Simon Montefiore - Red Sky at Noon

An ungodly whistling put them on edge and then his comrade’s voice vanished as German shells exploded on the water, sending fountains into the air. Benya gripped the edge of the boat, knuckles white. I am going to die!

‘Be calm, men,’ said Zhurko. ‘These aren’t targeted yet. They haven’t got any Storches over us.’

That’s all very well, thought Benya, but suppose the shells hit us even so? He was about to say this when he recalled he could be shot for panic-mongering.

They had claimed their horses off the ferries as soon as they landed. It had been utter chaos in the grey-lilac light, horses bumping into each other, their snaffles and stirrups snagged. Finally Benya found Socks and rode up the riverbank with Prishchepa and the Uzbek thief, Koshka.

‘Cigarette?’ Captain Zhurko offered a Belomorkanal to the men. Only officers got Belomorkanals. Benya took one, just to do something. ‘There’s a lot of waiting around in war. We stand here; no one moves till I say,’ he told them. ‘We just have time for a cigarette.’

When Benya took it, his hand was shaking so badly that he almost dropped it. Prishchepa lit it for him; his own hands were still. ‘You’re quite calm,’ said Benya.

‘I am too simple a soul to fear death,’ Prishchepa said. ‘Besides, I am younger. The more you know, the harder it is. I might die now. But I prefer to live.’ On the other side of Prishchepa sat Koshka, who appeared to be rigid with fear, and then Mametka, who wiped his brow over and over, eyes as big and empty as sinkholes.

‘This is going to be a beauty of a day. We might get a tan. Do you know I had a girl in that village over there?’ chattered Prishchepa.

‘Shut up, magpie,’ said Spider Garanzha.

‘Are you Cossacks? I’m writing about the battle. For the newspaper Red Star . I got on the last ferry. I know you’re Shtrafniki but I want the public to know…’ They looked down at a gentle-faced man in uniform with a shock of black hair who was walking along the line between the horses, holding his notebook and pencil. Benya could see the men liked him, even the roughest of them: he could hear him interviewing ‘Lover-boy’ Cherkashkin, the youthful Party Secretary from Belgorod who had murdered his mistress’s husband out of passionate jealousy; even ‘Cannibal’ Delibash was answering his questions; then he was questioning the swarthy Shundenko.

‘Time’s up, scribbler. Get out of here. Advance is imminent,’ Mogilchuk shouted.

Benya’s hands and legs were thrumming; sweat spread across his shirt, and a socket of fear pulsated in his belly. He stayed close to the men of his squadron but he had no idea where they were going, what they were meant to do. He recalled something about advancing under cover of the tanks, then going into a charge and, if successful, a raid behind enemy lines.

‘Right, lads, you’ll be entering a sector where many Soviet troops, some lost, some traitors and cowards, will be at large,’ Captain Ganakovich was bellowing. ‘Stavka orders all forces on southern fronts to be given this information: You will cooperate with our brave Soviet partisans. But there are bands of traitors fighting for the Hitlerites, and particularly in this sector, a special unit under the traitor and collaborator Mandryka. These you will annihilate on sight. Instant redemption awaits the man who kills Mandryka or any collaborationist leaders…’

Benya had never killed a man, making him something of a novelty in a battalion where even those who hadn’t murdered anyone, like Koshka, liked to imply that they had. He knew neither how to kill nor how to die, and he told himself now that it was the not knowing that made them both frightening.

‘When you shoot, please at least aim at something,’ said Captain Zhurko. ‘Seventy per cent of shots fired in battle are totally unaimed…’

They had all laughed then; now Benya had forgotten how to shoot, how to breathe…

Zhurko rode up and down. ‘Remember, fellows,’ he said, repeating his catchphrase to each squadron. ‘If you’re scared, don’t do it. If you do it, don’t be scared!’

Benya’s panic boiled a hot broth in his gorge. The crump of shells – for a moment flying high over them from the German side – was shaking the earth as if a giant was stomping towards them. A boom, then another, made Benya jump, his ears almost bursting, the afterblasts buffering the air. The regimental artillery, 76-mm howitzers, were positioned right behind the horsemen and now they began to fire over them; then the 122-mms…

Then came the revving of engines, and nimble BT-7 tanks – Betushkas – motored past them; Benya knew they were out of date and now he could see them rumbling, stalling, grunting and pumping out black smoke. It was starting.

Panka was riding up the ranks, ladling out their hundred grammes of vodka into the metal mugs that hung from their saddlebags. He handed one to Benya and watched him drink it: ‘It’s always sunny in the saddle,’ said the old Cossack as Benya knocked it back, still sure he was going to die.

‘Squadrons. In file formation: forward!’

Oh God, this was it! Benya thought of his mother, just his mother, and he actually said ‘Mama’, and he wished he was anywhere but here. He didn’t even believe in God, hadn’t prayed since he was a boy, but now he was reciting the Shema in Hebrew. The fear of death was so visceral that Benya looked behind him, the muscles in his thighs tensing so he could dismount and just run, run, run to safety, down to the Don. He could swim to safety. He was not made for this! But then he saw Mogilchuk standing behind the NKVD blocking squads, their machine guns set up right behind the artillery. They were ready to shoot down any cowards, the entire brigade if necessary…

‘Squadrons!’ cried Melishko, riding in front of them on his twenty-hand horse, Elephant, a steed big enough to carry a knight in full armour. ‘Prepare to advance at the walk. Wait…!’ The artillery tossed another volley over their heads. Benya saw the shells explode far ahead of them, smoke rising, debris in the air – could they be real? Melishko’s words were lost but Zhurko repeated the orders; as did the sergeants all along the line: ‘Wait for agreed signals to lope then on the order: charge!’

Benya’s skin was squeezing him like a shell, and he knew he could not fight. But Prishchepa, humming a song, was riding forward, and so was Spider and the entire line. Between the thuds of shells he could hear the Cossacks were all singing together.

‘Squadrons! Draw sabres!’ There was a flash of blue steel along the line as eight hundred blades were drawn. The sight, accompanied by the haunting Cossack harmonies, was so rousing that for an instant wild optimism overcame Benya’s fear. He thought of Borodino and Waterloo and found that he had drawn his own blade and that the shashka was heavy in his hand. Just yards ahead, Melishko thudded forward on Elephant, those plough-horse hooves tossing clods of turf into the air, gaining speed.

Zhurko was behind him, his sword raised.

‘Prepare to gallop, bandits!’ Melishko shouted and Zhurko, twisting round to face them, called out:

‘Not yet! Hold it, hold it!’

Sliver Sock’s three-beat gait was making Benya bounce around in the saddle. In vain, he tried to steady himself as he held his sabre over his head but it was too heavy. He felt himself falling, until a hand steadied him and Prishchepa was right beside him, laughing in the wind, head back. Benya just had time to think that a single German machine gun could finish them all in one minute before they overtook the Betushka tanks (two had stalled already), and he heard the cry: ‘Charge, men! To the gallop!’