by Gee, Colin
Angered more by the loss of their mounts than the deaths of their comrades, small groups of Cossacks started to organize and push forward, their superiority in numbers finally coming into play.
Soviet mortars were quickly brought into firing position, and accurate shells dropped on the defensive lines once more, buying time for the attack to be restarted.
Some cavalrymen deployed their own machine-guns, and a deadly exchange commenced, lives being claimed on both sides.
Kazakov opened his eyes, the effects of his collision with the ground heavy on him still.
His horse had been chopped from underneath him and collapsed immediately, throwing the old Cossack into the forest floor face first, temporarily stunning him.
Spitting out a combination of blood, earth, and teeth, Kazakov tried to orient himself, whilst the self-preservation part of his brain checked that he was in some sort of reasonable cover.
Babaev watched him, desperate to attract his attention but unable to move, unable to shout, unable to cry out for release.
His mount had also been shot down in the charge and the Captain had been thrown off as the dying animal fell forward, hurling him against a tree.
That would have been painful enough, but Babaev was still on that tree, transfixed by a stubby branch root that stood proudly out of his back.
Hanging two feet off the ground, the Cossack officer was dying in excruciating pain, but his damaged lungs and windpipe did not permit him the release of screaming.
He tried to speak, and managed a tortured sound, enough to attract the attention of the man he had recently humiliated.
Kazakov examined the apparition, noting the large amount of blood and protruding wood with a detached professional interest.
Shaking his head to rid himself of the final effects of his fall, he rolled over to the base of Babaev’s tree.
The officer’s eyes were streaming with tears, blood trickling from his nose and mouth, occasionally surging, fresh and crimson, occasionally absent.
“Shoot me, you bastard. For fuck’s sake, shoot me.”
The act of speaking almost achieved the same result, as the effort induced coughing that brought on more bleeding.
The former Sergeant opened his holster, extracting a Tokarev pistol.
“That’s right, you fucking bastard, shoot me!”
Checking that he was unobserved, Kazakov spoke quietly to the Captain.
“The pleasure is all mine, Kapitan, all mine.”
He pulled the trigger, sending a single bullet into his nemesis.
Not quite as Babaev intended, for the muzzle of the pistol was against the officer’s genitalia, which was destroyed by the passage of the heavy bullet.
Leaving the horribly wounded man to die, Kazakov looked around for a place to hide until the attack was over.
One rush of Cossacks had made it across the road to the 7th Platoon position, withering and dying in the direct fire from Brens and Stens, the brave Russians hacked down to a man.
The position around the damaged Vickers seemed vulnerable, so Captain Graham, the company second in command, moved his handpicked reserve group there to bolster it before another thrust was made.
That attack came two minutes later, and what resulted was a fight more reminiscent of an older age, of bloody Cannae, or of Alexander at Gaugamela.
The cavalrymen had gathered and launched a disciplined and focussed attack, centering on the position adjacent to Gurung’s Vickers.
A flurry of grenades had caused heavy casualties in the centre and Soviet left side, and DP light machine guns lashed into the machine-gun position just as Graham arrived. Smoke from the Soviet mortars completed the hasty preparation for a rush.
The experienced Nepalese prepared themselves, the remaining Brens parting the smoke with small bursts of fire, the gunners unable to see if their efforts were bearing fruit.
As more grenades emerged from the smoke, others, hurled by the Gurkhas, flew in the reverse direction.
Shrapnel flayed the wearers of both uniforms, flesh and bone giving way to hot metal, the defenders ravaged by heavy casualties, the offensive force decimated in turn.
The combination of the failing light, the woods, and the flash of weapons, made for a surreal atmosphere.
A riderless horse, wounded and panicked, ran through the no man’s land, its body struck by the bullets from both sides before it dropped in front of the old German trench and coughed out its final seconds.
Suddenly, Allied control was lost, as Graham was felled by a stone thrown up by a grenade, and the Jemadar shot down and killed by a speculative burst from the other side of the smoky divide.
CHM Gurung was already down, a bullet in his left shoulder as he had directed the Vickers’ fire against a large group of cavalrymen.
The Cossacks charged forward on foot, firing as they ran.
Again, the Gurkhas claimed lives with their accurate fire, but lost men in return.
The Vickers, swiftly relocated to a secondary position, stuttered back into life, and stopped the assault in its tracks, carving the leaders into pieces and driving the survivors into cover.
Soviet cavalrymen fired back, but the Vickers pinned them in place.
One Cossack officer attempted to relocate one of his own machine-gun teams, but he and they were betrayed by their muzzle flash, and they permanently lost interest in the battle.
The Vickers kept firing, swivelling from left to right, its damaged cooling jacket losing hot water and steam as the constant firing increased the temperature.
A DP burst struck home and the gunner rolled away, clutching his stomach.
One of the loaders kept the weapon going, preventing the Cossacks from rising up and continuing the assault.
Gurung moved gingerly, his wounded shoulder reminding him of its wretched state. He took over firing the gun whilst the loader went back to his task of joining the ammo belts together, so the gun could keep firing.
An enterprising Cossack had crawled forward to attempt a grenade at the new Vickers position. As he pulled back his arm, a rifleman shot him in the face, the primed grenade dropping back to earth, and putting the brave man out of his misery.
The Soviet battalion commander ordered his mortars into one last effort, the last of their rounds to be fired off on to the 7th and 8th Platoon positions. He organised as much of his available manpower as time permitted, and focussed them on the intended breakthrough point.
A salvo of 82mm shells fell amongst Gurkha positions, one spectacularly striking an ammunition stash, sending a shower of .303, and unarmed grenades, in all directions.
A few fires started, illuminating the defenders from behind.
The third salvo saw a high-explosive round drop close to the Vickers, knocking the weapon over, killing one of the loaders, and throwing both Gurung and the other man off their feet.
The Cossacks rose up again and this time they were not going to be stopped.
Submachine guns spewed out streams of bullets one way, Bren and Sten guns replying, each second the volume of fire dropping as another man was silenced by a bullet strike.
B Company’s commander, an experienced Major, had realised the difficulty and committed his final reserve to 8th Platoon’s aid. Screaming like a mad man, he led forward a special forty-man group, consisting of men from the Battalion carrier platoon and B Company headquarters, and completed by the some members of the battalion pipe band.
They arrived at the same moment as the Cossacks penetrated the front line positions and a gutter fight commenced, the Major knocked down immediately by SVT rounds, dying silently as his men swept forward and into the Cossacks.
A sudden surge in one of the fires illuminated part of the battlefield.
CHM Gurung saw the danger and reached for a nearby Enfield. Picking up the weapon, he fought the pain in his shoulder and fired into a group of Soviet cavalrymen sneaking around the left side of the main position.
The survivors withdrew, draggi
ng two of their number with them, leaving a third motionless behind them.
Successfully seeking out his own Thompson, Gurung discarded the rifle and checked that the men around him were ready to go.
The melee to his front was growing in intensity, and on the left side, hand-to-hand combat had developed.
The Cossacks were lovers of their long Shashkas, and remembering how the deadly blades had given them the edge in many such encounters with the Germanski, a number of men bared their weapons and rushed in close, whirling the sabres in time-honoured fashion.
Starting on the Gurkha right, the front positions started to descend into chaos. Men, too close for modern weapons of war to do their jobs, fell back on more ancient tools for the close-in killing.
At first, rifle butts and bayonets responded to Shashkas, but it was not long before the Gurkhas discarded their guns for their weapon of choice, and the Kukris flashed in the last light of the dying sun.
The Shashka was a superb weapon, slightly curved and very strong, as well as legendary for its sharpness. It was also designed to be nothing but a killing machine, a job it performed extremely efficiently in the hands of an experienced swordsman.
The Kukri was beaten on length at seventeen and a half inches, being just about half the length of the Soviet blade. Its origins were as a work knife but, historically, the tool had converted easily into a wholly efficient weapon of war, and the strangely shaped blade meant that it delivered optimum cutting power when in the hand of a proficient soldier.
Both the Cossacks and the Gurkhas knew their craft and whilst bullets and butts still claimed lives, it was the sharp blades of the Shashka and Kukri that did most of the killing in the awful close-quarter fighting.
Graham, recovering, but still groggy, assessed the situation and summoned men to him. He rushed them forward to the position that was under most pressure. Halting behind it, he ordered rapid fire and bullets smashed into the cavalrymen who were gaining the upper hand there, reducing the numerical superiority of the enemy to his front.
The English Captain had mastered all facets of his command, from the language and culture through to being able to hold his own in the Gurkha skills, and to that end, he carried his own Kukri.
With his Webley revolver in his left hand, he raised his right hand high. Brandishing his blade, he shouted the battle cry loud enough to hearten the men fighting to his front.
“Ayo Gurkhali! Jai Mahakali! Ayo Gurkhali!”
His small group plunged forward into the fighting, immediately driving back the nearest cavalry troopers.
The sides fell briefly apart, and firing grew as blades were substituted for guns, both sides shocked by the nature of the fighting.
A burst from a PPSh knocked over a number of Gurkhas to the left of Gurung’s position.
In the centre, it seemed that Graham’s counter-attack had succeeded in restoring stability.
On the right, part of the mixed force had rushed to bolster the sagging 6th Platoon, but the fighting was hard and bloody.
The CSM made a quick assessment of where the next attack would focus.
It seemed obvious to the experienced NCO.
It would be on the left, where he was positioned, so Gurung readied his men for the charge.
The PPSh’s did more work, and another two riflemen fell, encouraging the Cossacks to push in once more.
Gurung gave the order and charged forward, the pain in his wounded shoulder now forgotten. Despite the hammering of the Thompson in his left hand, his mind was focussed on his right hand, now occupied by the weapon of his youth.
Blinking rapidly to clear the tears brought on by the smoke, the CHM sought another target. The Thompson yielded its last bullets, smashing down a panicky cavalryman as he reloaded his PPSh.
Tossing the empty weapon to one side, Dhankumar Gurung threw himself forward, rolling under the thrust of a Soviet bayonet, coming up into the crouch and ramming his kukri home, point first, the tip exiting the back of his screaming opponent.
Releasing the blade, he rolled again, avoiding a massive swipe from a bearded Cossack, the tip of the shashka kissing the rim of his helmet and creating a ringing metallic sound.
Slipping as he tried to rise, Gurung’s wounded shoulder impacted with a discarded ammo box, and he cried out in pain.
Seeing weakness in his opponent, the bearded Russian attacked once more, intent on using his strength and reach to batter the Gurkha down.
Blade met blade as Gurung fended off the blows, but the Gurkha was being penned back, acting solely defensively, as the big Cossack pressed harder still.
Suddenly, the man halted in mid swipe, his face demonstrating a lack of understanding, whilst his body knew very well that it was dying.
A second shot from Graham’s Webley dropped him lifeless to the earth.
The captain bore all the hallmarks of a man drunk on blood, his wild eyes and grinning face betraying his combat madness.
In his right hand, he now carried a bloodied shashka, the former owner having no further use for it. Graham’s kukri remained deeply embedded in his skull.
“Up and at ‘em, Havildar-Major, up and at ‘em I say.”
In an instant, he was gone, gobbled up by the steadily increasing fight.
Securing the position, Gurung installed a Bren gun team with back up to prop up the left flank, and pushed back into the throng to help secure the centre.
More Cossacks entered the fight, the organised remnants of the 3rd Battalion focussing on the perceived weak point, desperate to break through.
Some Cossacks were learning the hard way that a trench was not the best place to be when the enemy has a kukri, its lack of length suddenly becoming a strength, as the longer shashkas fouled the wooden boarded sides of the old German earthwork.
The sun disappeared, leaving the illumination to the flames and flashes from explosives and weapons.
A group of cavalrymen became isolated and pressed on both flanks, the heavy bladed kukris carving men into pieces, until the Gurkhas met in the middle over the dead bodies of their enemy.
A Soviet grenade exacted a price from the victors of that small battle, levelling the score in an instant.
Parts of the wooden trench began to burn, slowly at first, but then gathering in ferocity.
One group of Gurkhas, under the command of Naik Rai, stepped back from the close fight and started to pour fire into the approaching Cossack reinforcements, forcing them into cover and delaying the support they tried to bring to their fellows.
5th Platoon’s commander attempted to turn the right flank of the Cossack attack, advancing two sections to the southeast.
As they rushed the road, the Gurkhas fell foul of Soviet machine-gunners, positioned to cover just such an effort.
5th Platoon lost a dozen men and failed to affect the fighting on the other side of Route 317.
The Captain commanding the Soviet machine-gunners sent up a magnesium flare to help see. It deflected off an overhanging branch, slamming back into the ground and illuminated his own positions long enough for a Bren gunner to extract some revenge.
The remaining men of 6th, 7th and 8th Platoons fought harder in an attempt to throw the enemy out of their positions, but they were fighting high calibre troops who had no intention of giving ground.
It made for a bloodbath.
The final portion of Major Graham’s reserve launched itself forward and fell in behind the close combat zone, firing at targets of opportunity, careful to avoid their own side.
Rai, the Naik, was down, legs smashed by a burst from a DP, but he still encouraged his men, directing their fire, and keeping them focussed with his shouted encouragement.
Graham appeared on the edge of the position, his loud voice immediately getting the attention of the carrier platoon’s Havildar commanding the adjacent reserve. He followed the officer’s gesture, spotting a group of enemy pressing hard to the left of centre.
The Havildar’s group switched their fire
, dropping a few Cossacks, but the cavalrymen refused to halt, speeding up to get to the doubtful safety of close quarters.
Ordering his men forward, the Havildar fell in mid-shout, a single rifle bullet instantly taking his life.
None the less, his men plunged into the fray, driving hard into the flank of the new Soviet arrivals and, once again, balancing the numbers in the frontline position.
Gurung, his wounded shoulder aching badly, watched as the battle temporarily moved away from him. He permitted himself to take a few deep breaths before seeking further involvement elsewhere.
He spotted Graham fighting like a man possessed, lashing out with the Cossack blade and his empty Webley.
Horror overtook him, for his leader had not seen the approaching danger.
Gurung screamed a warning at his officer.
“Sahib! Behind you!”
Throwing a kukri was an acquired and delicate skill, and CHM Gurung was renowned as an able practitioner and excellent shot.
The bloodied kukri flew through the air.
It missed.
On hearing the warning, Captain Graham had turned, just in time for a bayonet to slam into his solar plexus, punching through gristle and bone, folding him in two with the weight of the thrust.
The dying officer tried to swing the sabre, but he was robbed of his strength, rolling away to the left as the Cossack twisted his rifle, causing unspeakable agony.
The rifle spoke once, blasting a larger hole in Graham’s chest, stopping his heart in the briefest of moments.
Beside himself with rage, partially at the death of the popular British officer, and partially because of his own failure, the maddened Gurung threw himself forward, crashing into the Cossack, and sending both men flying.
His shoulder wound forgotten, the wiry Gurkha dodged the knife aimed at his body and slipped inside the thrust, knocking the man down again and breaking the Cossack’s wrist when he fell on top of his arm.
