Sabres in the Snow

Chapter Seven

Namarov peered through the binoculars, brushing some flecks of snow from one of the lenses. He adjusted the focus until everything swam into crystal clarity then he scanned the forlorn column of German troops moving slowly along the road below.

Mig had been right, there were about sixty of them and he also counted two lorries, probably containing more men. The Germans were in a sorry looking state, some of them wounded, hobbling along with the aid of makeshift crutches but, the major noticed, all were still heavily armed.

He lowered the binoculars and handed them to Kuragin who also took the time to study the column.

The road was flanked on both sides by a gentle slope, devoid of trees, it would provide perfect fighting conditions for the cossacks.

“How do we take them?” asked Kuragin, passing the glasses on to Rostov.

“We have the advantage of the slope,” said Namarov.

“I’ll take my men around and come at them from the other side,” offered Rostov handing back the binoculars.

“No need to split the force,” said Namarov. “We can take them here, as one.”

The two squadron commanders nodded.

“Bring your men forward,” the one-eyed officer told them.

He took one last look at the motley collection of men and vehicles below him then turned and rode back to the head of his own squadron. One either side, slightly to the rear, Kuragin and Rostov sat, awaiting the order to move. Rostov checked that his pipe was securely tucked away in his pocket then, almost unconsciously, his right hand fell to the hilt of his sabre and he drummed gently on it.

Kuragin pulled a hip flask from his overcoat pocket and unscrewed the cap. It was solid silver, taken from a dead German officer a week earlier. He held it in his hand for a moment before taking a long swallow.

Boniak, sitting next to Petrovski swallowed nervously and scanned the faces of the men around him. One, Ammasova, was chewing tobacco and every so often he would project a stream of brown juice into the snow. He looked across at Boniak and smiled thinly. The youth nodded then looked at Petrovski who was checking the magazine on his sub-gun.

In the front two ranks of each squadron, the men had taken a good grip on their lances, securing them to their wrists with leather thongs. The lethal javelins bore no pennants and were little more than sharpened stakes but they were iron-hard and tipped with steel, like the sabres rough-sharpened for maximum effect.

“Now,” roared Namarov and the air seemed to fill with a deafening metallic hiss as over two hundred sabres were drawn.

Boniak felt his heart quicken, thumping hard against his ribs now as he saw the major wave his sword three times in the air and then point it towards the crest of the ridge. The horses began to move forward, first at a walk then a trot. The smell of so many animals mingled in the youth’s nostrils with the odour of his own sweat. The three squadron leaders quickened their pace to a canter and the cossacks following did likewise.

The ground began to rumble as the horsemen gathered speed and, with the wind and snow rushing past him, Boniak felt a kind of wild exhilaration sweep through him. He was breathing quickly, excitedly and, as the mass of cavalry reached the crest of the ridge they broke into a gallop and, with Namarov at their head, thundered down the far slope towards the Germans, many of whom had stopped moving and stood rooted to the spot. Held by a mixture of awe and terror, they seemed immobile as the cossacks swept towards them.

The squadron leaders reined back momentarily, and the leading ranks of riders opened up, allowing their commanders in, then, lances were lowered and, a chorus of yells went up from the charging cossacks. Swords glinted in the early morning sun and the pounding of horses’ hooves filled the air as the snow was ground flat.

The Germans, however, seemed to have come out of their stupor and many were running for cover behind the two lorries. Boniak saw a group of them setting up a machine-gun and, seconds later, the bullets from an MG34 sent dozens of tiny geyses flying into the air as the slugs drilled holes in the snow. But the cossacks charged on, now just fifty yards from their foe.

More automatic fire came from the Germans and half-a-dozen horses in the leading rank crashed to the ground, their riders hurled from the saddles, some to be crushed by the horses behind. Others were dead before they hit the ground. Lances fell from dead hands, one of them sticking upright in the snow as a kind of marker.

Namarov waved his sabre wildly in the air and rose in the stirrups as, amidst a final furious eruption of machine-gun fire, the cossacks ploughed into the terrified Germans.

A German sapper held up his hands in surrender, only to be transfixed by a lance which ripped through his stomach and erupted from his back, tearing away a kidney and most of his liver on the way.

Namarov himself hacked a private’s arm off just above the elbow, watching as the man staggered around, the bleeding stump shooting fountains of crimson into the air. The screaming German stumbled into the path of another lancer and was despatched by a thrust which tore open his throat.

Other Germans were trampled to death by the rush of horses, their bodies kicked and stomped into unrecognisable pulp by the large animals.

An MG42 had been set up in the back of one of the krupps and, as the first wave of cossacks swept past, the Germans manning it opened fire. The bullets were lethal from such close range and men and horses went down in heaps. Wounded riders, thrown form their mounts rose, bewildered, only to be shot down by other German troops. One trooper dragged himself away from his dead horse, his kneecap shattered by a bullet. A German sergeant ran at him with a rifle but the cossack deflected the bayonet thrust and, with one powerful blow, hacked open the sergeant’s thigh. From the amount of blood which erupted from the wound it seemed that the German’s femoral artery had been severed and, screaming insanely, he collapsed next to the wounded cossack who drove the sabre forward again, this time through his opponent’s throat.

The leading wave of cossacks wheeled their horses and rode at the unprotected rear of the Germans whilst the second and third ranks of Russians came thundering in, swords whistling in the chill air.

Boniak saw a young German private running for his life, pursued by Mig. The Russian rode up alongside the German then, with one powerful blow, shaved off a portion of his victim’s skull as cleanly as if it had been done with a bacon slicer. The German pitched forward into snow which was already beginning to turn into crimson slush.

The MG42 flamed once again and more cossacks went down.

Petrovski growled angrily as his horse was hit, the impact knocking the animal over. It fell heavily, almost crushing the Russian beneath it but he leapt clear and struggled to his feet, catching the reins of a riderless mount which cantered by. He swung himself up into the saddle and rejoined the attack.

Kuragin called half-a-dozen men to him and Boniak saw them heading towards the krupp and its offending machine-gun. Grenades were hurled and, a second later, there was a thunderous roar as the lorry exploded. Men sheltering behind it were blown into the air by the blast and a black and red mushroom cloud of smoke billowed from the wreck. Horses whinneyed nervously at the sight of the flames. The youth saw a German leap from the back of the truck, his clothes ablaze. A cossack swept past and drove his lance into the stricken man’s chest. Pieces of hot metal rained down and the smell of burning petrol filled the air, mingling with the stench of blood and excrement.

Boniak saw two Germans ahead of him, one of them raising his rifle. Gritting his teeth, the boy rode towards them and, shouting aloud as he did so, swung the sabre at the first of them. It was a bad aim but effective nonetheless. The razor-sharp blade caught the German in the face, splintering the bridge of his nose and opening a deep, bloody furrow from one temple to the other. He screamed and clapped both hands to the gaping wound whilst his companion used the butt of his rifle as a club, swinging it at Boniak.

It caught the boy in the chest and, if not for the fact that he was so securely anchored by his stirrups, looked like unhorsing him. His mount reared wildly, forelegs flailing, and the German backed off. Winded, Boniak struck out with his sabre and hacked open the second German’s left arm just below the shoulder. The man yelped in pain and staggered back, trying to bring the rifle to bear on his young attacker but Boniak was too fast for him. He lashed out again, this time the point of the sabre nicked the German’s throat, opening his jugular vein and, gurgling incoherently he collapsed, fountains of blood spouting from the wound.

Boniak blinked hard, thought he was going to faint. The chatter of machine-gun fire and the screams of dying men and horses seemed to fill his head until it threatened to burst. The roar of the flames from the blazing krupp only served to make things worse. All around him men were scattered on the blood-spattered snow, most of them Germans. Dying horses raised their heads as if soliciting help and cossacks dashed back and forth both on foot and mounted to help wounded comrades.

The youth turned his horse to see that the second krupp was in the process of driving away, the two men in the cab realising with horror that they were the only members of the column still alive. Half-a-dozen men fired from the rear of the fleeing truck but their fire was neither accurate or damaging enough to stop a dozen or so cossacks riding after the speeding vehicle.

Led by Namarov, the pursuing cossacks drew alonside the vehicle and fired seemingly endless volleys of automatic fire into it. Bullets shredded the canvas canopy and screams were heard from inside as the slugs found their mark. A sapper, bleeding from half-a-dozen wounds, toppled from the back of the lorry and lay still in the road.

Namarov rode up alongside the cab and sprayed it with fire from his sub-gun. The glass shattered, blasted inward by the close range impact. The man in the passenger seat was hit in the cheek, the bullet ripping away most of his upper jaw before exploding from his left ear. The driver was hit in the shoulder and side but managed to retain control of the vehicle until Namarov rode ahead and, standing up in his stirrups, turned and emptied his PPSh at the mighty krupp. The windscreen exploded in a splintering crystal cascade. Shards of glass were blown into the cab and the driver took both hands from the wheel to shield his face, screaming in renewed agony as bullets hit him in the chest and forearm.

The lorry itself skidded across the narrow road, hit the far slope and careened half-way up before teetering on two wheels for precious seconds. Then it simply toppled over, crashing down the bank and coming to rest on its roof. Namarov rode back past it, noticing that a bloodied hand stuck out from the crushed cab.

The chattering of machine-gun fire had all but died away. Just the odd burst was fired as the cossacks put paid to the last of the Germans, otherwise the air was filled with the moans of the wounded, the helpless whinings of dying horses and, every so often, the single loud retort of Tokarev pistols as men shot animals too badly hurt to be saved. The other krupp continued to blaze, smoke belching into the snow-filled morning.

Boniak rode slowly amongst the carnage, running his eyes over the speared, slashed bodies, pausing at the spot where the two Germans he had fought lay. One was still moving, clutching his pulped face and moaning incoherently. Blood was running through his fingers and he seemed terrified to take his hands away for fear that his head would fall in half. Boniak gazed down at the dying man and felt the hot bile clawing its way up from his stomach but he fought it back momentarily although, as the foul stench of blood and excrement reached his nostrils, it was a monumental effort.

He reached for his sub-gun, knowing that he must finish the German off but his hands were quivering madly and he could feel the colour draining from his cheeks. Perhaps if he left the man…

“He still alive?”

The voice startled Boniak and he turned in the saddle to see another cossack close by. The man, Brosesku, was carrying a lance in one hand and his Tokarev pistol in the other.

The youth was momentarily stunned, his gaze returning to the wounded German who by now, had rolled onto his stomach.

“Is he still alive?” Brosesku asked, somewhat impatiently.

“Yes,” said Boniak, swallowing hard.

The other cossack took his lance, steadied himself in the saddle and drove the long shaft down, piercing the German squarely between the shoulder blades. He leant on the lance, pinning the grey-clad man to the ground like a butterfly to a board. Then, with a contemptuous grunt he ripped the lance free and rode off.

This time Boniak could not restrain himself. He swayed in the saddle then, leaning over, retched until there was nothing left in his stomach. He finally straightened up, his face pale, a thin film of perspiration greasing his forehead.

“Boniak, are you all right?”

This time the voice belonged to Namarov and the youth looked up to see his commander riding slowly across the bloodstained snow towards him.

He reined his horse to a halt beside the youth and reached out a hand to steady the youngster, afraid that he might topple from the saddle. He could see that the boy still held his sabre in one gloved hand, and that there was blood on the blade.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You get hit?”

Boniak shook his head.

“No,” he gasped. “I’m all right.”

Namarov gazed down at the two dead Germans, both lying in spreading pools of blood.

“One of them was still alive,” said the youth, motioning towards the two bodies. “I cut him across the face, he would have died anyway. But… one of the other cossacks, he stuck his lance through him.”

“Do you think a German would have spared you?” said Namarov.

Boniak shook his head.

“Is it always like this?” asked the youth.

“Only the first time,” said the major. He patted Boniak on the shoulder. “I warned you it wasn’t the same as killing bear.”

The snowy air seemed to muffle the sounds of gunshots as wounded horses were put out of their misery and Boniak looked up at the grey sky, to the snowflakes which fell like frozen tears.

He wheeled his horse and rode off to find the rest of his squadron.