“Well then, seventeen-year-old Anatole Boniak, what are you doing out here in the woods dressed in bearskin and smelling like a dead wolf?” The major smiled.
“Have you heard of a village called Prokev?” the youth asked.
From the expression which crossed the major’s face and the weary nod of his head, Boniak could tell that he had.
“We rode through there two days ago,” said the officer.
The youth explained what happened and how he came to be alone in the hills. Those cossacks within earshot listened intently. When he had finished, the major put one hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, boy,” he said. Then he turned to two of his men. “See that the boy is taken back safely to the nearest village.”
Boniak pulled away.
“No,” he rasped. “Why can’t I ride with you?”
“What we do is the work of men not children,” said the one-eyed officer.
“I am no child. I have survived out here, alone, for all this time. I have done what many men could not have done.”
“But killing is not the business of children,” the major insisted.
“MY mother and father were murdered by the SS. I have a right to revenge. You cannot stop me.”
“Have you ever killed a man?” the major demanded.
Boniak shook his head.
“Your enemies have been wolves, deer and bear. There is more to killing a man than killing an animal.”
“Just who are you anyway?” the boy demanded.
“My name is Namarov. Major Andrei Namarov. These are my men.” He motioned around him.
“Are you regular army?” Boniak asked.
“No,” snapped Kuragin. “We would no more fight for that bastard butcher Stalin than we would for Hitler. I lost two brothers in the purges.”
“All my men are volunteers,” Namarov told the youth. “They come from all parts of Russia and they owe allegiance to no-one except themselves.”
“Then why are you all together?” Boniak demanded.
“Because we share a hatred of two things. Stalin and the Germans.”
“Then let me ride with you,” the youth pleaded. “I can match any man here for horsemanship.”
Namarov laughed.
“A boaster.”
“Let me prove it at least,” said Boniak.
The major looked at the youth for long moments then nodded. He ordered one of his men to fetch a horse, a frisky looking tan colt which Boniak ran appraising eyes over. It had just a saddle blanket on, the reins dangled limply from the bit and the animal tossed its head wildly as it approached.
“There is your horse,” said Namarov, holding a hand up as an invitation for the youngster who, declining the offer of a leg up, swung himself onto the horse’s back, patting its neck as he did so. For long seconds it stood still then, at a signal from the major, Kuragin very gently prodded the colt’s rump with the point of his sabre.
The animal let out a frightened yelp and bucked wildly, thrashing around like a wild thing as if suddenly deciding it didn’t want Boniak on its back. But the boy clung on, grabbing the reins and digging his knees into the horse’s sides to anchor himself. Those cossacks standing nearby moved back, away from the leaping colt and its determined rider but all eyes were on the duo and more than one grizzled head nodded in approval as the youth gradually brought the animal under control. It reared once, rising to its full height and, for precious seconds it appeared that both horse and rider were going to topple over backwards but then, as if in slow motion, the colt brought its forelegs down and Boniak yanked hard on the reins, settling the animal down. He patted its neck and murmured something into its ear.
A great cheer went up from the watching cossacks and, smiling broadly, Namarov extended a hand to help the youth down.
“Well done,” said the officer.
Boniak was beaming.
“But there’s more to it than being able to ride,” the major added. “You need to be able to use one of these.” There was a loud hiss as he drew his sabre holding it before the boy. He flipped it so that the flat of the blade smacked into his hand then urged the youth to take the haft. Boniak did so, feeling the weight of the weapon. Its edge had been rough-sharpened to inflict maximum injury and the weak sun glanced wickedly off the razor-like edge.
“And this,” said Petrovski, prodding him with the lance.
Boniak nodded.
“This too,” Kuragin added, pulling a sub-gun from his saddle.
The youth considered the three weapons, especially the sabre, sweeping it slowly through the air before handing it back to Namarov. The officer sheathed it.
“There are just over two hundred of us,” he said. “There are thousands of Germans. Desperate men. And desperate men are more dangerous than rational men. The regular army are losing an average of five thousand men a day. That makes your chances of getting killed pretty high. Do you still want to ride with us?”
“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation.
“Then learn what you are taught in these next few days,” said the officer, pointing at him. “And learn well.” He smiled. “You will ride with us, Anatole Boniak.”
Darkness was creeping across the land by this time and Namarov looked up at the sky.
“We camp here tonight,” he said. “Spread the word.” Then he turned to Petrovski. “Get him a lance, a gun and a sabre then get him something to eat and some decent clothes to wear.”
The cossack nodded and motioned for Boniak to follow him but the boy hesitated long enough to grasp Namarov’s hand.
“Thankyou,” he said and the major was surprised at the strength in the boy’s grip.
He placed one hand on his shoulder, smiling.
“Thank me after the war.”
In fifteen minutes, it was dark.
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.