Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

“The Germans are coming,” he said.

“How many of them?” asked Yusavich.

“About two hundred. They’re SS.”

A ripple of concerned chatter ran around the assembled group.

“ Now do you think we can reason, Boniak?” said Denisov.

“We can try,” Boniak said, defiantly.

“Are all the women and children safe?” asked Ilyanovski, anxiously.

“With the SS around no-one is safe,” Yusavich said, acidly. “But at least they might have more chance in the woods.”

“So, what do we do?”

The words came from Denisov, addressed to no-one in particular.

“We fight,” snarled Yusavich.

Boniak held up a hand.

“First we try to reason, then…” he paused. “If necessary we fight.”

The men spun round as a half-track burst from the trees and rumbled towards them. They could all see the black uniformed figure of Dietz standing at its head, his eyes firmly fixed on them, his finger hooked around the trigger of the MG34. Beside the half-track the jeep drove along and the Russians saw the officer seated in it.

They heard machine-gun fire from behind them and, with horror, saw more SS men driving the women and children from the apparent safety of the woods back into the village itself. Anatole saw his own mother dragged to her feet by the hair when she stumbled. He looked imploringly at his father who could only stand helplessly as the German armoured vehicles drew closer. The horse reared up and Anatole tried desperately to calm it.

The jeep pulled up less than ten yards from the small barricade and the Russians watched as Kleiser got out, picking up his MP40 as he did so. He walked to within five yards and stood, splay-legged, before them. The muzzle of the sub-gun seemed to yawn menacingly.

“We have grain and livestock,” said Boniak, raising his hands as a sign of submission. “Take them.”

Kleiser smiled.

“We will,” he said.

Behind him, Boniak could hear orders being barked out in German. He could hear the implorings of the women as they were lined up in the centre of the village. More SS men had moved into it by now and were in the process of ransacking the tiny huts. Anatole looked on helplessly as cattle were driven from where they’d been hidden, some were shot. But it was clear that the Germans had little intention of taking them for food. Three of the black uniformed men had opened up on the bullocks with machine-guns. Lumps of flesh and spurts of blood flew into the air and, soon, the snow was stained crimson. A woman screamed and an SS corporal nearby slapped her hard across the face, knocking her down.

“Just take what you want,” said Boniak, pleadingly.

Kleiser continued to smile.

“You bastard,” roared Yusavich and leapt the barricade, swinging the scythe at the SS leader. But, Kleiser merely ducked beneath the wild swing and fired upward from point-blank range. The impact sent Yusavich hurtling a full six-feet backward, long streamers of blood trailing behind him. The scythe fell from his grasp and he lay still. Then, suddenly, the other men at the barricade were driving for cover as, at a command from Kleiser, Dietz opened up with the MG34. The heavy grain bullets ploughed into wood, hay and flesh alike.

Denisov screamed in agony as a bullet hit him in the leg, shattering his femur. He crumpled up, part of the smashed bone protruding through the broken skin. He tried to drag himself away but, as he lifted his hand toward Boniak, a second bullet pierced the back of his hand. Boniak himself turned to face Kleiser who fired one burst at him, drilling a line of ragged perforations across his chest.

“Run,” Boniak croaked, turning to look up at his son. For long seconds Anatole hesitated, glaring first at the advancing SS officer, that long scar on his face so prominent, and then at his bullet-riddled father.

“Run,” he said once more and Anatole needed no more prompting. He swung himself up onto the horse and dug his heels into it.

The boy almost crashed into his mother as the horse wheeled round. Arms outstretched, she ran towards her dying husband, a look of hatred on her face as she glanced at Kleiser then, with a contemptuous grin, the SS officer turned the MP40 on her too. She was catapulted backwards by the thudding impact of the bullets, her stomach torn open by the close range blast.

“No,” shrieked Anatole but he knew there was nothing he could do and, taking a last look at the prone figures of his parents, he rode on, through the village which had become both slaughterhouse and incinerator. Houses were already burning, men and children running through the smoke and flames while the SS cut them down with almost random bursts of fire.

A man ran, screaming, through the streets, his hair and clothes ablaze. SS men nearby laughed wildly as he dashed past them, shrieking his agony.

A woman carrying a small child was pushed up against the wall of a hut and fired on. The salvo of close-range fire blasted the child from her arms and, as she stooped to retrieve its bullet-torn body. Statz shot her in the back of the neck.

Everywhere, the snow was splashed with blood, its coppery odour tingeing the chill air. Palls of black smoke rose mournfully into the sky, forming an immense oppressive cloud over the burning remnants of Prokev. The shouts and screams began to diminish somewhat as the SS, with a thoroughness they were renowned for, went around every body firing a single shot into the nape of the neck or the forehead. Clothes were torn from bleeding bodies, rings which would not come loose of their own accord were prised off with knives. In one case, Rutweiss sliced off an entire finger in order to get the woman’s wedding ring. He dropped the severed digit into his pocket and scuttled off to look for more valuables, bickering with his colleagues over what little there was.

Boniak, meanwhile, guided the great grey horse through the middle of the carnage, apparently ignored by the black-clad butchers around him. He glanced back once to see two of them bending over the bodies of his mother and father but then he ducked low over the horse’s neck and rode for his life.

It was Kleiser himself who saw that the boy was heading for the nearby woods. The captain roared something at a corporal who was busy pulling the fur boots from a dead farmer. The corporal couldn’t hear properly because of the roar of flames from the blazing huts so Kleiser strode over and snatched the Mauser rifle from the bewildered NCO, raising it to his shoulder.

Boniak could see the woods drawing nearer, beckoning. The horse was panting as it struggled through the deep snow, but he dug his heels into it and the animal seemed to quicken its pace.

Thirty yards and he would be safe.

Kleiser squinted down the sight of the rifle and rested his finger gently on the trigger.

Boniak whispered encouragement to the animal, not daring to look round.

He was fifteen yards from the trees.

Kleiser drew a bead on the young Russian, the foresight fixed squarely on his head. He squeezed the trigger.

The cinder which drifted across his eyeline startled him and his finger jerked on the trigger, just enough to disrupt his aim. There was a harsh crack as the Mauser went off but Kleiser cursed.

The horse must have been travelling at around twenty-five miles an hour when the single bullet hit it. The heavy grain slug caught the animal in the neck and Boniak yelped in surprise as a fountain of blood sprayed from the wound. The grey reeled uncertainly for a second then its forelegs buckled and, with a despairing whinney, it cartwheeled in the snow. Boniak was hurled from its back and he rolled over hurriedly to avoid being crushed beneath the carcass. The snow seemed to bite into his hands and face as, for precious seconds, he lay still then, another shot struck the ground near him, sending up a small geyser of snow. He scrambled to his feet, looked back at the horse, its body still twitching spasmodically as the blood continued to spout from its neck with the force of a high-pressure hose, then he ran for the trees which were closer than he had first thought.