by Gee, Colin
The knife fell away from his useless fingers, and was instantly retrieved by Gurung.
He stabbed quickly into the man’s side and stomach and was about to finish him off when a sixth sense warned him and he rolled away.
A sabre cut the air where his head had been the briefest moment before.
Another blow made contact, slamming into his midriff, but failing to cause him damage, the blade eating into his webbing and pouches and halting at the buckle.
One of his younger platoon members saw his senior NCO in difficulty and sprang forward, only to receive a deadly blow as his kukri was brushed aside, and the sabre left free to kill.
The dead man’s kukri dropped invitingly to the ground, but the Cossack understood the situation, and made sure he stayed between it and Gurung.
Swinging the shashka, he advanced again, his wounded adversary having no choice but to retreat, the knife useless against such a heavy attack.
A burst of firing, close at hand, marked a momentary separation between some of the combatants, a space that some of the Cossacks exploited, using PPSh’s to slay a number of Gurkhas.
The firing distracted the cavalryman, only for a split-second, but enough for Gurung to spring.
Attention back on the fight, the Cossack slashed at the moving shape, nicking an arm as the Gurkha rolled low and right, slipping under the attack, and jamming the knife in the meat of the cavalryman’s thigh.
It jarred into the bone, causing a horrendous pain that momentarily paralysed the Cossack, until it passed just as quickly and he turned to deal the Gurkha a deadly blow.
“Ayo Gurkhali!”
Gurung led with a powerful thrusting straight arm, moving inside the latest sabre cut, the retrieved kukri smashing, point first, straight through the man’s upper teeth, before penetrating the roof of his mouth and into the brain beyond.
Regardless of the absence of verification in the Divisional records, Kazakov actually had been awarded the Red Star for valour, back in the days when he was a patriot, prepared to risk his life for the Rodina.
That had long since passed, and the butchery to which his unit had been subjected, often by orders of doubtful military worth, had left him with only self-preservation of immediate concern.
Or so he thought.
Watching from his position, he observed men he had lived with these past four years, comrades and friends, dying and bleeding for the same cause he had forsaken.
Something clicked inside.
“Blyad!”
Substituting his weapon for a discarded SVT rifle with spare magazines, he slipped forward in the half-crouching run that marked out the veterans from the cannon fodder.
Arriving at the old German trench section, he calmly picked off Gurkhas, saving more than one of comrade’s life in the process.
Tossing an empty magazine away, he saw the movement and turned, dropping the new mag as he raised the rifle to stop the blow.
A bloodied Gurkha brought down his kukri and found only the rifle. The blade bit into the wood and metal and lodged there, the weakened man tugging on it without success.
The Gurkha saw death in Kazakov’s eyes and fell to the ground, exhausted by his wounds, drained by his exertions.
The SVT was useless as a rifle, so Kazakov repeatedly drove the butt into the face of the wounded man, smashing jaw, cheekbones, and cracking the skull, before throwing the rifle away, the bloodied kukri still lodged in its workings.
The shashka was in his hand before he moved away, deciding to avoid the melee in the trench, and investigate off towards the right.
Gurung recovered his own kukri and looked around him, immediately understanding the situation.
The Gurkhas were losing.
In such moments, men are born, and Company Havildar Major Gurung immediately determined to be a beacon and rallying point to his men.
Shouting the battle cry, he moved up and out of the depression he was in, exposing himself to friend and enemy alike.
The surviving Gurkhas took inspiration and fought back with renewed vigour, pressing the Cossacks hard, despite their inferiority in numbers.
Two Cossacks rushed at him, screaming, and slashing with their blades. Each received the same journey to Valhalla in short order.
A wounded Soviet officer emptied his Nagant revolver at the mad Gurkha, missing every shot, his fear growing as the whirling shape grew nearer.
A Cossack Sergeant, his hands pressed to a ruined face, staggered into kukri range and was dispatched, his blood splashing over the officer’s hands as he fed more shells into his Nagant.
He started to scream in fear, his hands desperate to snap the revolver back together and kill the mad little man.
Fear leant him wings but also robbed him of the composure he needed, and Gurung’s kukri bit deeply into his chest, spilling his life’s blood.
A bullet tugged at Gurung’s sleeve, and he wisely moved back into cover.
As he turned back, he saw another cavalryman, gleaming sabre in hand, stalk the position, occasionally hacking down through gaps in the flames, striking at a man in the trench below.
A pistol appeared in the man’s hand, and more of Gurung’s men died.
Despite his growing weariness, Gurung threw himself forward, shouting at the Cossack to distract him.
One bullet remained in the pistol and the trigger was pulled. It missed the charging Gurkha, so metal met metal, as shashka and kukri clashed again.
Kazakov felt the sting as the kukri slash slipped through his guard, opening his jacket side and slicing the flesh down the line of his ribs. However, Gurung had been falling away at the time, so the cut was not deep.
The Cossack replied in kind, using the extra length of his weapon, feinting a right handed slash and reversing, pushing the point into yielding flesh and dropping the Gurkha to his knees.
Gurung’s thigh howled in protest as the blade bit deep. He struck out at the shashka, snapping it in two, the renewed surge of pain almost causing him to faint.
Kazakov was raging, his father’s sabre broken by this small brown man, its blade now the same length as the strange knife the Gurkha wielded.
He slashed out with the broken sabre, missing his man and falling backwards as he lost his balance.
Throwing the destroyed sword to one side, he slipped his own knife from its scabbard and rose to his feet.
Taking advantage of the lull, he caught his breath as he watched Gurung try to pull the half-blade from his thigh.
His hand closed around the sharp steel and he gently pulled, slicing flesh on fingers and palm. The blade remained firmly embedded.
Kazakov used the moment to his advantage.
Sensing the Cossack’s attack, Gurung pushed himself upright, the embedded blade slicing into muscle that was already struggling to support his weight.
The deadly knife missed its mark, swatted aside by the flat of the kukri.
A swipe similarly missed the Russian, splitting the air as the Cossack rocked backwards in avoidance.
Kazakov feinted with his knife and drew the expected defensive move from the Gurkha.
His foot lashed out and made contact with the protruding blade, catching the exposed metal and ripping it upwards.
Gurung wailed in pain and staggered backwards, thumping against a smouldering tree behind him.
He raised his kukri, but realised his strength was going, the extended wound in his thigh draining blood from his body at an alarming rate.
The Cossack lunged with his knife and the blade bit into Gurung’s stomach, driving right through and into the wood beyond.
His kukri fell from his grasp, and he moaned loudly. The pain was unbearable, both that of the wound and in the knowledge of his failure.
Kazakov bent down and recovered the kukri that had slipped from Gurung’s grasp. He weighed it in his right hand, nodding in acknowledgement of its deadly capabilities.
His adversary was dying, blood trickling from his mouth as well as from
shoulder and thigh.
“You fought well, little man.”
Gurung did not understand, and was past caring, his mind straying to family and the mountains of home.
The kukri sent the CHM to his ancestors, Kazakov slashing across his exposed throat in one economical movement.
The battle was won, and the defending Gurkhas were either killed at their posts or withdrew, the latter hotly pursued by fresh Guardsmen from the 2nd Battalion, eager for vengeance after suffering badly at the hands of the Indian Division’s artillery.
One group of Cossacks, men from the 1st Battalion, moved northwards, bludgeoning into the right flank of 5th Platoon, as they struggled against the second wave of dismounted cavalry.
Elsewhere, the dying Rai was dispatched by a single sabre blow, and other Gurkhas, prisoners and wounded alike, were killed out of hand. 3rd Battalion was spent, over one hundred and sixty men having fallen, the Soviet dead and wounded littering the killing zone in front of the Allied position. The ground was shared with seventy-eight dead and dying Gurkhas.
The survivors rallied on the old German trench, trying hard to ignore the pistol shots as the special detail swept through the woods behind them, bringing merciful release to many a wounded beast.
Some cavalrymen sought out their own mounts, whether dead or dying, sharing a last quiet moment with a friend.
The Regimental Commander was in tears. Not open grief and crying, but the dignified weeping of a man grieving for comrades lost. Colonel Pugachev, who had spent his life in the saddle with many of the dead, watched in silence as the triumphant cavalrymen of 1st and 2nd Battalions moved on through the positions. They pushed the remnants of the Sirmoor Rifles back, the other Gurkha companies withdrawing slowly in an attempt to reform a shorter line, hingeing on the solid bastion of Vogt.
His horse snorted and stamped its front hooves, unsettled by the sudden whinny of pain from the woods behind. He turned to comfort the mare and a movement caught his eye.
“Comrade Serzhant Kazakov?”
The Colonel was unsure if the bloody apparition was that of the experienced but troublesome NCO.
“Comrade Polkovnik.”
“A terrible day, Comrade Serzhant. So many of the old crowd are gone; so many.”
A Cossack Lieutenant rode tentatively up, and dismounted to present a grim report.
Fresh tears ran down Pugachev’s grimy face, his sorrow mixed with occasional joy, as a veteran officer was placed amongst the wounded, or an old comrade staggered into view as the 3rd gathered at the trench.
Acknowledging the report, Pugachev took a moment.
“Right. Thank you, Comrade Leytenant. Move up, and make sure the advance ends at the halt line. I’ll be up shortly.”
Salutes were exchanged and the junior man rode away.
“Comrade Kazakov, gather up the survivors and get them back to Wolfegg. Get the mounts and men fed and rested. We’ll be passing over to the infantry soon enough. I’ll bring the Regiment back to you.”
Kazakov looked at the Colonel without comprehension.
Pugachev realised the man’s lack of understanding.
“You’re it, Comrade Starshina.”
‘Job tvoyu mat!’
That he had just been bumped to Starshina was lost on Kazakov.
Raising his voice, the Colonel spoke to the shattered men around him.
“Comrades! Well done! Well done! You broke the enemy. Now, go with Starshina Kazakov, and we will organise you somewhere dry and warm to rest. And some hot food too.”
The men drifted in the direction of the still bemused Kazakov, the occasional attempt at ‘Urrah’ stifled by their recent experiences.
“Look after them, Comrade Starshina.”
Kazakov nodded and led the survivors back towards Wolfegg.
Pugachev watched them go.
He spared a moment to look around the deserted position and then mounted up, moving forward to liaise with his battalion commanders.
A bird starting tweeting in the trees.
A tree cracked as fire reached a pocket of resin.
A distant gun discharged.
A flare thudded as it exploded into light.
The battlefield that had been so alive with sound fell into relative silence, the Soviet wounded removed, the Third’s survivors on their walk to the rear.
Everyone was gone.
All except for ‘B’ Company, 1st/2nd [King Edward VII’s Own] Gurkha Rifles.
Captain Lawrence Graham MC, Company Havildar Major Dhankumar Gurung, Naik Gajhang Rai, and their men, held the line, still.
2052hrs, Friday 7th September 1945, Airborne, east of Wolfegg, Germany.
The Beaufighter was a British bird, designed as a heavy fighter, and achieving the ‘heavy’ in spades. However, she was a beautiful aircraft to fly, and packed a punch, four 20mm cannon and six machine-guns ready for anyone who got in her way.
However, ‘Gypsy Queen III’, a Mark VI-F version in the air over Wolfegg, belonged to the 416th Night Fighter Squadron of the USAAF, and it wore a number of hats that evening.
The Mark VIII radar reported no contacts, which was no surprise, the Red Air Force having lost the night skies some time before.
Occasionally, some bigwig had risked a short hop on an aircraft, but Zhukov had now ordered his senior officers to avoid such stupidity, having lost three Army commanders in a week to night fighter attacks.
Soviet artillery spotting was their next purpose, the telltale trails of rockets or the muzzle flashes located and positions relayed back to waiting allied gunners.
When the 22nd Cossack Regiment finally sorted out its artillery support, the commander called down fire on the withdrawing Gurkhas, determined to press them and stop them from settling. More guns joined in as the self-propelled 122mm howitzers of the 1814th Gun regiment deployed, dropping their heavier shells to great effect.
Clark, ‘Gypsy Queen III’s’ pilot, turned his Beaufighter gently, summoning the observer up to the cockpit.
“Sam, two o’clock low, muzzle flashes, say a battalion’s worth at minimum.”
“Yeah, I gottem, Cap’n,” the statement was slightly lost, as a map was noisily jostled into position.
Without regard to the niceties of rank, Samuel J. King sought information.
“Any landmarks?”
“Yeah, Sam, Lakes.” The water surface, now between them and the setting sun, proved an excellent point of reference, the shape of the lake prescribed in deep yellow.
“Reckon that one is due east of Wolfegg. The Stock?”
A further moment of intense map rustling followed, terminated by the observer’s head reappearing.
‘Yep, reckon so Cap’n.”
King seemed slow to most people, but Clark understood his man well, and knew he was just methodical in his approach, and didn’t rush into making mistakes.
“Flashes on the ground here,” talking to himself he pencilled a cross, five hundred metres to the north-east of the lake.
“Happy, Sam?”
“I’m happy Cap’n”, the monotone revealing no hint of excitement at what he was about to do.
“Call it in then.”
Without another word, King dropped back into his position, checked the top-secret list he had been given earlier, and switched to the frequency of the nearest artillery unit, instigating an Arty/R mission.
Basically, Arty/R was a barrage called in by an airborne spotter, a procedure well tested in the German War. However, new security procedures were being tested in this sector after some problems with Soviet misdirections, interference that resulted in a few Allied casualties.
“Queen-five-seven-three, Queen-five-seven-three calling Omdurman-Six, receiving over.”
A voice, clearly that of a man more at home in the east end of London, acknowledged receipt.
“Queen-five-seven-three to Omdurman-Six. Fire mission Baker, target...” he paused briefly, checking the coordinates again before delivering them.
> “Omdurman-Six to Queen-five-seven-three, fire mission Baker received. Security check required.”
The Beaufighter had a special list that gave it security access to men in the front line.
“Standby for check. Ready? Omdurman-six over.”
The procedure was laid out precisely, and the artillery units along a fifty-mile front all possessed a copy of the same list. A word was issued that required a specific reply within three seconds or the orders would not be observed and further communications ignored. It could not be otherwise.
“Security check. Go. Troy.”
“Achilles.”
“Roger. Balloon.”
“Otter.”
“Roger. Sunburst.”
“Victory.”
“Roger, check complete, ranging shot on its way.”
The Beaufighter continued on its lazy turn, Captain Clark ensuring that his aircraft was not going to get in the way of a stream of shells.
He was immediately impressed.
“Bang on the money, Sam. Give the Limeys the word.”
The observer keyed his microphone, relaying the confirmation of ‘on target’, and quickly scrambling up to look out of the cockpit.
Seconds past with nothing, save the continued flashes of a few guns below, although the absence of the full count suggested that the Soviets were hitching up their guns, ready to relocate.
Sam King was disappointed for all of thirty-two seconds, at which time the 3rd Royal Horse Artillery put their shells ‘bang on the money’.
A Baker mission was a strike against enemy wheeled artillery, and the gunners of the 4th Indian Division had mixed a barrage of high explosive and fragmentation rounds, creating a highly effective cocktail of death in the area of the 7th Guards Artillery’s deployment.
The barrage of twelve rounds per tube caused casualties and destroyed guns, but the disciplined cavalry troopers worked to hitch up their guns and move away, calmly ignoring the men and horses that fell.
The sun finally retired and the night was lit by exploding shells.
The 7th Guards Artillery quit the field, relocating to another site and leaving the front troops unsupported.
The General commanding called the commander of the 1814th SP Gun Regiment, his deployed guns having been given orders to cease-fire and stay alert, ready for exploiting the breakthrough.
