Sabres in the Snow

Chapter Six

The night brought with it a chill wind which blew flurries of snow into the faces of the cossacks as they sat around their camp fires. They talked quietly, drank and ate what little food they had. Others tended to their horses or weapons.

Boniak sat on his saddle, which he had taken from the black stallion he’d been given to ride, and watched as some of the other men around him passed a bottle of vodka back and forth.

“Want some?” asked Voronzov, offering the bottle.

The youth accepted tentatively, smiling thinly as the cossack thrust the bottle into his hand. Those around him watched in amused anticipation as he raised it to his lips and drank. The fiery liquid made him cough and he hurriedly handed the bottle back to Voronzov. A chorus of guffaws greeted his frenzied chokings and, when he finally caught his breath, the youngster rubbed his belly as if he’d been wounded.

“It’s powerful stuff,” Voronzov told him, taking a hefty swig.

Boniak nodded in agreement.

“Why didn’t you stay in that cave of yours boy?” asked Mig, a small man with no thumb on his left hand. It had become gangrenous six months earlier and, in order to prevent the infection spreading, he himself had cut if off with a knife. “You’d have been better off in there than riding around with us butchering Germans.”

“I couldn’t stay in there forever,” Boniak told him. “I didn’t know how long the war would go on.”

“The war will go on for ever,” said Voronzov. “If not this one, another one.” He raised his bottle. “And here’s to it.”

Boniak looked puzzled.

“You sound as if you enjoy it,” he said.

“After a time, a man can learn to enjoy anything.”

“Even killing,” added Mig.

“Why did you join this unit?” the youth asked.

“My farm was destroyed by the Germans back in ‘41,” said Mig. “I’ve been with the major ever since.”

“And you?” the boy asked Voronzov.

“My wife, my mother and my two daughters were captured by the SS. They raped my wife, tortured my children then packed them all off in one of those fucking trains to a Death camp. Is that enough reason for you?”

Boniak swallowed hard.

“My mother and father were killed by the SS.”

“There isn’t a man in this unit who hasn’t lost someone close to them either to the Germans or to Stalin,” said Mig. He spat angrily into the snow.

Silence descended on the little group of men for long moments then heads turned as the sound of heavy boots on snow broke the silence. It was Namarov, accompanied by the squadron commander, Rostov. Rostov was in his mid-twenties, powerfully built, the thick folds of his coat unable to disguise the bulging muscles beneath. He walked with a slight limp, Boniak noticed.

“Are all the horses all right?” asked the squadron commander.

Petrovski nodded.

Rostov squatted beside the fire and warmed his hands for a moment then he reached into a pocket and pulled out his pipe. It was already stuffed with tobacco and he picked up a burning twig to light it, puffing away contentedly on it.

Namarov sat down beside him, accepting the bottle of vodka when it was offered to him. He ran an apparaising eye over young Boniak who now wore a thick grey overcoat and fur hat. He still wore his own boots, the pieces of bearskin wrapped around his legs for extra warmth. Around his waist he wore a belt into which he had jammed his knife. Namarov also noticed the small pouch attached to it. The youth was toying with it almost unconsciously.

“Something important?” asked the major, nodding towards the small pouch.

Boniak looked across at him.

“Not really,” he said, opening it and taking out a handful of bear claws.

The other cossacks looked at the objects on his spread palm.

“Why do you keep them?” asked Namarov.

“To remind me.”

“Of what?”

“Of how much I hate the Germans, of my mother and father. Of how I was forced to live like like an animal and so that I’ll never rest until I’ve found Kleiser.”

Rostov sat up when he heard the name.

“Did Kleiser’s men kill your parents?” he asked.

Boniak nodded. “You know him?” he asked.

“We know him,” said Namarov. “I doubt that there’s a Russian soldier in this part of the Eastern Front who doesn’t know Captain Josef Kleiser.”

“Don’t live for vengeance, boy,” said Rostov. “Vengeance is a pleasure that few of us ever experience.”

“I swore I would kill Kleiser,” said the youth.

Mig laughed.

“You and ten thousand other Russians.”

“I agree with the boy,” said Voronzov, raising his bottle once more. “Here’s to revenge.” He drank deeply once more.

Namarov smiled and touched the patch which covered his left eye.

“Did you lose your eye fighting the Germans, Major?” Boniak wanted to know.

The officer shook his head.

Rostov grinned, as if the question had been amusing.

“We ran into some NKVD men last summer,” said the major. “They were interrogating two women whom they thought had been collaborating with the Germans.”

“We sliced the bastards up, good and proper,” said Voronzov, grinning, and some of the other men laughed too.

“They’re as bad as the SS,” said Namarov. “Bastards. Anyway, one of them had a knife on him, he cut me across the eye.” He shrugged resignedly and took the bottle of vodka again, draining it and tossing the empty receptacle away.

“Have you got any family?” Boniak wanted to know.

“No,” said the major flatly. “There was a girl once but I never married. My only brother was killed last year. My parents were both shot during Stalin’s purges.”

“You see boy,” said Rostov, puffing happily at his pipe. “This unit is kept together by hate. Yours is nothing new. You just have your own reasons for hating, just as we do.”

Boniak looked down at the bear claws in his hand then slowly replaced them in the pouch.

Namarov got to his feet.

“Rostov, send out two or three men before dawn tomorrow,” he said. “I want to know if there are any Germans nearby.”

The squadron commander nodded, watching as his superior wandered off in the direction of another camp fire and more of his men.

“You’d do well to listen to him, boy,” said Rostov, chewing on the stem of his pipe.

Boniak nodded and settled down, head resting on his saddle. He gazed into the flames of the fire, once more transported back in time to the blazing inferno that had been his village. The image of Kleiser seemed to grow stronger.

He was still thinking about the SS man as he drifted off to sleep.

The sabre felt heavy in his hand, the scabbard, hanging from his belt, was mere inches from the ground and when he moved it clunked against his boot. But Boniak soon learned to ignore it and, in the early morning sunlight, he stood facing Petrovski who also had his sword drawn. The blade was slightly curved, rough-sharpened with a stone and the haft was bound with leather making it easier to grip. Three feet of gleaming steel capable, in the right hands, of slicing through bone.

Both of them stood in a small clearing beyond the main body of Russians, horses tethered to nearby trees.

“Try and cut off that branch,” said Petrovski, motioning to a low bough nearby.

Boniak raised the sabre and brought it down in a wide arc, the steel slicing easily through the wood. He looked up, smiling broadly. Petrovski shook his head.

“Too much backswing,” he said. “You must use short thrusts or cuts. In close combat everything must be quick.” As if to demonstrate, he whipped round and with a measured upward stroke, hacked off a sizeable lump of tree bark. “See?” he said.

The youth nodded.

“The sabre is designed for cutting or stabbing,” Petrovski told him. “Learn how to do both.” He steadied himself and smiled at Boniak. “Come at me,” he said. “Try and kill me.”

The youngster looked baffled for a moment but then, almost reluctantly, he advanced, gripping the sabre in both hands. He swung it at his companion who parried the downward swipe, countering with one of his own which missed Boniak by inches. He actually felt the rush of air beside his cheek as the blade sliced empty space. The youngster struck out again, aiming for Petrovski’s head but the cossack smiled, ducked beneath the swing and grabbed Boniak by the belt, pressing the point of his sabre into his sternum.

“If we’d have been doing this for real,” the cossack told him. “Your guts would be all over the ground by now.”

He released the boy and pushed him away.

“Again,” he rasped.

Boniak moved more cautiously this time, feinting to right and left before striking forward, aiming for his colleague’s chest. Petrovski struck the sabre aside and put his shoulder into Boniak, knocking him to the ground. He stood over the boy, grinning, the point of his own sword pressed against the youth’s chin.

“A bit better,” he said, helping Boniak to his feet.

The boy was becoming angry by now and, as Petrovski stepped back, he swung wildly at the older cossack who narrowly avoided the wild swing. Boniak recovered his footing and drove the blade forwards again but Petrovski ducked and slapped the flat of his own sword hard across the youngster’s knuckles then, with an expert flick of the wrist, he sent the length of steel spinning from Boniak’s stinging hand.

“Never strike in anger,” the older man said as the youth retrieved his weapon. “If you let your emotions get the better of you, you’re dead.” He steadied himself for the next attack. “Now, again.”

The ritual went on for what seemed like an eternity until, at last, after what seemed like the hundredth attempt, Boniak finally succeeded in bringing Petrovski down. He stood over the fallen cossack who lay motionless beneath him, smiling.

“Good,” he said. “But, you forgot one thing.”

Boniak looked puzzled until he felt cold steep pressing against his crotch.

“Just because a man is on the floor doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous,” said the cossack, prodding the youth’s testicles with his sabre.

Petrovski allowed his young ward to get the feel of the weapon, watching as he sliced away at the trees and bushes. To Boniak, each one became Kleiser and he laid into them with a viciousness that made his companion wince. The boy was grunting under his breath, each powerful stroke hacking off branches or lumps of bark. By the time he had finished, despite the chill in the air, his face and body were sheathed in sweat and his breath came in short gasps.

Petrovski nodded.

“I think we’ll make a cossack out of you yet,” he said and sauntered over to where the PPSh lay propped against a a tree. He threw it at Boniak who caught the weapon, hefting it before him.

“It fires 900 rounds a minute if you can reload fast enough,” the older man said. “The recoil is strong so don’t try to fire one-handed or you’ll break your wrist. Just point it in the right direction, it’ll stop anything that moves short of tanks.”

Boniak nodded.

Namarov suddenly appeared in the clearing, his own sabre clunking against his boot as he walked. He looked at Boniak and then at Petrovski.

“How’s our new recruit doing?” asked the major.

“He’s learning,” said the other cossack.

Namarov nodded slowly and drew his sabre, advancing on the youth who did likewise. Namarov struck downwards and the boy parried it, the impact making his hand ring. He ducked as a second measured swipe missed his head by inches. Then he struck out with his own blade, aiming for Namarov’s side but the major twisted round and struck the blade away, countering with a thrust that would, if it had connected, caught the youth just below the larynx. But Boniak saw it coming and threw himself down, simultaneously swiping at his superior’s legs. But the one-eyed officer jumped over the sword and, and Boniak got to his feet, he found another short jab aimed at his chest. It missed and punctured a tree trunk behind him but Namarov tore it free in time to parry the boy’s downward swipe. Once, twice, three times Boniak brought the sabre down and Namarov backed off laughing.

“Enough,” he called finally, grabbing the boy by the shoulder. He tugged on his cheek and smiled. “You learn fast, my young friend.”

Boniak smiled, feeling proud of himself.

The trio of cossacks turned as they heard the whinneying of a horse close-by and, astride his grey mare, sat Mig. “Major,” he said. “There is a column of German troops moving West, about two miles from here.”

Namarov nodded.

“How many of them?”

“Perhaps sixty and some lorries,” Mig told him.

“Tell the squadron commanders to prepare their men,” snapped the major. “We’re going hunting.”

Mig nodded and rode off to relay the message.

Namarov turned to Boniak.

“Now we’ll see just how much you have learned.”