Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

“Burn it,” said Kleiser, flatly, and stalked off across the yard towards Kuratayev who was now being restrained by Dietz and to more of the black-clad men. On hearing the shots, the big Russian had tried to break away, to reach his dying animals. Now, as he saw the first tongues of flame rising from the stable, a single tear burst from his eye corner and froze on his cheek.

“Ask him where the nearest village is,” said Kleiser, pulling Corporal Harger towards him. Harger spoke fluent Russian and repeated his superior’s question to the stricken farmer whilst, to his left, other SS men were already setting light to the first of the barns.

Kuratayev rasped something back and Harger raised a hand to strike him.

“What did he say?” Kleiser wanted to know.

“He told me to fuck off,” the corporal said. “Ask him again,” said Kleiser.

Harger did so.

“Germanski, bastards,” snarled the big Russian, and then proceeded to launch into a furious tirade against the questioning corporal.

“He says he’d rather die than tell us,” Harger translated.

Kleiser nodded thoughtfully and slowly drew his PPk. Apparently without aiming, he fired once. The bullet hit Kuratayev in the left knee, the close-range impact shattering the patella, snapping the leg back at an impossible angle. The big man went down in a heap, clutching at the shattered joint but Kleiser kicked his hands away, instead bringing the heel of his boot to rest on the wound. Kuratayev shrieked in pain.

“Ask him again where the nearest village is,” said the captain and, for the last time, Harger repeated the question in faultless Russian.

“Nyet,” gasped the farmer and now Kleiser put all his weight on the wound, grinding his heel deep into it until the leg threatened to come off. The SS captain gritted his teeth and kept up the pressure, finally stamping on the crushed knee cap. He knelt swiftly and slapped the farmer around the face.

“Don’t pass out on me you scum,” he rasped, shaking the big Russian. “The village. Where is it?”

Kuratayev tried to shake his head but Kleiser gripped him by the beard, pushing the PPk into his face.

He murmured something which Harger just heard.

“He said there’s a village about a mile West of here,” the corporal told his superior.

Kleiser released his grip on the farmer and stood up.

“Untermensch,” he growled and shot Kuratayev in the face. Kleiser stood staring down at the body for long seconds, as if wondering whether or not the farmer was going to get up, then he turned and scanned the farm. All but one of the buildings were already ablaze and four other men were in the process of setting light to the farmhouse itself. Private Reifel tossed a stick grenade inside and the men scattered as an explosion blew the roof from the tiny dwelling. Fire began to lick at the damp beams, burning dimly and giving off clouds of thick black smoke.

Kleiser gave orders for his men to return to the trucks then he himself, after taking one last approving glance at the burning farm, strode back to the jeep. The column moved on, Westward.

The village of Prokev lay beneath the blanket of snow, surrounded on three sides by the thick forest which was a feature of that particular part of Russia. The snow had eased somewhat but the skies were still dark and forbidding, premonitory of something. An omen further aided by the appearance of several plumes of thick black smoke which the villagers of Prokev could see rising in the South.

“It must be Kuratayev’s farm,” said Yusavich, pointing to the pall of writhing fumes.

Pieter Boniak nodded slowly.

“The Germans will be here soon,” he said. “We must hide our supplies.”

“How can we?” Yusavich demanded. “We don’t know how close they are. They could be upon us any minute.”

Boniak stroked his grizzled chin thoughtfully for a second then turned to a young lad, barely seventeen, who was doing his best to drive a couple of cows into one of the village’s small wooden houses.

“Anatole.”

The youth hearing his name dashed across, his black hair flowing behind him in the wind.

“Yes, father,” he said.

“Take your horse,” the old man told him. “Ride towards the smoke. See if you can see the Germans. We must know how far from us they are.”

The lad nodded and ran across to a small enclosure nearby where a magnificent grey horse nuzzled the ground in the vain hope of finding something to eat. Anatole leapt the fence and raced across to the horse, swinging up onto its back. Without the benefit of a saddle it seemed that he would have difficulty controlling the beast but, digging his heels into its flanks, he caused it to rear up and, for a second, man and animal seemed to become one, merging into one sleek creature which could outrun the wind. Urging the horse on, Anatole guided it towards the fence and, with a mighty leap, the grey cleared it. It hung in the air for long seconds, as if suspended on invisible wires, then gained a footing on the other side.

Boniak watched as his son galloped away towards the source of the smoke.

“Be careful,” he yelled but his cry was carried away on the wind.

“We must get the women and children into the woods,” Denisov said, appearing beside them.

“They may not be coming here,” said Boniak, hopefully.

“They’ll find us somehow,” Yusavich snapped. “We should prepare ourselves. Fight if we have to.”

“Pitchforks and scythes against machine-guns?” said Boniak, scornfully. “What chance would we have?”

“Better to die than to run like frightened children,” snapped Yusavich.

“Perhaps if we give them our supplies they will leave as unharmed,” Boniak said.

“If you want to give up then do so,” Yusavich growled, hefting a rusty scythe before him. “I will not see the fruits of my hard work fall into the hands of some German bastard without a fight.” He stalked off.

“A brave man,” said Denisov.

“What good is bravery to a man if he is dead?” said Boniak, cryptically. “I say we must speak with them. Try to reason at least.”

“What do the Germans know of reason, Boniak?” demanded Denisov. “How many million of our contrymen have they already murdred? Are you prepared to forget that?”

The two men gazed at each other for long seconds then Boniak nodded.

“Get the women and children into the woods,” he said, watching as his friend dashed off to complete the task. He felt his own heart pounding just that little bit harder against his ribs.

Anatole slid from the horse, clamping one hand over the animal’s muzzle to keep it quiet. Hidden by trees which were heavy with snow, atop a ridge, he looked down on the column of German armoured vehicles which was rolling inexorably towards Prokev. There was no doubt about it. That was their destination. The horse neighed softly, disturbed by the smell of diesel fumes and the rumbling of the heavy machinery below. Anatole counted the number of trucks and half-tracks and found that it totalled twelve. How many men there were he could only guess. He thought perhaps two hundred, maybe less. Some were on foot, trailing behind the last lorry and, as he strained his eyes, he saw the grinning Death’s-Head badges on their caps.

“SS,” he murmured, under his breath.

Carefully, with infinite care, he remounted the horse, took one last look at the advancing column and then rode as fast as he could back in the direction of Prokev.

As he broke through the trees, Anatole could see that the village was still a hive of activity. Women and children, some carried in their mother’s arms, were being guided towards a place in the woods to the rear of the village. Some straw bales and sandbags had been used to build a type of barricade at the approaches and he saw his father, Yusavich and several other men of the village standing behind it. Anatole sent the horse into a spectacular leap which carried it over the barricade then he halted it and jumped down, running across to his father.