Colin Gee - Stalemate

The knife fell away from his useless fingers, and was instantly retrieved by Gurung.

He stabbed quickly into the man’s side and stomach and was about to finish him off when a sixth sense warned him and he rolled away.

A sabre cut the air where his head had been the briefest moment before.

Another blow made contact, slamming into his midriff, but failing to cause him damage, the blade eating into his webbing and pouches and halting at the buckle.

One of his younger platoon members saw his senior NCO in difficulty and sprang forward, only to receive a deadly blow as his kukri was brushed aside, and the sabre left free to kill.

The dead man’s kukri dropped invitingly to the ground, but the Cossack understood the situation, and made sure he stayed between it and Gurung.

Swinging the shashka, he advanced again, his wounded adversary having no choice but to retreat, the knife useless against such a heavy attack.

A burst of firing, close at hand, marked a momentary separation between some of the combatants, a space that some of the Cossacks exploited, using PPSh’s to slay a number of Gurkhas.

The firing distracted the cavalryman, only for a split-second, but enough for Gurung to spring.

Attention back on the fight, the Cossack slashed at the moving shape, nicking an arm as the Gurkha rolled low and right, slipping under the attack, and jamming the knife in the meat of the cavalryman’s thigh.

It jarred into the bone, causing a horrendous pain that momentarily paralysed the Cossack, until it passed just as quickly and he turned to deal the Gurkha a deadly blow.

“Ayo Gurkhali!”

Gurung led with a powerful thrusting straight arm, moving inside the latest sabre cut, the retrieved kukri smashing, point first, straight through the man’s upper teeth, before penetrating the roof of his mouth and into the brain beyond.

Regardless of the absence of verification in the Divisional records, Kazakov actually had been awarded the Red Star for valour, back in the days when he was a patriot, prepared to risk his life for the Rodina.

That had long since passed, and the butchery to which his unit had been subjected, often by orders of doubtful military worth, had left him with only self-preservation of immediate concern.

Or so he thought.

Watching from his position, he observed men he had lived with these past four years, comrades and friends, dying and bleeding for the same cause he had forsaken.

Something clicked inside.

“Blyad!”

Substituting his weapon for a discarded SVT rifle with spare magazines, he slipped forward in the half-crouching run that marked out the veterans from the cannon fodder.

Arriving at the old German trench section, he calmly picked off Gurkhas, saving more than one of comrade’s life in the process.

Tossing an empty magazine away, he saw the movement and turned, dropping the new mag as he raised the rifle to stop the blow.

A bloodied Gurkha brought down his kukri and found only the rifle. The blade bit into the wood and metal and lodged there, the weakened man tugging on it without success.

The Gurkha saw death in Kazakov’s eyes and fell to the ground, exhausted by his wounds, drained by his exertions.

The SVT was useless as a rifle, so Kazakov repeatedly drove the butt into the face of the wounded man, smashing jaw, cheekbones, and cracking the skull, before throwing the rifle away, the bloodied kukri still lodged in its workings.

The shashka was in his hand before he moved away, deciding to avoid the melee in the trench, and investigate off towards the right.

Gurung recovered his own kukri and looked around him, immediately understanding the situation.

The Gurkhas were losing.

In such moments, men are born, and Company Havildar Major Gurung immediately determined to be a beacon and rallying point to his men.

Shouting the battle cry, he moved up and out of the depression he was in, exposing himself to friend and enemy alike.

The surviving Gurkhas took inspiration and fought back with renewed vigour, pressing the Cossacks hard, despite their inferiority in numbers.

Two Cossacks rushed at him, screaming, and slashing with their blades. Each received the same journey to Valhalla in short order.

A wounded Soviet officer emptied his Nagant revolver at the mad Gurkha, missing every shot, his fear growing as the whirling shape grew nearer.

A Cossack Sergeant, his hands pressed to a ruined face, staggered into kukri range and was dispatched, his blood splashing over the officer’s hands as he fed more shells into his Nagant.

He started to scream in fear, his hands desperate to snap the revolver back together and kill the mad little man.

Fear leant him wings but also robbed him of the composure he needed, and Gurung’s kukri bit deeply into his chest, spilling his life’s blood.

A bullet tugged at Gurung’s sleeve, and he wisely moved back into cover.

As he turned back, he saw another cavalryman, gleaming sabre in hand, stalk the position, occasionally hacking down through gaps in the flames, striking at a man in the trench below.

A pistol appeared in the man’s hand, and more of Gurung’s men died.

Despite his growing weariness, Gurung threw himself forward, shouting at the Cossack to distract him.

One bullet remained in the pistol and the trigger was pulled. It missed the charging Gurkha, so metal met metal, as shashka and kukri clashed again.

Kazakov felt the sting as the kukri slash slipped through his guard, opening his jacket side and slicing the flesh down the line of his ribs. However, Gurung had been falling away at the time, so the cut was not deep.

The Cossack replied in kind, using the extra length of his weapon, feinting a right handed slash and reversing, pushing the point into yielding flesh and dropping the Gurkha to his knees.

Gurung’s thigh howled in protest as the blade bit deep. He struck out at the shashka, snapping it in two, the renewed surge of pain almost causing him to faint.

Kazakov was raging, his father’s sabre broken by this small brown man, its blade now the same length as the strange knife the Gurkha wielded.

He slashed out with the broken sabre, missing his man and falling backwards as he lost his balance.

Throwing the destroyed sword to one side, he slipped his own knife from its scabbard and rose to his feet.

Taking advantage of the lull, he caught his breath as he watched Gurung try to pull the half-blade from his thigh.

His hand closed around the sharp steel and he gently pulled, slicing flesh on fingers and palm. The blade remained firmly embedded.

Kazakov used the moment to his advantage.

Sensing the Cossack’s attack, Gurung pushed himself upright, the embedded blade slicing into muscle that was already struggling to support his weight.

The deadly knife missed its mark, swatted aside by the flat of the kukri.

A swipe similarly missed the Russian, splitting the air as the Cossack rocked backwards in avoidance.

Kazakov feinted with his knife and drew the expected defensive move from the Gurkha.

His foot lashed out and made contact with the protruding blade, catching the exposed metal and ripping it upwards.

Gurung wailed in pain and staggered backwards, thumping against a smouldering tree behind him.

He raised his kukri, but realised his strength was going, the extended wound in his thigh draining blood from his body at an alarming rate.

The Cossack lunged with his knife and the blade bit into Gurung’s stomach, driving right through and into the wood beyond.

His kukri fell from his grasp, and he moaned loudly. The pain was unbearable, both that of the wound and in the knowledge of his failure.

Kazakov bent down and recovered the kukri that had slipped from Gurung’s grasp. He weighed it in his right hand, nodding in acknowledgement of its deadly capabilities.