Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

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.

He crashed into the undergrowth, ignoring the low branches which snatched at his face. A bullet struck a tree nearby, blasting a chunk of wood as big as his fist away. Boniak threw himself down, glancing over his shoulder to see that two SS men were pursuing him. They were struggling through the snow, weapons held at the ready and one had his bayonet fixed. Boniak got to his feet, his breath coming in gasps. He fumbled inside his jacket pulling the double-edged blade free; it was his only weapon and he realised just how useless it would be against rifles. Nevertheless, it was all he had. Using the low branches as supports, he dragged himself up the shallow incline which led up from the outskirts of Prokev. A glance behind told him that the two Germans were still on his tail. They passed the dead horse, one of them prodding it with his rifle as he did so. They they too came crashing into the undergrowth, cursing and yelling abuse after the fleeing Russian.

Boniak realised that they were gaining on him. The trees and bushes grew thickly so he decided that his best chance was to hide. There was an outcrop of rock to his left, masked, to some degree, by bushes and a fallen tree which had collapsed under the weight of so much snow. Boniak threw himself down behind it and closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing. His heart was hammering against his ribs, so powerfully he feared his pursuers may hear it. He swallowed hard and gripped the handle of the knife, listening as they blundered through the trees and bushes after him. He could hear them babbling away to each other as they kicked at the snow-covered undergrowth, driving bayonets into places they thought he might be hiding.

Boniak chanced a look from his hiding place and saw that the two men had split up. One was making his way further up the ridge. The other was heading straight for the Russian’s hiding place.

The youth was frantic. He tried to squeeze himself further beneath the fallen tree trunk, gripping the icy bark with one frozen hand. The other grimly holding the knife. He knew that he would have to kill the German if he got too close or if he discovered the hiding place but Boniak felt sick even at the thought. Horseman he may be, killer he wasn’t but, as the German drew closer, he had the horrible feeling that he was about to experience the dubious honour of killing his first man.

The SS man poked around in the bushes with his bayonet for a second then he seemed to tire of the hunt and sat down on the tree trunk, waiting for his companion to return. Anatole tried desperately to control his own breathing as he studied the man’s legs, noticing with revulsion and anger that there was blood on the black-clad soldier’s boots. The Russian youth gripped the knife more tightly, readying himself for the moment when he must strike.

“Find anything?”

He heard the voice close to him.

“No,” said the first SS man. “The bastard must be hiding somewhere.”

“What are we going to?” his companion wanted to know. “Kleiser will cut our balls off if we go back and say we couldn’t find the boy.”

Kleiser. Kleiser. The name struck Anatole like a thunderbolt. Kleiser. So that was the name of the man who had killed his parents? The black-clad bastard with the scar from forehead to chin. Kleiser.

The rifle shot sounded deafening in the relative solitude of the woods and Anatole almost yelped aloud at the suddenness of it.

“There,” he heard the first man say. “As far as the captain’s concerned, we caught him and shot him. He can’t see us from here, he’ll be none the wiser and I’m too fucking cold to be hunting around in the snow for some bloody peasant. Come on, let’s go back.”

The two SS men muttered between themselves for a moment then, from his hiding place, Anatole saw them make their way back through the woods towards the smoking wreck of Prokev. The youth remained still for what seemed like an eternity, shivering uncontrollably. Not certain whether or not it was the cold or a product of his fear. Finally, when he was sure that they had gone, he eased himself from beneath the fallen tree trunk, his joints cracking as he straightened up. He brushed snow from his clothes and slid the double-edged blade back into its leather sheath then, moving as cautiously as he could, he made his way up to the top of the ridge. Still mercifully hidden from view by the trees which grew so thickly along the crest of the ridge, he looked down into the valley beneath him.