Kuragin walked away, feeling as if someone had just tied a lead weight around his neck.
Chapter Ten
The village of Ridanski lay at the bottom of a gentle slope, bounded on its far side by a narrow stream which had been reduced to a frozen strip cutting through the snow. There were three bridges across the frozen stream, all made from the wood of the trees which grew thickly on the Northern side of the village.
“The slope will favour our attack,” said Rostov, puffing away at his pipe and gazing closely at the map spread out before him.
“There’s quite a bit of open ground before we actually reach the village itself,” Namarov observed, stroking his beard. He squinted in the gloom. The cossacks had not lit camp fires in case the German troops in Ridanski saw them. So, the other men sat around talking quietly, eating what scraps they could find or trying to snatch some sleep, beneath the dull white glow of a watery moon. Cossack sentries rode slowly back and forth on the outermost perimeter of the camp, eyes turned toward the crest of the ridge beyond which they knew lay their objective.
“They won’t be expecting an attack,” said Rostov. “And besides,” he pointed to the open ground which Namarov had indicated. “What is it? Two, three hundred yards? We can cover that fast enough.”
Namarov was still uneasy.
“What do you think, Kuragin?” he said.
The big man shrugged, disinterestedly.
“There’ll be casualties however we go in,” he said. “What does it matter?”
Rostov looked suspiciously at his colleague and continued puffing on his pipe.
“I say we take them from the front,” he said.
Namarov nodded.
“Yes, I think you might be right. There’s no point in splitting the force to outflank them.” He ran his finger over the map once more, tracing the route which the cossacks would take. He glanced at his watch. “It’s twelve-thirty now.” Rostov checked his watch and nodded.
“We go in at eight tomorrow morning,” the major said. ‘Rostov, you take your squadron around the village, here,” he jabbed at a point on the map. “When we attack, you and your men come at them from the South.”
Smoke billowed from the pipe as if in affirmation.
“Any questions?” asked Namarov.
Rostov scratched his chin.
“You know, it puzzles me why they haven’t destroyed the village and moved on,” he said.
“It’s as good a place as any to hole up for the night,” Rostov said.
“They probably think they’re safe there,” Namarov said and laughed. Rostov too chuckled to himself. Only Kuragin remained silent, gazing first at the map and then over his shoulder in the direction of the village.
“Well, I think we’d best get some sleep before morning,” the major said. “So, eight a.m. tomorrow, right?” He looked at his two squadron commanders who both nodded, Kuragin somewhat dispiritedly. Rostov wandered off to find the men of his squadron while Namarov rolled up the map and pushed it into his saddlebag. He was aware of Kuragin’s presence behind him and slowly turned to face his colleague.
“What is it my friend?” he asked.
“Andrei, you and I have been friends for a long time now,” said the big man. “You have heard me speak of my family often.”
The major nodded.
Kuragin inhaled, held the breath then let it out in an almost painful groan.
“Call off the attack on Ridanski tomorrow,” he said.
Namarov frowned.
“Why?” he asked.
“Call it off. Please.”
“I don’t see what the attack has to do with your family.”
“Ridanski is my home village,” said Kuragin. “My wife and two daughters are still there. They are in that village now. In there with Kleiser and his fucking butchers. If we ride in tomorrow, they won’t have a chance.”
“And you think that if we bypass the village that they will have a better chance?” the major said, sarcastically. “Do you really think that Kleiser will spare any of the people in Ridanski, whether we attack or not?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said the big man. “All I know is, my family are alive at the moment, by nine o’clock tomorrow they could be dead.”
“They could be dead already,” Namarov told him.
“But I can’t be sure of that. I wish to God I could. In some ways it might be easier for me. Then I would have something worth fighting for as young Boniak has. But, if we attack tomorrow, then they will be killed for sure.”
Namarov exhaled deeply.
“Kuragin, I am sorry. If only I had known.”
“Would it have made any difference?”
“Probably not, but at least I could have understood the way you felt.”
“So understand me now,” the big man said, almost pleadingly. “Call off the attack, at least until they have left the village.”
Namarov shook his head.
“And if I do, and Kleiser and his men escape, how many more villages will be destroyed? How many more Russians will be slaughtered?”
“I am just asking you to spare my family.”
“I am not the one who will be murdering them.”
“You will if we attack Ridanski,” snarled Kuragin.
“I cannot call the attack off,” Namarov told him. “we have a chance to finish Kleiser once and for all. He mustn’t be allowed to escape.”
“Would you have taken the same decision if it had been your family in there?” the big man snapped, challengingly.
Namarov was silent for long moments, his eyes searching those of his companion.
“We attack at eight,” he said, softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Damn you, Andrei,” said the big man and walked off.
Namarov stood alone for what seemed like an eternity, watching as his friend’s huge frame was gradually swallowed up by the gloom.
Boniak declined the offer of a drink when Voronzov offered him the vodka bottle, more intent on sharpening his sabre with the flat stone which he had taken from his saddlebag. Every now and then he would hold up the blade and press a thumb to the curving edge, grinding away a little more when he felt that it was not sharp enough.
“Drink, boy,” said Voronzov. “Put some fire in your belly.”
“I have all the fire I need,” said Boniak.
Voronzov laughed.
“Well you’ll need it when we go up against Kleiser.”
“We’ll all need it,” said Mig who was sitting nearby pushing bullets into the empty magazine of his Tokarev pistol.
Boniak didn’t speak. He completed the task of sharpening his sword and slid it back into the scabbard. Then he lay down on his blanket, gazing up at the moon. His left hand strayed to the pouch on his belt and he pushed his fingers inside, touching the bear claws, memories flooding back into his mind. He wondered what the people trapped in Ridanski must be thinking now. Probably much the same as he and his people when Kleiser and his men attacked Prokev. God, that seemed so long ago. Months had passed since the day he’d seen his parents killed by that black-clad bastard with the scarred face. How many more had he killed since then? A dozen. Fifty. A hundred? Boniak closed his eyes and tried to sleep but the vision of the SS officer was strong in his mind, so strong he felt that he could reach out and touch the man for whom he felt so much hatred. Boniak had always thought that love had been the strongest emotion in life until that day in Prokev but, since then, he had come to realise that hatred was the most consuming passion. It had gnawed away at him like some kind of parasite, a part of his mind, a part of his soul, denied peace because of the seething hatred which he felt for that man in black. His deisre for vengeance had grown from a flickering flame into a raging fire and he wondered if even Kleiser’s death could extinguish it. He had nurtured that hate for these long months, allowing his memories to feed the fires of revenge. Never permitting himself the joy of rest; in even the deepest recesses of his mind he thought endlessly of how mcuh he wanted to kill Kleiser or at least to see him dead. To feel his cold flesh, to stand booted over his lifeless body.