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.
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.