He rode alone, ahead of his men, as did all the squadron leaders. To his right he could see Rostov, the pipe gripped between his teeth. Ahead of him, Namarov.
Kuragin was beginning to suspect that his superior realised he was the one to blame for the incident in the village the day before and Kuragin felt, once again, that peculiar ambivalence within himself. He could not allow his family to die, they came before everything. He would give his own life for them but he had, by his bargain with Kleiser, probably doomed most of his colleagues to death. Twenty-seven of them already lay back in the smoking ruins of the village and he wondered how many more would have to die before the matter resolved itself. If, indeed, it did. What, he wondered, would happen if he were killed? With no-one to supply him information, Kleiser would have no more use for Olga and the two girls. If Kuragin died, then so too would his family. The thought made him shudder and he took another long pull from the flask.
Maybe his family was already dead and Kleiser was just stringing him along. Perhaps they were back there in Ridanski, their bodies hidden somewhere. Or they might have been hung after the SS left the village. He shuddered to think that he might come across them dangling from the next tree.
Thoughts tumbled through his mind, never settling long enough for him to contemplate and he sought solace in the hip flask once more.
Rostov chewed irritably on the stem of his pipe. It had gone out a while ago and he had no more tobacco to fill it with but he kept it in his mouth more out of habit than anything else. Like Kuragin, he too would glance back every now and then at his squadron. His eyes settled on Boniak. The lad was now in the front rank and Rostov marvelled at the change in the boy since they had first discovered him so long ago. He looked along the line, his mind pondering over one question. Was Namarov right about them having a traitor in their midst? And, if so, who the hell was it? What would they have to gain by betrayal? He shook his head, trying to push the questions to the back of his mind. He had no answers anyway. He looked up and saw the major riding at the head of the leading squadron. Rostov had a fierce respect for the man and, during the two years they had ridden together, he had not yet known the major to be wrong in questions of strategy or tactics. But, was he wrong with his theory about the traitor?
Up until the incident at Ridanski church, Namarov had merely been suspicious about Kuragin. The fact that his colleague’s family was not amongst the victims had convinced him, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the big man was the one who had betrayed them. The major was angry with himself for not having seen the problems earler. The night Kuragin had pleaded with him not to attack Ridanski, it should have alerted him to something then. But, even he had not thought that the big man’s love for his wife and children would be great enough to sacrifice the entire unit for. But, Namarov thought with a shudder, had there been a few more SS men, then all of the cossacks might well be lying back there on that huge funeral pyre. He glanced behind him and saw Kuragin swigging from the hip flask. The major exhaled deeply, his breath clouding in the cold, snow-flecked air. So, the traitor was Kuragin. One of his most trusted friends for longer than he could remember. What the hell was he going to do?
He was still pondering the answer to that question when he caught sight of three horsemen approaching through the veil of mist and snow. Dark, wraith-like shapes in the swirling elements, they bore down on the cossacks with thunderous speed and Namarov held up a hand to halt his unit. He stood up in the saddle, trying to get a better look at the approaching cavalrymen. They were riding hard down a sharp slope and he could see that one of them was holding a sabre aloft, swinging it round and round above his head.
The men were fifty yards away when he recognised the leading horseman as Petrovski.
The cossack and his two colleagues reined to a halt beside the major. Petrovski was breathless, as if he and his companions had ridden a long distance at great speed. The horses too were panting, heads lowered.
“We’ve found Kleiser,” said the cossack.
“Where?” asked Namarov.
“About seven or eight miles North of here.”
“Still on the move?”
“No. I think they’ve stopped for the night. I left Barchev and Lato to watch them. If there’s any sign of movement one of them will let us know.”
“What’s the terrain like?” Namarov wanted to know.
“They’ve got their backs to a ridge, the rest is covered by trees. There’s only one way in,” Petrovski told him.
Namarov nodded.
“Did you see any civilians with them?” he asked.
Petrovski looked puzzled.
“No, why?” he asked.
Namarov waved the enquiry away.
“Come on,” he said. “I want to reach their positions before nightfall.”
Led by Petrovski and the other two outriders, the cossacks rode off to the appointed position, and more than one of them felt a tingle of fear run up his spine as, above them, the sky darkened.
It seemed to be an omen.
Chapter Fourteen
Rostov banged the trunk of the tree angrily.
“Jesus Christ,” he roared. “We get cut to pieces in Ridanski and now you want to use the same tactics here.” His remarks were directed towards Namarov who had traced out his proposed plan of attack in the snow using the point of his sabre.
“They’re in the open this time,” he said. “There’s nowhere for them to hide. No houses, only the lorries. That sort of cover is no use in open country.”
“They why do we have to attack after daybreak?” Rostov wanted to know.
“The terrain is totally different,” Namarov told him. “They won’t be expecting a frontal attack.”
“They weren’t supposed to be expecting us last time,” Rostov said, acidly.
“What would you do then?” the major wanted to know.
Rostov stepped towards the makeshift diagram etched in the snow. The Germans had six armoured vehicles which could be used for cover and all of them were parked nose to tail, facing West. Behind them was a ridge and, on either side, thick outcrops of trees. The only way to reach them by direct assault was by charging head-on. The cossack officers had ridden as close as they dare to the darkened encampment mere minutes before, taking in every detail of the German camp. There were a dozen or more tents erected behind the rampart of armoured vehicles, the other men, Namarov guessed, were in the lorries themselves.
The main force of cossacks was about a quarter-of-a-mile away, tending to horses and weapons in preparation for the impending assault but, as yet, none of them knew when that was to be.
Boniak busied himself cleaning his sabre and lance and, when that was done, he set about pushing some fresh slugs into the drum magazine of his sub-gun. All around him, his comrades were doing similar chores.
Mig was brushing his horse down, careful to avoid the wound on its rump which it had received in Ridanski.
Voronzov, between slurps at his vodka bottle, was rough-sharpening the point of his lance.
Sikorski ate some bread and a piece of stale cheese then gave what was left to his horse.
From their present positions, the cossacks could see their offices standing over the diagram in the snow and Boniak saw Rostov step forward and drive his sabre into the ground as he made his point and his opinion known.
“That’s where I’d attack,” he said, pointing to the ridge behind the Germans. “We could walk the mounts around those trees and come at them from behind. They wouldn’t have a chance.”