Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

Kleiser was surprised when the last vehicle came to a halt.

“Who gave you the order to stop?” he roared at the driver.

“I did, sir,” said Sergeant Statz, clambering down from the back of the krupp. He stood beside the vehicle, watching as Kleiser swung himself out of the jeep and trudged across to the waiting truck.

“What the hell are you playing at, Statz?” he demanded.

“I have two men inside this truck,” Statz told him. “Two men who are badly wounded. They need morphine.”

“There isn’t enough for every man in the unit,” Kleiser snapped. “I’ve told you that before.”

“They are very badly injured, sir,” Statz insisted.

Kleiser looked at him blankly, the sounds of pain emanating from the truck swelling like an organ note on the wind. He pushed past the sergeant and hauled himself up into the back of the lorry. There were other men inside too, most of whom were wounded. They regarded their commander with pale, fearful, expressions, watching as he walked to the rear of the truck where two men lay, covered by blankets.

“They are very badly hurt, sir,” said Statz, appearing at his side.

Kleiser knelt and pulled back the blanket which covered the first man. The soldier groaned. He had been hit in the stomach by a piece of shrapnel and, as he looked, Kleiser could see the glistening knot of his large intestine protruding from the savage rent in his belly. Blood, both congealed and fresh, was caked thickly all over the man’s chest and groin and his hands were clamped firmly to his wound as if he feared that to release the ragged edges would cause his entrails to spill out. The stench was almost overpowering.

The captain pulled back the cover from the second SS man who was lying on his stomach. Two bullets had hit him in the small of the back, one shattering his spine. The flesh had been ripped away to reveal glistening pieces of vertebrae and the wounded man merely lay still, his lips fluttering soundlessly, a mixture of blood and sputum forming a pool beside him.

“They need morphine, sir,” Statz said, again.

“We haven’t the time or the facilities to deal with men as badly wounded as this,” said Kleiser, pointing almost accusingly at the two stricken Germans.

“If they could just be given morphine until we reach…”

Statz’s protestations were cut short.

In one swift movement, Kleiser whipped the PPk from its holster and shot each man in the head. He holstered the weapon again and pushed past Statz.

“Get rid of the bodies and then move this fucking truck,” he rasped.

Statz could only gaze dumbly at the two corpses. He swallowed hard then snapped out orders to some of the men standing close by. They lifted the dead men and heaved them out of the krupp.

“Move,” shouted Kleiser and the lorry driver put the huge vehicle in gear. It gradually picked up speed, finally joining the rear of the column once again.

Kleiser rubbed his cheeks with one hand then looked at his driver.

“Let’s go,” he said and, within moments, the jeep was leading the way again.

Kleiser was the first to spot the farmhouse and he swiftly held up his hand as a signal for the others to halt. A downward movement of his arm told the drivers to turn off their engines.

The silence which descended so suddenly was almost palpable. The rumble of powerful engines was replaced by an unsettling solitude, accentuated by the thickly falling snow which seemed to mask any sound.

Kleiser reached for the binoculars which hung around his neck and squinted through them, pausing a moment to brush some snow from the lenses. He focussed and then scanned the small farm ahead of them. Snow had been cleared from the yard, heaped up in large mounds all around the centre of the farm. There was a small wooden hut which he took to be the dwelling of the owner, flanked by two large buildings which looked like barns. Across the yard lay a small stable. The top of a wooden fence thrust upward from beneath the thickly-packed snow.

“No sign of movement,” said Kleiser, under his breath. He lowered the binoculars and stepped out of the jeep. The SS men in the half-track behind sat shivering in the freezing deluge of white. Most wore their camouflage overalls but, even those who chose to retain the distinctive black of their regular uniforms were covered in snow. They looked as if they had been coated in sugar. But, whatever they wore, all bore the glistening Death’s-Head silver badge on their caps or helmets. The skulls seemed to grin at Kleiser as he approached.

“Dietz,” he snapped. “Take six men and check out that farm. The rest of us will follow.”

The sergeant nodded and barked an order to the half-a-dozen troops closest to him.

“We need food,” the captain told him. “Look in the barns.”

Dietz and his men scuttled off through the snow, watched by the rest of the column. Kleiser himself returned to the jeep and slumped into the passenger seat.

“Do you think they’ll find anything, sir?” asked pimmel .

Kleiser shrugged, his eyes fixed to the dark shapes making their way towards the farm. He saw them reach the first of the snow mounds, Dietz and another man taking cover behind it. The sergeant waved two other men towards the farmhouse itself and, through his binoculars, Kleiser could see them approaching the door. Still there was no sign of movement from any of the other buildings.

The barns were checked, as was the stable, the men emerging unscathed each time. The house was the final obstacle.

As Dietz himself kicked the door open, Kleiser gave the order for the column to move forward, and the silence was shattered once again by the roaring of a dozen powerful engines.

Uri Kuratayev was, Kleiser guessed, in his early forties. He looked like a powerful, muscular, figure even though most of his body was covered by a shapeless sacklike garment which smelt of manure. He stood between Dietz and Private Hadel, looking every inch the Russian farmer. A thick growth of beard sprouted from his cheeks and chin looking like an extension of the fur hat which he wore.

“He was hiding inside,” said Dietz, motioning towards the farmhouse.

Kleiser spun round when he heard the neighing of horses. He left the two SS men with their captive and walked across to the stables. Inside were four horses, one of which had a foal with it. The captain ran an appraising eye over the animals which continued to paw the ground nervously.

“What did you find in the barns?” Kleiser called.

“There’s wheat but most of it is rotten,” Statz told him.

“Anything else?”

“Some salt pork; he’s stored it in drums.”

“We’ll take that,” Kleiser said. “Get it loaded into one of the krupps.”

Statz nodded and gathered a number of men to assist him in the task. Kleiser watched as the first of the large containers was brought from the barn and lifted up into the back of one of the waiting lorries. Then he turned his attention back to the horses.

One of them, a magnificent black gelding, stood quietly in its stall almost as if it were returning the SS officer’s stare. Without taking his eyes off the horse, Kleiser shouted;

“Rutweiss. Moller. Here, now.”

Two of the men arrived and saluted.

“We can’t leave the Russians anything,” said Kleiser, flatly. “Shoot the horses and burn the stable.”

The two men hesitated momentarily, looking first at the animals and then back at their commander.

“Do it,” he ordered.

Rutweiss slid back the bolt on his MP40, the sound causing the horses to become even more nervous. Moller did likewise. Then, gritting their teeth, the SS men opened fire. Kleiser stood in the doorway watching as the horses were dropped like slaughtered cattle. The 9mm bullets tore through them from close range, the sound of the chattering weapons deafening in the cramped confines of the stable and, above it all, the agonised sounds made by the stricken animals as they were shot to pieces. Fountains of blood sprayed into the cold air, pieces of mane and hide blasted into atoms and the sub-guns rattled until, at last, the hammers slammed down on empty chambers. Both men tore the magazines free, hurriedly slamming in fresh ones. Rutweiss, holding his breath as best he could, peered into the stalls one at a time. Condensation was rising in reeking clouds from the blood and excrement and the SS man paled. The foal was still moving slightly. He looked at his companion and then at Kleiser who was still standing in the doorway, then, reluctantly, he opened fire again. One short burst which caught the small creataure in the neck and head, nearly severing it. Its body underwent a final muscular twitch and then was still.