Шон Хатсон - Sabres in the Snow

All over the camp, the cossacks tried to sleep. Some succeeded, others remained awake, infused with that strange combination of excitement and foreboding which always came before battle. Rostov tapped out the last smouldering remnants from the bowl of his pipe and slipped the implement back into his pocket, then he himself settled down to catch a couple of hours sleep. He didn’t sleep well, hadn’t done for years and the icy wind wasn’t helping matters but, after about half-an-hour, he drifted into a dreamless slumber.

Kuragin waited until just after three o’clock then, leading his horse by the bridle, he slipped out of the cossack camp, mounted and rode towards Ridanski.

No-one saw him go.

As he brought his horse to a halt at the top of the slope, Kuragin could see that the village of Ridanski had been untouched by Kleiser and his men. The small houses still stood, no smoking ruins in sight and no sign of bodies. He shuddered slightly, wondering if, perhaps, the SS had already killed the villagers and stacked their bodies in one of the deserted houses. He tried to force the thought from his mind but it refused to budge. All looked still in the gathering of huts and he could not even see sentries moving about in the darkness. Muttering words of encouragement to his horse, he headed down the slope, steadying the animal twice when it looked as though it would fall. However, they reached the firm ground safely and Kuragin allowed one hand to drop to the hilt of his sabre. If there were sentries about he would need to be quick. There would be no second chance. He dug spurs into the horse’s flanks and it moved forward at a walk. The wind whipped flakes of snow into the cossack’s face and he hurriedly brushed them away.

Something moved ahead of him.

He leapt from the horse and rolled over in the snow, grateful to find a hollow in the ground. He lay still, murmuring something to the horse which kept walking towards the sentry who had emerged from between two houses close by. Kuragin saw the man approach the horse, sub-gun levelled at it and, for fleeting moments, he feared that the SS man might well open fire on the animal but, instead he took its reins in one hand and patted its neck.

Kuragin scrambled to his feet and scuttled the last few yards to the closest house, pressing himself against the wooden wall.

He was mere feet from the sentry, who had his back to him. Moving as carefully as he could, Kuragin edged towards the unsuspecting German then, in a movement of lightning speed, he pulled his sabre from its scabbard and pressed the cutting edge to the German’s throat, grabbing the other end with his free hand, almost yanking the man off the ground.

“Kleiser,” the cossack hissed between clenched teeth.

The sentry croaked something and Kuragin pulled harder, drawing blood.

“Kleiser,” he rasped again and the SS man dropped his sub-gun, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. The cossack kicked him hard in the small of the back and he went sprawling in the snow. As he turned, the cossack stepped forward and pressed the point of the sabre beneath the man’s chin.

“Take me to Kleiser,” he said.

The sentries who stood on either side of the hut door raised their sub-guns as Kuragin and his captive approached. The big cossack looked to his right and left and saw that the village was, indeed, occupied by the SS. A half-track stood empty a few yards away. Parked close to it was a lorry, two more sentries leaning against it smoking. They both swung their weapons around to point at him and he felt like a mouse walking into the middle of an open field, the predators just waiting to pounce. He kept his sabre point pressed firmly against his captive’s back, ensuring that he had at least some protection should the two men at the door decide to open fire.

“Kleiser,” the big cossack shouted and his call echoed on the still air.

All around him, black-coated SS men seemed to appear. It was as if the night had taken on physical form.

“Kleiser,” Kuragin yelled once more. “I have to speak with you.”

Again his voice echoed in the stillness but, after a moment or two, the door to the hut before him opened and a black-clad officer bearing the scar from forehead to chin appeared. Kuragin swallowed hard. He felt the blood chill in his veins almost as if he were speaking to something supernatural. Some kind of monster in a German uniform. Which, he reasoned, was not far from the truth.

“You are Kleiser?” he said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question.

The SS officer nodded.

“Who are you?’ he said, his voice as cold as the night air. “What does an untermensch want with me?” He smiled thinly.

“I want to talk to you,” Kuragin said.

“What could you know that would interest me?” the German said, scornfully.

“Can we speak inside?” the Russian said, motioning towards the hut.

Kleiser ran an appraising eye over the cossack.

“You must think little of your life to walk into the middle of an SS encampment, Russian. Whatever you have to say must be important.” He stepped back and motioned for the cossack to enter the hut which he did, keeping the sabre firmly in his fist. Kleiser shut the door behind him and wandered over to the small fire which was burning in the middle of the room, the smoke turning it into a kind of choking sauna.

“How did you find me?” the German wanted to know.

Kuragin told him about the battle of the previous day.

“Then why did you find me?” the officer asked.

“Where are the villagers?” the Russian wanted to know.

“What has that to do with you?” Kleiser rasped.

“My wife and daughters are amongst them,” he said, swallowing hard.

“And you wanted to see how they were,” the SS man grinned. “How touching.”

“Have you killed any of them?”

“Not yet.”

Kuragin exhaled deeply.

“You still haven’t told me why you are here?” snapped Kleiser, impatiently.

Kuragin eyed the German warily, hesitated a moment then spoke.

“I want to make a deal.”

Kleiser laughed.

“You are scarcely in a position to do that, you idiot,” he sneered. “If I do not kill you one of my men will. You and your family.”

“And you and all your men could be killed tomorrow if you do not listen to me,” Kuragin rasped.

“What do you mean?” Kleiser wanted to know.

“Half-a-mile from here there are nearly two hundred cossacks waiting to attack this village. To attack you and your men. How many men have you here? Fifty. Sixty?”

Kleiser stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Sixty-three,” he said.

“Then you are outnumbered three to one. Not even the precious SS can withstand odds like that. Not against cossacks.”

“Why are you telling me this?” the German wanted to know.

“Because I want to see my family,” said Kuragin.

Kleiser smiled.

“Ah, your deal ,” he said, warming his hands over the fire. “Very well, Russian, I will make you a deal. You tell me when and where this attack is to take place and you can see your family.”

“I want your assurance…”

Kleiser cut him short.

“Think yourself lucky you are not dead. You or your family. Do not speak to me of assurances, Russian. As long as you supply me with information concerning the movement of your unit, your family will remain unharmed. Any attempt at doublecross and I will personally kill them. Understood?”

Kuragin held the German’s piercing gaze.

“Understood?” rasped Kleiser.

“Yes,” said the Russian.