Sabres in the Snow

Chapter Two

The village of Prokev lay beneath the blanket of snow, surrounded on three sides by the thick forest which was a feature of that particular part of Russia. The snow had eased somewhat but the skies were still dark and forbidding, premonitory of something. An omen further aided by the appearance of several plumes of thick black smoke which the villagers of Prokev could see rising in the South.

“It must be Kuratayev’s farm,” said Yusavich, pointing to the pall of writhing fumes.

Pieter Boniak nodded slowly.

“The Germans will be here soon,” he said. “We must hide our supplies.”

“How can we?” Yusavich demanded. “We don’t know how close they are. They could be upon us any minute.”

Boniak stroked his grizzled chin thoughtfully for a second then turned to a young lad, barely seventeen, who was doing his best to drive a couple of cows into one of the village’s small wooden houses.

“Anatole.”

The youth hearing his name dashed across, his black hair flowing behind him in the wind.

“Yes, father,” he said.

“Take your horse,” the old man told him. “Ride towards the smoke. See if you can see the Germans. We must know how far from us they are.”

The lad nodded and ran across to a small enclosure nearby where a magnificent grey horse nuzzled the ground in the vain hope of finding something to eat. Anatole leapt the fence and raced across to the horse, swinging up onto its back. Without the benefit of a saddle it seemed that he would have difficulty controlling the beast but, digging his heels into its flanks, he caused it to rear up and, for a second, man and animal seemed to become one, merging into one sleek creature which could outrun the wind. Urging the horse on, Anatole guided it towards the fence and, with a mighty leap, the grey cleared it. It hung in the air for long seconds, as if suspended on invisible wires, then gained a footing on the other side.

Boniak watched as his son galloped away towards the source of the smoke.

“Be careful,” he yelled but his cry was carried away on the wind.

“We must get the women and children into the woods,” Denisov said, appearing beside them.

“They may not be coming here,” said Boniak, hopefully.

“They’ll find us somehow,” Yusavich snapped. “We should prepare ourselves. Fight if we have to.”

“Pitchforks and scythes against machine-guns?” said Boniak, scornfully. “What chance would we have?”

“Better to die than to run like frightened children,” snapped Yusavich.

“Perhaps if we give them our supplies they will leave as unharmed,” Boniak said.

“If you want to give up then do so,” Yusavich growled, hefting a rusty scythe before him. “I will not see the fruits of my hard work fall into the hands of some German bastard without a fight.” He stalked off.

“A brave man,” said Denisov.

“What good is bravery to a man if he is dead?” said Boniak, cryptically. “I say we must speak with them. Try to reason at least.”

“What do the Germans know of reason, Boniak?” demanded Denisov. “How many million of our contrymen have they already murdred? Are you prepared to forget that?”

The two men gazed at each other for long seconds then Boniak nodded.

“Get the women and children into the woods,” he said, watching as his friend dashed off to complete the task. He felt his own heart pounding just that little bit harder against his ribs.

Anatole slid from the horse, clamping one hand over the animal’s muzzle to keep it quiet. Hidden by trees which were heavy with snow, atop a ridge, he looked down on the column of German armoured vehicles which was rolling inexorably towards Prokev. There was no doubt about it. That was their destination. The horse neighed softly, disturbed by the smell of diesel fumes and the rumbling of the heavy machinery below. Anatole counted the number of trucks and half-tracks and found that it totalled twelve. How many men there were he could only guess. He thought perhaps two hundred, maybe less. Some were on foot, trailing behind the last lorry and, as he strained his eyes, he saw the grinning Death’s-Head badges on their caps.

“SS,” he murmured, under his breath.

Carefully, with infinite care, he remounted the horse, took one last look at the advancing column and then rode as fast as he could back in the direction of Prokev.

As he broke through the trees, Anatole could see that the village was still a hive of activity. Women and children, some carried in their mother’s arms, were being guided towards a place in the woods to the rear of the village. Some straw bales and sandbags had been used to build a type of barricade at the approaches and he saw his father, Yusavich and several other men of the village standing behind it. Anatole sent the horse into a spectacular leap which carried it over the barricade then he halted it and jumped down, running across to his father.

“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.

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.

Prokev still burned, the houses now collapsing in on themselves. Showers of sparks mingling with the drifting cinders and snow flakes, all combining to form a kind of macabre confetti. He could see Kleiser striding amongst the carnage, watching as his men dragged the lifeless bodies of the villagers to one central spot, piling them up like so many discarded mannequins. They left crimson trails in the snow where they were pulled unceremoniously along by the feet or arms. Some of the women even by the hair.

Anatole watched as the solemn task was completed. They were piled six-deep in places then, at a command from Kleiser, two engineers advanced towards the heap of corpses. Anatole could see the strange twin cylinders strapped to their backs, a thick hose running from the cylinders to funnel-shaped muzzle at the end of the pipe.

Flamethrowers.

Even from so far away he could hear the high-pitched whoosh as two enormous tongues of flame erupted from the nozzles of the portable incinerators. The two engineers played the dancing flames over the mound of bodies until the entire collection of corpses disappeared beneath a raging torrent of fire. A thick black spiral of smoke rose from the bodies bringing with it the choking stench of burning flesh.

Anatole crouched down, shivering, watching as the Germans climbed into their lorries and half-tracks, those without a place forming up in a ragged column behind the rear-most krupp. He felt sick and, no matter how he tried, he could not stop himself trembling. He thought of his mother and father and of how their bodies were probably on that makeshift funeral pyre now burning in the centre of the village. He watched as Kleiser walked to the front of the column and hauled himself into the jeep, raising one hand to signal their advance. The Germans rolled through what was left of Prokev on their way West and Anatole watched them, his eyes fixed to the jeep which led the way and to the man who sat in its passenger seat. The man who had killed his parents.

“Kleiser,” he whispered, angrily.

In five minutes, the column had disappeared from view.