Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

For what seemed like an eternity, they rode around the village which, apparently, was deserted. Then, suddenly, above the cacophony of sound, three shots rang out in quick succession.

As if some gigantic switch had been thrown the huts suddenly seemed to burst into life. Windows were flung open to reveal the gaping barrels of machine guns, sub-guns and rifles. Even flame-throwers. Then, in a deafening eruption of fire, the like of which few of the men had experienced, the guns opened up.

Caught like rats in a trap, the cossacks were pinned in murderous crossfire which seemed to come from every angle. Horses and riders went down in heaps, dying horses falling on wounded men, riderless mounts dashing about in the middle of the melee, further adding to the confusion.

Bezhukov was hit in the face by a rifle shot which took off most of his head. He crashed from the saddle, his foot still in the stirrup, his terrified horse dashing across the square dragging the corpse.

Boniak wheeled his mount, desperately trying to find a target for his sub-gun which he had now pulled from beneath his blanket roll. He opened fire randomly, raking the front of a hut, blasting lumps of wood from it.

Up in the tower of the church, German snipers picked men off as easily as if they had been shooting ducks at a fairground. Horses fell, bleeding from many wounds as the cossacks were raked with fire, the animals dropped like slaughtered cattle. Fusillades of fire tore though them and soon the square looked like a butcher’s yard as carcasses actually began to pile up. Some cossacks even used their dead mounts as cover but, with Germans all around them, it was impossible to escape the onslaught and many were shot in the back.

Namarov and Mig rode their horses straight at a house, simultaneously firing their sub-guns at it. A stray blast hit the major’s horse and he was catapulted from the saddle but Mig rode on, tossing a grenade through the open window. Reining back as it exploded, blasting the door off the hinges. He drove his horse inside and, there, confronted the three wounded Germans using his sabre.

The first had been foolish enough to remove his helmet and Mig felled him with a blow to the skull which cleft the man’s head in two. The second tried to pull the cossack from his horse but, as he raised his hands, the Russian sliced them both off with one accurate stroke. The shrieking German staggered out into the square, both stumps held aloft, spouting blood into the air until a lance pinned him to the wall of the hut.

Mig despatched the third man with a backhand cut that laid his cheek open to the bone and sliced through his temporal artery. Then the cossack rode back out into the screaming hell that was the centre of the village.

The crispness of the air was now filled with the stench of cordite, excrement and blood. Smoke from blazing buildings added to the foul smell.

Namarov dragged himself to his knees, stunned by the fall from his horse. He was half-way up when he saw two SS men running at him, bayonets levelled. With his head spinning, he tried to rise, to use his sabres to ward them off.

Boniak saw what was happening and rode swiftly towards his superior. He managed to get between the two Germans and Namarov but, the bayonet thrusts now found horse flesh instead of human flesh. The first blade opened the animal’s side, a mass of yellowish entrails dropping, steaming, to the floor. The second pierced the creature’s neck. It keeled over and Boniak rolled clear, striking upwards with his sabre. He caught the German in the groin, driving up until the blade erupted from the man’s anus. Namarov had fallen forward by now, and could only watch, dazed, as the youth fought for his life. From point-blank range, the second SS man fired and the bullet hit Boniak in the left shoulder, exploding just above the scapula and making a hole the size of a fist. The boy shrieked but kept his sword arm firm. With blood gushing from the wound, he fought the SS man until he had driven him back against the wall of a hut then, feinting to the right, he unbalanced his opponent and, with one quick thrust, gutted the German. He then rushed back to Namarov and helped him to his feet, grabbing the reins of a riderless horse as it sped by.

Helped by the youngster, Namarov succeeded in clambering into the saddle. Still dazed, he looked around him to see his men riding frantically in and out of the narrow alleys which separated the huts, some still falling to the small-arms fire. He saw that Boniak himself was bleeding badly from the shoulder and, when the major extended a hand to lift him up, the boy slipped. Petrovski, appearing from the melee, rode up alongside the struggling cossacks and helped Boniak up, pulling him across the back of his own saddle. Gripping Petrovski with one hand and his shattered shoulder with the other, the boy hung on, his head now beginning to spin.

Rostov and two other cossacks found themselves confronted by an engineer with a flamethrower and, before the leading Russian could bring his horse to a halt, the mouth of the weapon belched fire. A screaming blast of scorching flame which enveloped both horse and rider. Rostov fired at the engineer and hit him in the leg, the bullet shattering the German’s shin, and he collapsed beside the blazing remnants of the dead cossack and his horse.

No-one was sure who gave the order, but Russians all around the village heard it.

“Fall back.”

Men bolted, there was no attempt at order, just a headlong race against death as the Germans concentrated their fire on the backs of the fleeing Russians. The snipers up in the church tower picked off a couple more men as the beaten cossacks thundered out of Ridanski. Rostov turned in the saddle and fired a long burst from his sub-gun, aiming it at the offending snipers and was gratified to see at least one of them plummet, screaming, from his lofty perch. His body hit the roof of the church then rolled off, crashing into the blood-stained snow beneath.

Wounded cossacks were put on horses and led away, at a gallop, by their comrades. Others were merely dragged up onto saddles or, in some cases, draped over them as the Russians rode madly for safety. Riderless horses joined the flight, one or two dragging dead horsemen whose feet were still in the stirrups.

The cossacks reached the slope and rode up it, seeking the relative safety of the ground beyond but, not until they had reached their original camp-site did they finally rein back. Men and horses gasped for breath and some collapsed into the snow. Those who had not been hurt leapt from their saddles to attend either to wounded men or injured horses and now the moans of wounded men became quite loud in the stillness of the morning.

Boniak felt powerful hands pulling him from the saddle, the pain in his shoulder intensifying as they did so. He was laid carefully on the ground and, as he lay there, even the cold snow did not seem to chill him as it normally did. All he was aware of was the burning pain in his shoulder and the steadily-advancing wave of unconsciousness which seemed to be filling his mind. He heard words. They came floating at him through a haze of pain, almost unreal:

“Nothing broken.”

“The bullet went clean through.”

Then he sank into the merciful oblivion of senselessness.

“So what the fuck happened?” roared Rostov, kicking at a heap of snow nearby.

“They were ready for us,” said Namarov, taking a long pull from the vodka bottle. He gazed around him at the remnants of his unit. Men were putting down dying horses, some wounded lay in long lines, covered with blankets to keep out the worst of the cold. Those cossacks who were unharmed sat on their mounts or stood around hastily-built fires in small groups talking quietly, still stunned by the horrendous slaughter.