Sabres in the Snow

Chapter Fourteen

Rostov banged the trunk of the tree angrily.

“Jesus Christ,” he roared. “We get cut to pieces in Ridanski and now you want to use the same tactics here.” His remarks were directed towards Namarov who had traced out his proposed plan of attack in the snow using the point of his sabre.

“They’re in the open this time,” he said. “There’s nowhere for them to hide. No houses, only the lorries. That sort of cover is no use in open country.”

“They why do we have to attack after daybreak?” Rostov wanted to know.

“The terrain is totally different,” Namarov told him. “They won’t be expecting a frontal attack.”

“They weren’t supposed to be expecting us last time,” Rostov said, acidly.

“What would you do then?” the major wanted to know.

Rostov stepped towards the makeshift diagram etched in the snow. The Germans had six armoured vehicles which could be used for cover and all of them were parked nose to tail, facing West. Behind them was a ridge and, on either side, thick outcrops of trees. The only way to reach them by direct assault was by charging head-on. The cossack officers had ridden as close as they dare to the darkened encampment mere minutes before, taking in every detail of the German camp. There were a dozen or more tents erected behind the rampart of armoured vehicles, the other men, Namarov guessed, were in the lorries themselves.

The main force of cossacks was about a quarter-of-a-mile away, tending to horses and weapons in preparation for the impending assault but, as yet, none of them knew when that was to be.

Boniak busied himself cleaning his sabre and lance and, when that was done, he set about pushing some fresh slugs into the drum magazine of his sub-gun. All around him, his comrades were doing similar chores.

Mig was brushing his horse down, careful to avoid the wound on its rump which it had received in Ridanski.

Voronzov, between slurps at his vodka bottle, was rough-sharpening the point of his lance.

Sikorski ate some bread and a piece of stale cheese then gave what was left to his horse.

From their present positions, the cossacks could see their offices standing over the diagram in the snow and Boniak saw Rostov step forward and drive his sabre into the ground as he made his point and his opinion known.

“That’s where I’d attack,” he said, pointing to the ridge behind the Germans. “We could walk the mounts around those trees and come at them from behind. They wouldn’t have a chance.”

Namarov knew that his colleague was right but he resisted.

“No, I still think the frontal attack would be better,” he said.

“Then don’t blame me if we get slaughtered,” said Rostov, angrily.

“No, I agree with the major,” said Kuragin, suddenly choosing to make his presence felt. “The frontal attack is best.”

Namarov almost smiled.

“But if we attack from the rear we cut off their escape route,” Rostov insisted, the pipe bouncing about in his mouth. He looked daggers at Kuragin. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your mind too?”

“I agree with the major, the frontal attack is best,” Kurgain insisted.

“A frontal attack before daylight I could understand,” said Rostov. “But, after daybreak. No, you’re both mad.” he turned. “Well I’ll have no part of it. I won’t see the men in my squadron slaughtered like prize cattle. I’m taking my men in now and no-one is going to stop me.”

“I can’t let you do that,” said Namarov.

Rostov’s anger had subsided into desperation.

“Then for God’s sake, Andrei, change your plans,” he begged.

“We attack at eight tomorrow morning,” said Namarov, unflinchingly. “This time there’ll be no mistakes.”

Rostov sighed.

“You once said that no-one in this unit owed allegiance to anyone but themselves and their beliefs,” he said, wearily.

“That’s true,” said the major.

“We are all free to come and go as we please.”

“Yes.”

There was a difficult silence which Rostov finally broke.

“Then know this, Andrei. I’ll ride with you tomorrow, I’ll lead those men tomorrow but we both know that we’re leading them into a death trap. Kuragin knows it too.” He pointed accusingly at the big cossack who merely shook his head. “Many of our men will die, perhaps all of them but I swear that if I live, I will find you and kill you, because what you are asking those men to do tomorrow is suicidal.”

“Rubbish,” said Kuragin, laughing humourlessly.

“Is it?” said Rostov. “Then perhaps you’ll be around to help me bury the dead tomorrow when this is over.” The squadron commander stalked off into the night, sabre clanking noisily against his boot.

“He’ll be OK tomorrow,” said Kuragin.

“Yes,” said Namarov, looking at his colleague. The two of them locked stares once more and there was a heavy silence. “We’d better get some sleep,” said the major finally.

Kuragin nodded and walked off. Namarov watched him until he was swallowed up by the gloom, then the major looked down once more at the makeshift diagram and, frowning, he scrubbed it out with the toe of his boot.

It was 3.16 a.m. when Kuragin slipped out of the cossack camp, eluding the patrolling sentries with ease, walking his horse into the trees until they had passed, then mounting up. He was heading towards the German camp and he soon disappeared into the darkness.

But, this time, other eyes had seen him go.

Kuragin was shown to Kleiser’s tent by Sergeant Dietz who smiled mockingly at the big cossack as he led him through the German camp.

“What did you think of our handywork in Ridanski?” said the sergeant.

“Are my family still alive?” Kuragin asked, trying to ignore the jibe.

Dietz laughed.

“Even some pigs escape the slaughterhouse,” the sergeant grinned.

Kuragin grabbed him by the throat with one powerful hand and almost lifted him off his feet.

“I said I’d cut your fucking heart out,” he rasped. “And by God I will.” He threw the German to one side and pulled back the flap of Kleiser’s tent.

The SS man was standing in front of a portable stove warming his hands and he looked up briefly as Kuragin entered.

“I’ve been expecting you,” said the officer, smiling.

“Where are my family?” Kurgain asked.

“You took a chance coming here. How were you to know that they were not already dead? You really are a man of faith or immense stupidity.” Kleiser laughed.

“Are they alive, Kleiser?” Kuragin growled.

“What would you say if I said no?” said the captain, grinning. “Would you try to kill me?”

“Are they alive?” He almost screamed the words.

“The information first,” said Kleiser, his smile fading. “There is to be another attack, yes?”

Kuragin nodded.

“Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. The same as before,” he said, wearily.

The German smiled.

“Betrayal comes easily to you untermenschen doesn’t it?” he said, mockingly.

Kuragin was shaking with suppressed rage.

“I would like to see my family now,” he said through clenched teeth. “I want to know if they are still alive.”

“You doubt my word?” said Kleiser, smiling even more broadly. “Betrayal is easy, but trust a little harder to come by, yes?” He crossed to the flap of the tent and called something to a couple of nearby sentries and, moments later, Kuragin’s family were pushed into the SS officer’s tent.

“Unharmed,” said Kleiser. Then he watched as the Russians embraced, tears trickling down the cheeks of both Kuragin and his wife.

“How touching,” the black-clad officer said, moving forward to pull them apart. “I never realised until now just how valuable family-ties could be.” He smiled again, that crooked smile which seemed all the worse because of the scar which parted the flesh down the middle of his face.

“Have they hurt you?” Kuragin asked his wife.

She shook her head.

“They are valueable prizes, Russian, my men take good care of them,” said Kleiser, cryptically.

Kuragin caught the inference and glared at the German.

“If one of them touches her…”

“Yes,” the officer asked.

Kuragin swallowed his words.

“You are in no position to make threats,” rasped Kleiser. “Now, get out of here, back to the rest of your scum.”

The cossack moved towards his wife once more but the German stepped between them and Kuragin could only touch her cheek briefly with his fingers. He felt warm tears moisten his probing digits.

“Get out!” snapped the SS man.

Kuragin turned to leave, the cries of his youngest daughter ringing in his ears and, as he walked to his horse, he wondered how much more of this he could take. As he walked the animal slowly away, he could hear sobs coming from inside the tent and Kleiser’s harsh voice like a whiplash in the night. Kuragin could not bring himself to look back and he rode, head down, until he had left the German camp.

Should he tell Namarov what was happening? He shook his head, a silent answer to his own unspoken question.

It was almost 4.00 by the time he reached the trees which masked the approaches to the cossack camp. He scanned the open ground for sentries and saw none.

The voice came from behind him.

“How is your family, Kuragin?”

He spun round to see Namarov standing there.