He also realised that these Amerikanski were smaller men, none of them reaching the average height of his own Cossacks, and yet they fought with a ferocity he hadn’t seen since the woods where he had come close to death at the hands of fellow warriors; Gurkhas.
This enemy officer was swinging a sword and firing a pistol, and was proving a rallying point for his men. Even as the first of his reinforcements arrived, the enemy started to noticeably gain the upper hand and a few of Kazakov’s men started to run.
He needed to stop that immediately so strode purposefully down the slope, calling the retreating Cossacks to him.
They responded and he led them back into the fray. As he got to the top of the position, he quickly dispatched a wounded enemy with a single swipe of his shashka, taking the man’s throat down to the spine beyond.
A second American company was almost on top of them.
“You, soldier!”
He summoned a panting man to his side.
“Back up the slope there and off to the left, Find the reserve platoon and bring them to the hill’s edge… over there… see where I mean… that stand of trees there.”
It was nothing more than a group of vertical sticks long since stripped of anything green, but it was enough for the soldier to understand.
“Yes, Comrade Kapitan.”
“Right, brother. The battle and our lives depend on you. Go like the wind and get those men there immediately. Go!”
The man disappeared like a gazelle and Kazakov turned back to fighting the battle.
Again, his men seemed to have the ascendency and he ordered those on the flanks of the main resistance to concentrate on the newly arriving enemy.
The American officer was still standing, swinging his sword at all comers, and with success judging by the traces of blood on his blade.
Those who chose to try and shoot him received a bullet in return, and his position, at a junction in the rough trench scraped on the lip of the slope, served to protect him from most direct fire.
A bloodied NCO slid in beside Kazakov and it took a moment to identify Vassily
“Ah, Yesaul.”
He used the Cossack rank as he always did when the two men had only ears for the other.
“You look like shit, Vassily.”
Blood dripped from a number of places, some clear, other well hidden.
“I feel like shit, Ataman. May I have leave?”
“Later. For now, let’s rid ourselves of this little thorn, eh? Any grenades left?”
“Fuck all, Ataman. Otherwise I’d have blown the little bastard up myself, He’s a fighter for sure. These bastards are Japanese… can you believe it? They swapped sides pretty quickly, eh?”
“That’s interesting. I’ve an idea.”
He spoke quickly and with little enthusiasm, the sparkle of battle gone from his eyes, and those of his senior NCO.
Vassily Razin scuttled away, not feeling any of his wounds in particular, but generally feeling war weary and keen to rest.
By now, most of the defenders were back pouring fire into the attacking Charlie Company, often with recently liberated American weapons, which the cavalrymen found to their liking, particularly the Garand, although less so with the M1 Carbines.
As the last reserve platoon fired into the left flank of the Nisei attack, it faltered irrevocably, and started back down the slope with bullets kicking at men’s heels.
A knot of attackers remained at the lip of the slope and, one by one, they were silenced.
Not one surrendered, not that putting hands in the air would have made a difference to the Cossack soldiers, for they fought their war by a different set of rules.
Kazakov, also now wounded in a manner he did not understand, limped to a position near the last few survivors, and watched as they were picked off, or fell to a bayonet or shashka.
Some of his own brothers succumbed and he felt a wave of anger sweep over him as an old comrade, who had once watered his horse on the Volga, was thrown backwards by the impact of heavy Garand rounds.
The rifleman was shot down from behind and crazed avengers took their time hacking away at the dead body.
The enemy officer had shot another of Kazakov’s men before he went ahead with his plan.
Calling for a ceasefire, he hobbled forward, aware of the growing wet feeling in his boot.
He held his shashka in one hand, his Tokarev in the other and stood in front of the man’s position, exposed and vulnerable but sensing his plan would work.
It was simple really.
The man was Japanese, and everyone knew how their soldiers had a samurai honour thing going; he’d seen evidence of it himself when serving on the Eastern border.
Kazakov would stand in silent challenge and, when the lunatic American came out, Razin would drop him to the ground.
However, Takeo did not play the game as the Cossacks intended and Razin showed his hand too early.
Kazakov screamed in despair as a bullet from the 1911 took the top of his senior NCO’s head off and spread the contents across the ground behind him.
Appalled by the sight of the collapsed body, Kazakov found himself rooted to the spot and looking straight down the barrel of an automatic pistol. His own weapon was still pointed at the earth, and bringing it up for a shot would take more time than the bullet that would surely travel his way if he tried it.
The Japanese-American waved his gun, encouraging Kazakov to throw his pistol away, which he did without taking his eyes of the man in front of him.
The Colt 1911 followed suit and he cursed himself for not noticing that the enemy officer’s weapon was locked open on an empty clip.
A scream brought him back from his annoyance, and he jerked into action as Takeo charged forward, katana raised to strike down.
Kazakov took a step back and dropped to one knee as his wounded leg squealed new objection.
“Banzai!”
The katana swept down towards the cossack’s head, only to be met by metal inches from its target.
Takeo thought his blow would go home and found himself slightly off balance.
As he brought his blade round for another swipe his lower belly exploded in the most violent pain as a kukri was rammed hard through his flesh, jamming in his pelvis with the point exiting between the cheeks of his backside.
His mouth was still wide open in a scream of extreme pain when Kazakov’s shashka swept across his shoulder and bit into the side of his neck, angling down into the body.
Both his blades remained lodged hard in the bones of his dying victim, so Kazakov reached for his small knife and shuffled on both knees to where the American had fallen.
The Nisei officer’s screams continued as the whole of the hilltop was bathed in the most incredible sunlight, the clouds seemingly moving aside to allow the dying Takeo one final moment of life’s beauty.
Kazakov howled in fury as he plunged the knife into Takeo’s chest, continuing long after the man’s life force had left his body, and with each thrust yelling at his enemy.
“Bastard!”
“Fucking bastard!”
Klimenti Ryabkov was the one who gently grabbed the arm and stopped the continued butchery of Takeo’s body.
“Kapitan… stop now, Kapitan… he’s dead… very dead… we must leave this place, Comrade Kapitan.”
Kazakov looked at the young officer’s face and returned to reality, immediately understanding the danger he had placed his men in.
“Where are the Amerikanski bastards?”
“They’ve all pulled back down the slope. Comrade Kapitan.”
‘Blyad! What have I fucking done?’
“Get everybody off the hill… off the fucking hill now!”
“But Comrade Kapit…”
“Now, Klimenti, for the love of the Motherla…”
The sound was there… the sound that had heralded death for so many of their brothers.