Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

Up until the incident at Ridanski church, Namarov had merely been suspicious about Kuragin. The fact that his colleague’s family was not amongst the victims had convinced him, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the big man was the one who had betrayed them. The major was angry with himself for not having seen the problems earler. The night Kuragin had pleaded with him not to attack Ridanski, it should have alerted him to something then. But, even he had not thought that the big man’s love for his wife and children would be great enough to sacrifice the entire unit for. But, Namarov thought with a shudder, had there been a few more SS men, then all of the cossacks might well be lying back there on that huge funeral pyre. He glanced behind him and saw Kuragin swigging from the hip flask. The major exhaled deeply, his breath clouding in the cold, snow-flecked air. So, the traitor was Kuragin. One of his most trusted friends for longer than he could remember. What the hell was he going to do?

He was still pondering the answer to that question when he caught sight of three horsemen approaching through the veil of mist and snow. Dark, wraith-like shapes in the swirling elements, they bore down on the cossacks with thunderous speed and Namarov held up a hand to halt his unit. He stood up in the saddle, trying to get a better look at the approaching cavalrymen. They were riding hard down a sharp slope and he could see that one of them was holding a sabre aloft, swinging it round and round above his head.

The men were fifty yards away when he recognised the leading horseman as Petrovski.

The cossack and his two colleagues reined to a halt beside the major. Petrovski was breathless, as if he and his companions had ridden a long distance at great speed. The horses too were panting, heads lowered.

“We’ve found Kleiser,” said the cossack.

“Where?” asked Namarov.

“About seven or eight miles North of here.”

“Still on the move?”

“No. I think they’ve stopped for the night. I left Barchev and Lato to watch them. If there’s any sign of movement one of them will let us know.”

“What’s the terrain like?” Namarov wanted to know.

“They’ve got their backs to a ridge, the rest is covered by trees. There’s only one way in,” Petrovski told him.

Namarov nodded.

“Did you see any civilians with them?” he asked.

Petrovski looked puzzled.

“No, why?” he asked.

Namarov waved the enquiry away.

“Come on,” he said. “I want to reach their positions before nightfall.”

Led by Petrovski and the other two outriders, the cossacks rode off to the appointed position, and more than one of them felt a tingle of fear run up his spine as, above them, the sky darkened.

It seemed to be an omen.

Rostov banged the trunk of the tree angrily.

“Jesus Christ,” he roared. “We get cut to pieces in Ridanski and now you want to use the same tactics here.” His remarks were directed towards Namarov who had traced out his proposed plan of attack in the snow using the point of his sabre.

“They’re in the open this time,” he said. “There’s nowhere for them to hide. No houses, only the lorries. That sort of cover is no use in open country.”

“They why do we have to attack after daybreak?” Rostov wanted to know.

“The terrain is totally different,” Namarov told him. “They won’t be expecting a frontal attack.”

“They weren’t supposed to be expecting us last time,” Rostov said, acidly.

“What would you do then?” the major wanted to know.

Rostov stepped towards the makeshift diagram etched in the snow. The Germans had six armoured vehicles which could be used for cover and all of them were parked nose to tail, facing West. Behind them was a ridge and, on either side, thick outcrops of trees. The only way to reach them by direct assault was by charging head-on. The cossack officers had ridden as close as they dare to the darkened encampment mere minutes before, taking in every detail of the German camp. There were a dozen or more tents erected behind the rampart of armoured vehicles, the other men, Namarov guessed, were in the lorries themselves.

The main force of cossacks was about a quarter-of-a-mile away, tending to horses and weapons in preparation for the impending assault but, as yet, none of them knew when that was to be.

Boniak busied himself cleaning his sabre and lance and, when that was done, he set about pushing some fresh slugs into the drum magazine of his sub-gun. All around him, his comrades were doing similar chores.

Mig was brushing his horse down, careful to avoid the wound on its rump which it had received in Ridanski.

Voronzov, between slurps at his vodka bottle, was rough-sharpening the point of his lance.

Sikorski ate some bread and a piece of stale cheese then gave what was left to his horse.

From their present positions, the cossacks could see their offices standing over the diagram in the snow and Boniak saw Rostov step forward and drive his sabre into the ground as he made his point and his opinion known.

“That’s where I’d attack,” he said, pointing to the ridge behind the Germans. “We could walk the mounts around those trees and come at them from behind. They wouldn’t have a chance.”

Namarov knew that his colleague was right but he resisted.

“No, I still think the frontal attack would be better,” he said.

“Then don’t blame me if we get slaughtered,” said Rostov, angrily.

“No, I agree with the major,” said Kuragin, suddenly choosing to make his presence felt. “The frontal attack is best.”

Namarov almost smiled.

“But if we attack from the rear we cut off their escape route,” Rostov insisted, the pipe bouncing about in his mouth. He looked daggers at Kuragin. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your mind too?”

“I agree with the major, the frontal attack is best,” Kurgain insisted.

“A frontal attack before daylight I could understand,” said Rostov. “But, after daybreak. No, you’re both mad.” he turned. “Well I’ll have no part of it. I won’t see the men in my squadron slaughtered like prize cattle. I’m taking my men in now and no-one is going to stop me.”

“I can’t let you do that,” said Namarov.

Rostov’s anger had subsided into desperation.

“Then for God’s sake, Andrei, change your plans,” he begged.

“We attack at eight tomorrow morning,” said Namarov, unflinchingly. “This time there’ll be no mistakes.”

Rostov sighed.

“You once said that no-one in this unit owed allegiance to anyone but themselves and their beliefs,” he said, wearily.

“That’s true,” said the major.

“We are all free to come and go as we please.”

“Yes.”

There was a difficult silence which Rostov finally broke.

“Then know this, Andrei. I’ll ride with you tomorrow, I’ll lead those men tomorrow but we both know that we’re leading them into a death trap. Kuragin knows it too.” He pointed accusingly at the big cossack who merely shook his head. “Many of our men will die, perhaps all of them but I swear that if I live, I will find you and kill you, because what you are asking those men to do tomorrow is suicidal.”

“Rubbish,” said Kuragin, laughing humourlessly.

“Is it?” said Rostov. “Then perhaps you’ll be around to help me bury the dead tomorrow when this is over.” The squadron commander stalked off into the night, sabre clanking noisily against his boot.

“He’ll be OK tomorrow,” said Kuragin.

“Yes,” said Namarov, looking at his colleague. The two of them locked stares once more and there was a heavy silence. “We’d better get some sleep,” said the major finally.