Sabres in the Snow

Chapter Nine

The cossacks rode on either side of the long line of T-34s which rolled inexorably along the road towards the largest bridge over the Grut river. Between the huge metal juggernauts, Russian infantry, dressed in white camouflage overalls marched briskly. To the rear came lorries carrying more men, some dragging 45mm cannon. Russian infantrymen hauled Maxims and Sokolov machine guns through the snow on their trolleys. Other men dragged 12.7mm DShKs[1] along on sleds. Many of the gunners wore ammunition belts across their chests, others carried metal boxes full of bullets which rattled noisily as they walked.

Boniak guessed that there must be somewhere in the region of a thousand men in the column.

The cossacks had met them about thirty minutes ago and after a hasty conference with the officers in command, Namarov had agreed to help the regular troops, who had been detailed to take the bridge over the Grut. Part of an advance guard designed to leave the way open for a larger unit about ten miles behind. Intelligence reports, Namarov had been told, had pinpointed a strong force of Germans around the Grut bridge and the Colonel in command, a fat man named Gornik, was worried that the Wehrmacht troops may have blown the bridge up already. However, as the column of regular army and cossacks drew closer, he saw that the Germans had decided to stand and fight.

As if to reinforce their resolution, a shell from one of the entrenched 75s across the river came hurtling from the sky and exploded near the head of the column. A fountain of earth and snow rose into the air, showering those nearby, clanging loudly on the hull of the nearest tank.

The white-clad men scurried to take up their positions, artillerymen manoeuvring the 45s and opening up immediately. Soon, the air was filled with the chatter of automatic fire, the harsh crack of rifles and the thunderous retorts of cannon. Explosions ripped huge craters in the ground and smoke mingled with the snow, making visibility bad. Across the river, the Germans were noticeable only by the muzzle flashes of their guns and the great tongues of flame which spouted from the 75s.

The T-34s rolled forward, their own cannons firing and Russian infantry used the rolling monsters as cover, advancing towards the bridge.

Namarov kept the cossacks well back, seeing that there was no way they could take the bridge. The men could only sit and watch, waiting for the signal to move.

The leading T-34 rattled onto the Grut birdge, followed by a dozen or so Russians. Ahead, a German anti-tank crew hauled one of the 75s into position and, taking careful aim, fired. From such close range the effect was devastating. The tank disappeared beneath a shrieking ball of red and white flame. The turret spinning into the air. The men sheltering behind were either hurled into the air by the concussion blast or incinerated where they stood as fountains of blazing petrol spouted from the riven juggernaut. On the other side of the river, jubilant grey-clad gunners began pumping more shells into their opponents, and soon the entire bank was ablaze as countless explosions reduced the river bank to a lunar landscape of deep smoking craters.

The 45s fired back and Boniak strained his eyes to see through the rolling smoke, watching the havoc which the Russian gunners wrought.

A German emplacement was hit, the explosion blasting men and sandbags into the air. Plumes of fire rose into the grey sky and smoke formed its own billowing, choking clouds.

On the bridge itself, a German Panther tank was moving forward, machine-guns chattering. It rumbled along until it reached the blazing wreck of the T-34 then rammed the smashed tank, pushing it back towards the Russians behind. Men scattered in its wake and the Panther turned its machine guns on them, bringing many down. Bright crimson flowers blossomed on the white uniforms as men were hit by tracer. German infantry flooded over the bridge behind the tank and the Russians, who had previously had their machine-guns aimed over the river, now swung them round to face the oncoming horde of grey-clad men.

There was a deafening clatter of automatic fire as the Maxims and 12.7s opened up, drilling dotted lines of death across the attacking German front ranks. Men went down in heaps under the furious fusillade. But enough got across to worry Colonel Gornik, who looked round frantically for Namarov and the cossacks.

“Send your men in now,” he yelled, running towards the cossack officer.

“You have tanks,” the major yelled, forced to shout to make himself heard above the cacophony of explosions and gunfire. “Use them.”

Gornik stood still for long seconds not quite sure what to do, then he turned on Namarov once more, a snarl on his face.

“Attack now. That’s an order,” he yelled.

“Don’t give me orders, Colonel,” rasped the one-eyed officer. “I’m not even in your fucking army.”

Another Pather tank had joined the Germans by now and, while Gornik and Namarov aruged, Boniak saw that the grey-clad men were gaining a foothold on the Russian bank of the river. The Russians were falling back, seeking shelter behind the six T–34s which now rolled forward to counterattack. As Panther and T–34 clashed, it reminded the youngster of two dinosaurs locked in lethal combat. The Russian tank opened fire first and, from close range, the shell tore the turret from the Panther. The hull promptly burst into flames and screaming men leapt from it, only to be crushed to crimson pulp beneath the churning tracks of the T–34.

“Dam you to hell, Namarov,” bellowed Gornik, taking another look at the Germans flooding across the bridge. Then he turned and raced back to the safety of an entrenchment, just as another salvo of shells came hurtling from the far bank.

The cossack major turned to Rostov first, then to Kuragin.

“Rostov, take your squadron across the river. There.” he pointed to a spot about two hundred yards to the right.

“Across the river. How?” asked the squadron commander.

“The water is frozen solid, it should bear our weight,” Namarov assured him.

Rostov hesitated for a second then led his men away.

“Kuragin, you bring your men to support mine, if we can get behind these Nazi bastards we might have a chance.”

Namarov watched as Rostov led his men to the appointed spot, wincing as they moved onto the ice, the horses struggling to keep their feet at first, but then they formed into three ranks and began to move forward. The major smiled and drew his sabre, a signal for his men to do likewise. They moved onto the ice, quickening their pace until they were level with Rostov and his squadron.

Half-way across, they broke into a gallop.

Boniak kept looking down at the ice, afraid that it would crack beneath the weight of so many men and horses but he need not have feared. The long winter months has transformed the slippery surface into something akin to glassy concrete and it crackled beneath the pounding hooves but never looked like breaking, even when the cossacks urged their mounts into the charge. Sabres drawn, lances held before them, they sped across the frozen river towards the far bank and German troops who looked on with something akin to fascination as the horsemen drew closer. Only when they were less than two hundred yards away did the grey-clad men suddenly begin to react.

A concentrated burst of machine-gun fire raked the leading ranks of cossacks and many went down, skidding on the ice. Riders were hurled from their saddles and sent spinning on the slippery surface. Blood sprayed into the air, splashing onto the ice to form crimson puddles.

The man next to Boniak was hit in the chest and slumped forward in his saddle, toppling sideways a moment later, nearly knocking the boy from his own mount. He yanked hard on his reins, trying to prevent his horse from falling, almost colliding with Petrovski.

They charged on, now just fifty yards from the bank.

The assault of the T–34s meanwhile, had succeeded in halting the German avalanche over the bridge and now, as the cossacks reached the far bank, Russian infantry got to grips with their enemies and began to push them back across the bridge.

The cossacks swept up the bank and into the Germans. Men were speared where they stood, cut down as they tried to run and some even threw up their arms in surrender but the cossacks were not likely to take prisoners and those unfortunate enough to think of their attackers as merciful ended up face-down in the snow in a puddle of their own blood.

Kuragin caught a German sergeant beneath the chin with a powerful backhand stroke that nearly severed the man’s head. A German private came at him with a bayonet but the cossack parried the thrust and kicked out at the attacker, quickly pulling his Tokarev from his belt he shot the man in the face.

A sapper turned his flamethrower on two of the attacking cossacks, their screams and the agonised shrieks of the horses drowned by the belching flame which seared from the nozzle. The smell of petrol mingled momentarily with the stench of burning flesh. But it was Boniak who, risking the same fate, spurred his horse towards the sapper and, with a powerful downward swipe severed the man’s arm at the shoulder. The limb fell to the ground, the fingers still twitching and blood spurted madly from the stump. The sapper shrieked and dropped to his knees. One of the other cossacks ran him through with a lance.

Namarov grunted as his horse was hit. The animal went down in an untidy heap, pinning him beneath it. He tried to drag himself out, aware that the same sniper who had killed his mount was now drawing a bead on him. But, somewhat excited, the sniper clambered up onto a pile of sandbags to get a better shot at the major and, as his finger tightened on the trigger, Kuragin swept past and slashed open the man’s stomach. He fell back, his intestines bursting forth like bloodied party streamers. Kuragin then turned his horse and, with the help of Vinkov, succeeded in rolling the dead horse from on top of Namarov. Vinkov was about to remount when a burst of machine-gun fire cut down both him and his horse.

Kuragin and Namarov threw themselves down as more bullets carved a path through the air above them but, as they watched, Mig hurled a grenade into the dug-out from which the fire was coming and, amidst a thunderous roar, three bodies were catapulted from their hiding place.

All three men now remounted and rode on, wading through the badly depleted Germans, using lance, sabre and sub-gun.

Boniak chased two Germans onto the parapet of the bridge itself, drew his horse up between them and, striking swiftly to right and left, felled them both. Indeed, it was the youngster who noticed that several Germans were fleeing across the bridge.

On the far bank, however, the Russian tanks and infantry had finally got the upper hand and were driving their enemies back. Close range fire sliced men in two, tanks rolled over wounded and dead alike, grinding bodies to sticky mush beneath the tracks.

With the cossacks on one side and the regular troops on the other, the Germans were pinned down and many began to throw down their weapons, only too pleased to surrender to the regular army. Those who tried to surrender to the cossacks weren’t so lucky. Some got away, leaping into the krupps which were parked close-by. But a team of gunners, trying to harness their 75 to one of the lorries, were cut down by half-a-dozen cossacks. The gun was turned over, the truck demolished with two grenades. Orange fire leapt and danced in the snowy air and more smoke rose mournfully to the sky.

Only sporadic gunfire filled the air now and the cossacks, in particular, turned to the more important task of patching up their horses and their wounded. Namarov looked out across the frozen river and saw a dozen or more men and horses lying still on the shiny surface. He sent two other men to check on them and they returned with one injured cossack who had been crushed when his horse went down.

The Russian infantry, meantime, had ushered the captured Germans across the bridge and lined them up. They were roughly searched, any valuables handed over to officers or kept, dependent on who did the searching. Some, those who could speak a little Russian were taken aside for questioning.

Namarov led his men back across the corpse-strewn bridge, past the still burning wreck of the T–34.

Boniak looked down at the bodies as he rode by, the groans of the wounded drowned out by the metallic clattering of hundreds of horses hooves on the metal of the bridge. It sounded like a thousand blacksmiths at work. He saw Colonel Gornik waiting at the far end of the bridge, hands planted firmly on his hips, his face red.

“Why the hell didn’t you attack when I told you to?” he roared at Namarov.

“My men are horsemen, not suicide troops,” the major told him. “I did not intend letting them ride into a deathtrap.”

“But I gave you an order.”

“And I told you, I’m not in your fucking army. My men take orders from me. No-one else. And I take orders from nobody. Clear?”

“I could have you shot for that.”

“Try it and your head would be rolling in the snow before you could count to three.”

Gornik reached for his pistol and, as if to reinforce Namarov’s words, the six cossacks closest to him whipped their sabres free, some were still stained with blood.

The colonel swallowed hard and lowered the pistol.

“You are an insolent bastard,” he said, vehemently.

Namarov smiled.

“I want to speak with some of your prisoners,” he said. “They may know where there are other Germans.”

“What does it matter to you?” Gornik demanded.

“I like hunting,” said the major and rode past the red-faced officer.

The German prisoners were sitting crosslegged in the snow when Namarov and a dozen of his men approached them. The major went to the first of them, a sergeant who was bleeding from a head wound.

“Are there any other German troops in this area?” asked the cossack.

“Do you honestly expect him to tell you?” said Rostov.

Namarov didn’t answer.

The sergeant regarded him warily for a moment then shook his head.

The major nodded slowly and moved to the next man, repeating his question. Then the next and the next. The fourth man was a corporal. A pale, thin individual with cold sores on his bottom lip.

“Are there any other German troops in this area?” Namarov asked him.

“Yes,” said the German in a low, rasping voice.

Rostov looked round in surprise.

Boniak too stepped forward.

“Where are they?” asked the major.

The corporal coughed.

“There’s an SS unit about five miles North of here in a village called Ridanski,” he said.

Boniak knelt beside the man and pulled his face around until they were looking into each other’s eyes.

“Do you know the name of the officer in command of the unit?” he demanded.

The corporal nodded.

“His name is Kleiser.”

There was fire in Boniak’s eyes when he looked up at Namarov and something like a smile on his lips.

No-one saw Kuragin wince as if in pain as the name of the village was repeated.

“Ridanski,” the German told them. “Kleiser is in Ridanski.”

Kuragin walked away, feeling as if someone had just tied a lead weight around his neck.