Шон Хатсон - Sabres in the Snow

As if to reinforce their resolution, a shell from one of the entrenched 75s across the river came hurtling from the sky and exploded near the head of the column. A fountain of earth and snow rose into the air, showering those nearby, clanging loudly on the hull of the nearest tank.

The white-clad men scurried to take up their positions, artillerymen manoeuvring the 45s and opening up immediately. Soon, the air was filled with the chatter of automatic fire, the harsh crack of rifles and the thunderous retorts of cannon. Explosions ripped huge craters in the ground and smoke mingled with the snow, making visibility bad. Across the river, the Germans were noticeable only by the muzzle flashes of their guns and the great tongues of flame which spouted from the 75s.

The T-34s rolled forward, their own cannons firing and Russian infantry used the rolling monsters as cover, advancing towards the bridge.

Namarov kept the cossacks well back, seeing that there was no way they could take the bridge. The men could only sit and watch, waiting for the signal to move.

The leading T-34 rattled onto the Grut birdge, followed by a dozen or so Russians. Ahead, a German anti-tank crew hauled one of the 75s into position and, taking careful aim, fired. From such close range the effect was devastating. The tank disappeared beneath a shrieking ball of red and white flame. The turret spinning into the air. The men sheltering behind were either hurled into the air by the concussion blast or incinerated where they stood as fountains of blazing petrol spouted from the riven juggernaut. On the other side of the river, jubilant grey-clad gunners began pumping more shells into their opponents, and soon the entire bank was ablaze as countless explosions reduced the river bank to a lunar landscape of deep smoking craters.

The 45s fired back and Boniak strained his eyes to see through the rolling smoke, watching the havoc which the Russian gunners wrought.

A German emplacement was hit, the explosion blasting men and sandbags into the air. Plumes of fire rose into the grey sky and smoke formed its own billowing, choking clouds.

On the bridge itself, a German Panther tank was moving forward, machine-guns chattering. It rumbled along until it reached the blazing wreck of the T-34 then rammed the smashed tank, pushing it back towards the Russians behind. Men scattered in its wake and the Panther turned its machine guns on them, bringing many down. Bright crimson flowers blossomed on the white uniforms as men were hit by tracer. German infantry flooded over the bridge behind the tank and the Russians, who had previously had their machine-guns aimed over the river, now swung them round to face the oncoming horde of grey-clad men.

There was a deafening clatter of automatic fire as the Maxims and 12.7s opened up, drilling dotted lines of death across the attacking German front ranks. Men went down in heaps under the furious fusillade. But enough got across to worry Colonel Gornik, who looked round frantically for Namarov and the cossacks.

“Send your men in now,” he yelled, running towards the cossack officer.

“You have tanks,” the major yelled, forced to shout to make himself heard above the cacophony of explosions and gunfire. “Use them.”

Gornik stood still for long seconds not quite sure what to do, then he turned on Namarov once more, a snarl on his face.

“Attack now. That’s an order,” he yelled.

“Don’t give me orders, Colonel,” rasped the one-eyed officer. “I’m not even in your fucking army.”

Another Pather tank had joined the Germans by now and, while Gornik and Namarov aruged, Boniak saw that the grey-clad men were gaining a foothold on the Russian bank of the river. The Russians were falling back, seeking shelter behind the six T–34s which now rolled forward to counterattack. As Panther and T–34 clashed, it reminded the youngster of two dinosaurs locked in lethal combat. The Russian tank opened fire first and, from close range, the shell tore the turret from the Panther. The hull promptly burst into flames and screaming men leapt from it, only to be crushed to crimson pulp beneath the churning tracks of the T–34.

“Dam you to hell, Namarov,” bellowed Gornik, taking another look at the Germans flooding across the bridge. Then he turned and raced back to the safety of an entrenchment, just as another salvo of shells came hurtling from the far bank.

The cossack major turned to Rostov first, then to Kuragin.

“Rostov, take your squadron across the river. There.” he pointed to a spot about two hundred yards to the right.

“Across the river. How?” asked the squadron commander.

“The water is frozen solid, it should bear our weight,” Namarov assured him.

Rostov hesitated for a second then led his men away.

“Kuragin, you bring your men to support mine, if we can get behind these Nazi bastards we might have a chance.”

Namarov watched as Rostov led his men to the appointed spot, wincing as they moved onto the ice, the horses struggling to keep their feet at first, but then they formed into three ranks and began to move forward. The major smiled and drew his sabre, a signal for his men to do likewise. They moved onto the ice, quickening their pace until they were level with Rostov and his squadron.

Half-way across, they broke into a gallop.

Boniak kept looking down at the ice, afraid that it would crack beneath the weight of so many men and horses but he need not have feared. The long winter months has transformed the slippery surface into something akin to glassy concrete and it crackled beneath the pounding hooves but never looked like breaking, even when the cossacks urged their mounts into the charge. Sabres drawn, lances held before them, they sped across the frozen river towards the far bank and German troops who looked on with something akin to fascination as the horsemen drew closer. Only when they were less than two hundred yards away did the grey-clad men suddenly begin to react.

A concentrated burst of machine-gun fire raked the leading ranks of cossacks and many went down, skidding on the ice. Riders were hurled from their saddles and sent spinning on the slippery surface. Blood sprayed into the air, splashing onto the ice to form crimson puddles.

The man next to Boniak was hit in the chest and slumped forward in his saddle, toppling sideways a moment later, nearly knocking the boy from his own mount. He yanked hard on his reins, trying to prevent his horse from falling, almost colliding with Petrovski.

They charged on, now just fifty yards from the bank.

The assault of the T–34s meanwhile, had succeeded in halting the German avalanche over the bridge and now, as the cossacks reached the far bank, Russian infantry got to grips with their enemies and began to push them back across the bridge.

The cossacks swept up the bank and into the Germans. Men were speared where they stood, cut down as they tried to run and some even threw up their arms in surrender but the cossacks were not likely to take prisoners and those unfortunate enough to think of their attackers as merciful ended up face-down in the snow in a puddle of their own blood.

Kuragin caught a German sergeant beneath the chin with a powerful backhand stroke that nearly severed the man’s head. A German private came at him with a bayonet but the cossack parried the thrust and kicked out at the attacker, quickly pulling his Tokarev from his belt he shot the man in the face.

A sapper turned his flamethrower on two of the attacking cossacks, their screams and the agonised shrieks of the horses drowned by the belching flame which seared from the nozzle. The smell of petrol mingled momentarily with the stench of burning flesh. But it was Boniak who, risking the same fate, spurred his horse towards the sapper and, with a powerful downward swipe severed the man’s arm at the shoulder. The limb fell to the ground, the fingers still twitching and blood spurted madly from the stump. The sapper shrieked and dropped to his knees. One of the other cossacks ran him through with a lance.