Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

He ran at Namarov once more, the pain giving fuel to his anger, but his swing was wild and the major avoided it with ease. He drew his own sabre back a foot and then thrust forward with lightning speed.

The blade buried itself in the small of Kuragin’s back, destroying one kidney as it did so. Blood burst from the wound and the big man staggered, dropped to his knees but, even so, as Namarov advanced on him, he still had the strength to take a powerful swipe at his attacker and Namarov winced as the tip of the blade caught his left hand and split the palm wide open. However, by this time he was close to his opponent and, using both hands, he brought the curved blade down at the point of neck and shoulder.

There was a strident snapping of bone as Kuragin’s clavicle was shattered, his jugular vein also severed by the force of the stroke. A great spurting fountain of blood shot a full three feet into the air, some of it spattering Namarov, the remainder spraying onto the snow, soaking in like ink on blotting paper.

The big man let out a low gurgling sound as blood filled his mouth, dribbling over his lips to congeal and freeze in his thick beard. Then, with a last despairing grunt, he fell forward and lay still.

Namarov stepped back, looking down at the body, his breath coming in gasps. He felt as if he had just killed his own brother. The big man’s eyes were still open so, carefully, the major knelt and pushed the lids down. Simultaneously, he took the sabre from his dead friend’s hand and, raising it to his lips, kissed the hilt. Then he laid it back in the snow, murmured a few indefinable words and walked slowly across to Kuragin’s horse. He swung himself up into the saddle and set off back to the camp.

Rostov sat up angrily when he felt the toe of a boot in his back. He looked up to see Namarov standing there, the bloodstained sabre in his hand.

“What the hell is going on?” Rostov demanded.

Namarov told him what had happened and, as more men began to wake up, he told the entire story. Of Kuragin’s ‘deal’ with Kleiser, of why they had ridden into an ambush in Ridanski.

Rostov shook his head slowly.

“Oh God,” he said. “Now I understand all that about having to attack them from the front. I’m sorry, Andrei about…”

Namarov cut him short.

“No need to be sorry, my friend,” he said. “Get your men ready. We’re going in now.” He glanced at his watch. “Two hours earlier than they’re expecting us.”

Rostov needed no second prompting, he ran amongst the other men kicking them, pushing them, even physically pulling some to their feet. Horses were saddled, weapons hastily checked. Men swung themselves up onto their mounts and began to gather in formation.

Namarov himself ran across to Boniak and woke the boy.

“Your time has come,” he said, a slight smile on his face. “Take your revenge.”

The major dashed off to organise the remaining troops and Boniak felt his heart beating faster. He drew his sabre, hefted it before him and made one mighty swing before sheathing it again.

“Kleiser,” he whispered, softly.

He fumbled in the pouch on his belt and took out one of the bear claws, touching the point briefly. Then, he dropped it back into the little pouch and swung himself up into the saddle.

Daybreak was just ten minutes away as the cossacks rode off in the direction of the German camp.

More than one cossack felt a thrill run through him as the tents and vehicles which made up the SS camp came into view. They looked so silent, deserted almost. A thin layer of snow covered everything, even the helmets of the sentries who patrolled the perimeters of the camp.

It was one of those sentries who was the first to see the onrushing horde of cossacks.

The man opened his mouth to shout a warning but it seemed to be drowned out by the thundering hooves of the horses and as he turned to run, a lance caught him squarely in the back, erupting a full two feet from his chest and tearing away most of his right lung as it did so.

The Germans in the tents and trucks were catapulted from sleep by the sudden eruption of sub-machine gun fire which ripped through the stillness of the morning and, as a watery sun crawled up over the horizon dragging a cold dawn with it, the Russians swept into the camp.

Men emerged from their tents still half-asleep, only to be piked or hacked down with sabres. Those more fortunate were hit by the sprays of automatic fire, spared the renewed agonies as horses trampled them.

Namarov hurled a grenade into a krupp and rode past, ducking low in the saddle as it went off. The explosion sent bodies hurtling through the air and there was a blast of renewed ferocity as the petrol tank went up. A great mushroom cloud of fire screamed at the sky and blazing petrol sprayed out to cover the snow.

Mig saw two Germans emerging from a large tent, one of them trying to pull on his jacket. The cossack rode forward and, with one powerful swipe, struck the man’s head from his body. The head rose on a gout of blood, hanging in the air for long seconds as if suspended on invisible wires, then it thumped to the ground and lay in a widening pool of crimson. Mig let out a triumphant whoop and rode on.

Sergeant Dietz ran towards the half-track, firing his MP40 as he did. He brought down two horses but one of their riders got to his feet and, flinging his sabre, managed to bring the sergeant down. The sub-gun skidded from his grasp and he swiftly picked up the sword, using it to defend himself.

“You Bolshevik scum,” he roared and ran at the two men, one of whom calmly shot him in the face with a Tokarev.

Rostov rode his horse into a tent, forcing the occupants into the open. The first of them he felled with a blow that sliced off the man’s left arm just below the shoulder, the second ran, pursued by the cossack. He drew his horse alongside then brought the sabre down in a powerful arc. It hit the German on the nape of the neck and he went down in a heap, blood spurting madly from the vicious wound. Rostov allowed his horse to trample the body before reining it back, looking for more prey.

Reifel made it to the half-track and leapt behind the MG34, firing into the hordes of cossacks. Many fell in the initial fusillade but Boniak, seeing the danger, opened up with his own sub-gun, watching with satisfaction as the heavy grain slugs blasted holes in Reifel. He fell backward into the snow. But Boniak was more concerned with other things now. He turned his horse frantically, his eyes searching the confusion for the man he had come to kill.

Kleiser emerged from his tent holding an MP40, firing from the hip. He brought down half-a-dozen cossacks in the first burst of fire then, firing short bursts, he backed off towards a jeep which was parked nearby. Just behind him was pimmel and the bald-headed youngster was pushing Kuragin’s family along at the point of a Mauser rifle. Boniak roared something and spurred across towards the fleeing group but, as he watched, Kleiser pushed the three Russians to the ground and emptied the remnants of the sub-gun’s magazine into them. Then he and pimmel ran for the jeep and Boniak heard it roar into life.

Other SS men were either unwilling or unable to run. They merely sought cover behind or beneath the row of vehicles but there was only a handful of them left now and the cossacks used grenades to destroy the lorries. Massive explosions ripped through the air, pieces of metal and human debris flying into the snow-flecked sky. Huge tongues of flame lapped hungrily from the burning wrecks, and more than one German ran shrieking from cover, his clothes ablaze.

“Let the bastards burn,” said Rostov, watching as one of the black-clad men rolled over and over in the snow trying to extinguish the flames which were devouring his flesh. His screams seemed even louder than the roar of burning vehicles and the chatter of machine-gun fire. He lay on the snow praying for death, lumps of charred flesh flaking off like leprous growths.