, one of them raising his rifle. Gritting his teeth, the boy rode towards them and, shouting aloud as he did so, swung the sabre at the first of them. It was a bad aim but effective nonetheless. The razor-sharp blade caught the German in the face, splintering the bridge of his nose and opening a deep, bloody furrow from one temple to the other. He screamed and clapped both hands to the gaping wound whilst his companion used the butt of his rifle as a club, swinging it at Boniak.

It caught the boy in the chest and, if not for the fact that he was so securely anchored by his stirrups, looked like unhorsing him. His mount reared wildly, forelegs flailing, and the German backed off. Winded, Boniak struck out with his sabre and hacked open the second German’s left arm just below the shoulder. The man yelped in pain and staggered back, trying to bring the rifle to bear on his young attacker but Boniak was too fast for him. He lashed out again, this time the point of the sabre nicked the German’s throat, opening his jugular vein and, gurgling incoherently he collapsed, fountains of blood spouting from the wound.

Boniak blinked hard, thought he was going to faint. The chatter of machine-gun fire and the screams of dying men and horses seemed to fill his head until it threatened to burst. The roar of the flames from the blazing krupp only served to make things worse. All around him men were scattered on the blood-spattered snow, most of them Germans. Dying horses raised their heads as if soliciting help and cossacks dashed back and forth both on foot and mounted to help wounded comrades.

The youth turned his horse to see that the second krupp was in the process of driving away, the two men in the cab realising with horror that they were the only members of the column still alive. Half-a-dozen men fired from the rear of the fleeing truck but their fire was neither accurate or damaging enough to stop a dozen or so cossacks riding after the speeding vehicle.

Led by Namarov, the pursuing cossacks drew alonside the vehicle and fired seemingly endless volleys of automatic fire into it. Bullets shredded the canvas canopy and screams were heard from inside as the slugs found their mark. A sapper, bleeding from half-a-dozen wounds, toppled from the back of the lorry and lay still in the road.

Namarov rode up alongside the cab and sprayed it with fire from his sub-gun. The glass shattered, blasted inward by the close range impact. The man in the passenger seat was hit in the cheek, the bullet ripping away most of his upper jaw before exploding from his left ear. The driver was hit in the shoulder and side but managed to retain control of the vehicle until Namarov rode ahead and, standing up in his stirrups, turned and emptied his PPSh at the mighty krupp. The windscreen exploded in a splintering crystal cascade. Shards of glass were blown into the cab and the driver took both hands from the wheel to shield his face, screaming in renewed agony as bullets hit him in the chest and forearm.

The lorry itself skidded across the narrow road, hit the far slope and careened half-way up before teetering on two wheels for precious seconds. Then it simply toppled over, crashing down the bank and coming to rest on its roof. Namarov rode back past it, noticing that a bloodied hand stuck out from the crushed cab.

The chattering of machine-gun fire had all but died away. Just the odd burst was fired as the cossacks put paid to the last of the Germans, otherwise the air was filled with the moans of the wounded, the helpless whinings of dying horses and, every so often, the single loud retort of Tokarev pistols as men shot animals too badly hurt to be saved. The other krupp continued to blaze, smoke belching into the snow-filled morning.

Boniak rode slowly amongst the carnage, running his eyes over the speared, slashed bodies, pausing at the spot where the two Germans he had fought lay. One was still moving, clutching his pulped face and moaning incoherently. Blood was running through his fingers and he seemed terrified to take his hands away for fear that his head would fall in half. Boniak gazed down at the dying man and felt the hot bile clawing its way up from his stomach but he fought it back momentarily although, as the foul stench of blood and excrement reached his nostrils, it was a monumental effort.

He reached for his sub-gun, knowing that he must finish the German off but his hands were quivering madly and he could feel the colour draining from his cheeks. Perhaps if he left the man…

“He still alive?”

The voice startled Boniak and he turned in the saddle to see another cossack close by. The man, Brosesku, was carrying a lance in one hand and his Tokarev pistol in the other.

The youth was momentarily stunned, his gaze returning to the wounded German who by now, had rolled onto his stomach.

“Is he still alive?” Brosesku asked, somewhat impatiently.

“Yes,” said Boniak, swallowing hard.

The other cossack took his lance, steadied himself in the saddle and drove the long shaft down, piercing the German squarely between the shoulder blades. He leant on the lance, pinning the grey-clad man to the ground like a butterfly to a board. Then, with a contemptuous grunt he ripped the lance free and rode off.

This time Boniak could not restrain himself. He swayed in the saddle then, leaning over, retched until there was nothing left in his stomach. He finally straightened up, his face pale, a thin film of perspiration greasing his forehead.

“Boniak, are you all right?”

This time the voice belonged to Namarov and the youth looked up to see his commander riding slowly across the bloodstained snow towards him.

He reined his horse to a halt beside the youth and reached out a hand to steady the youngster, afraid that he might topple from the saddle. He could see that the boy still held his sabre in one gloved hand, and that there was blood on the blade.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You get hit?”

Boniak shook his head.

“No,” he gasped. “I’m all right.”

Namarov gazed down at the two dead Germans, both lying in spreading pools of blood.

“One of them was still alive,” said the youth, motioning towards the two bodies. “I cut him across the face, he would have died anyway. But… one of the other cossacks, he stuck his lance through him.”