Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

Kleiser sneered.

“The Fuhrer was right to call you Russians scum. You would betray your fellow cossacks for the sake of your family?”

Kuragin suddenly swung the sabre upward, pressing the point against his enemy’s chest.

“I should cut out your heart,” he snarled.

Kleiser smiled.

“If I die, then so do you,” he said. “But first, you watch your wife and children hung.” He pushed the blade away contemptuously. “Now get out of here. One of the sentries will take you to your family. You will also tell him the time of the attack and its details.”

Kuragin turned to leave.

“Remember, Russian,” Kleiser called after him. “Doublecross me and you will find your family dangling from trees as crow-bait.”

Kuragin took one last look at the SS officer then the door was slammed behind him. He sheathed his sword and walked back into the cold night, following two sentries who led him across a square towards a large building which had once been a church. There were more Germans outside, one of whom knocked hard on the thick doors as Kuragin and his two escorts approached. The door was opened and the cossack ushered in, his two black-clad guards following him.

The smell inside the church was almost unbearable. A rank odour of excrement, dried sweat and, in places, vomit. The entire population of Ridanski, about 150 people, had been crowded into the building. On either side of them stood more SS men, one of whom was constantly spitting at the cowering Russians. Three-quarters seemed to be women or children and many of the women carried their children in their arms. Those few men that Kuragin could see amidst the throng looked weak, and a number had obviously been beaten judging by their appearance. The place was silent but for the odd moan, the crying of children and some coughing.

The cossack recognised men he had known all his life but they stared at him as if in a trance. Reining back his revulsion, he scanned the pitiful assembly for his family. He finally caught sight of his wife, Olga, and he called her name.

She turned, a smile forming, but with it came tears and, as she pushed her way towards him, he could see that his two daughters were there too.

“Olga,” he called as they drew closer but, when they were within reach of him, two SS men stepped between them, the barrels of the MP40s levelled at the three females.

“When is the attack to be launched?” asked Dietz, prodding the cossack with his sub-gun.

Kuragin looked first at his wife and then at the German.

“Eight tomorrow morning,” he rasped, through clenched teeth.

“How many men?” Dietz demanded.

“Just under two hundred,” the cossack told him.

The sergeant smiled and stepped aside.

“Let them through,” he told the guards who moved away, allowing Kuragin to reach his family. They embraced beneath the contemptuous gaze of the Germans and Kuragin kissed his wife, noticing how lank and dirty her hair was. It usually shone like spun-gold but now it was heavy with grease and it smelt, as did her clothes. He bent to embrace his daughter, Ludmilla, just six years old. She was crying softly as he held her, and it was all the big cossack could do to fight back a tear. He held out his arms to his second-younger-daughter, Nadia, and she almost fell into his arms. He squeezed her in his huge arms until it seemed he would break her in two then, very gently, he put her down again.

“Have they hurt you?” he asked his wife, brushing a single tear from her cheek.

She shook her head.

“How did you know we were here?” she sobbed.

“That doesn’t matter now,” he said and held her close once more. He could feel her body shaking as they embraced.

Dietz thrust his gun barrel between them and two of the SS men pulled Olga away.

“That’s enough,” said the sergeant, smiling.

“One more minute,” Kuragin begged.

“Enough,” snarled Dietz.

Kuragin met his stare.

“I’m going to cut your fucking head off you German bastard,” growled the cossack, his hand falling to the hilt of his sabre, but Hadel swiftly pressed the barrel of his sub-gun to Ludmilla’s head.

“Try it,” said Dietz, challengingly.

The cossack released his grip on the haft. He kissed his family once more and then watched helplessly as they were pushed back into the mass of villagers who had watched the little tableau in silence. Kuragin was ushered from the church and the door slammed. He shuddered in the chill wind and glared at Dietz.

“I swear to God, I’ll have your fucking head before the end of the war,” he snarled.

“Get back to the rest of your scum,” said Dietz and pointed to the Russian’s horse, which had been led up to the church. He swung himself into the saddle and, with one last look at the church, he rode out of Ridanski.

Kuragin returned to the cossack camp a mere ten minutes later, slipping past the sentries once more. Returning, as he had left. Unseen.

It was almost 5.19 a.m.

Boniak swung himself into the saddle and sucked in several deep breaths. His horse neighed and he patted the animal’s neck. All around him, the cossacks were making last-minute checks on weapons, forming up into ranks for the attack on Ridanski, and the youth felt his heart begin to beat just that little bit faster.

The chill wind of the night before had gone and, high above in a cloudless sky, a weak sun shone. It glinted off the crisp snow and reflected on the sharpened metal of nearly two hundred sabres and lance tips.

Girths and saddles were checked one final time then, at an order from Namarov, the cossacks formed up. The stillness of the morning was broken by the jingling of bits and bridles and, as the men moved off, the ground began to rumble beneath the pounding of so many hooves.

Boniak gripped his sabre tightly and glanced across at Petrovski who was in his usual position next to the youngster. He checked his PPSh before drawing his own curved blade.

Led by their squadron commanders, the cossacks headed towards Ridanski, first at a walk then a trot and finally, at a signal from Namarov, a canter. The ground rumbled as if it were going to split open and snow flew up in great geysers as the pounding of many hooves reduced it to fine powder. The air rushed past and Boniak gulped it down like a drowning man. His heart was pounding harder now and, as the cossacks reached the top of the slope, he felt that now familiar rush of adrenalin surging through his veins.

Ridanski lay before them.

“Charge,” roared Namarov, his voice audible even over the thundering hooves and jingling harnesses and, as one, the cossacks rode on at even greater speed, hurtling towards the village as if they meant to ride the wooden buildings themselves into the ground. They drew closer and closer, swords and lances upraised and, along with many others, Boniak found himself yelling oaths, urging his animal on to even greater speed. He glanced across at Petrovski, who was smiling. It certainly did look as if they had caught Kleiser and his men out.

Fifty yards from the first row of huts now and Namarov scanned the buildings, looking for some sign of movement.

There was none.

The cossacks roared onward.

Thirty yards.

Kuragin felt the breath rasping in his lungs as he too saw no sign of any Germans, had they just left in the early hours, perhaps taking the villagers with them?

Twenty yards and the cossacks formed one huge mass of men. A phalanx sixty men wide and three deep, as unstoppable as a tank. Like some flowing river of steel, they broke against the first row of huts, riding between the flimsy structures looking round for the enemy who they had expected to find.