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It would require excellent horsemanship, something that actually stimulated many of the men who would make the charge, as the challenge appealed to their sense of showmanship, creating a stage for them to demonstrate their riding skills to each other.

Some wiser heads agreed with Kazakov, as horsed cavalry and machine-guns made for a bad mix, but a message from the new Major assured them that the enemy troops were ready to fold, and that a full-blooded Cossack charge would break them in an instant.

At 2025hrs, Soviet artillery commenced a brief but violent barrage on the enemy positions, partially to cause damage but also to mask the sound of harnesses and sabres rattling as the assault company got ready.

At 2030hrs, the 3rd Cossack Battalion commenced its advance.

[Author’s note. Indian Army ranks. Lance-Naik = Lance-Corporal, Naik = Corporal, Havildar = Sergeant, CSM = Company Havildar Major, Jemadar = Lieutenant]

Sudden cries from the section on his right drew the attention of Company Havildar Major Dhankumar Gurung.

Some piece of artillery shell had found soft flesh, and one of his men was screaming loudly.

A reliable Naik, Gajhang Rai, was already scrambling across the defensive position, and the medical orderlies were ready to move, once the bombardment stopped.

To the right, another shell found its mark, but this time there were no sounds from pained throats, the three men blotted out in an instant, and their Bren gun silenced forever.

Making a note to adjust his reserve Bren gun team, Gurung found himself showered with earth as a round landed nearby.

Fortunately, for the Gurkhas, the Soviet artillery was only of modest calibre, otherwise the accurate fire would have reaped more bloody rewards.

As it was, a small number of them had been killed and a handful more wounded.

So far.

Fig #53 – Defensive positions, junction of Routes 317 & 323, near Wolfegg, Germany.

One of the last shells tossed over by the 76.2mm guns hit on thick branch directly central to the company’s position, exploding thirty feet above the ground, transforming the shell into deadly shrapnel and the tree into wooden splinters, equally capable of taking a man’s life.

Directly below a Vickers machine-gun team from the 6th Rajputs died, fast moving metal and wood taking the lives of every man in the position, metal alone responsible for perforating the water-cooler jacket on the big machine-gun.

Captain Graham, the Gurkha company commander, recognized the problem immediately and gestured at his senior non-com.

Grabbing three of 8th Platoon’s men, Gurung sprang from cover to cover, making it to the silent Vickers position as the Soviet guns fell silent.

Graham immediately shouted at his men to make ready.

The Company Havildar Major quickly organized the recovery of the Vickers, aware that an unusual sound was steadily growing from the direction of the enemy.

The signaller with Captain Graham cursed, his radio another victim of the shrapnel. A small piece had somehow missed the man, who had protected it with his body, creating an insignificant hole in the top casing, but causing significant damage within.

The Indian artillery could not be called in until it was fixed, the spare radios already consumed in the earlier fighting.

The summer light was fading, but what there was illuminated the battlefield from behind the Gurkha positions, drawing the Cossacks forward.

The Gurkhas were straining to identify the sounds, allocating many identities to the enemy, until one horse planted its leg in a small hole, snapping the bone in an instant.

The cry of distress was easily identifiable.

“Jesus Christ! It’s cavalry! Pass the word, Jemadar!”

Captain Graham looked upon cavalry as a ceremonial necessity with no place on the modern battlefield.

But now that he was faced by the reality of approaching horse, he found himself unexpectedly challenged.

The Gurkha Jemadar saluted formally, reporting that the company was aware of the enemy to their front.

“Fix bayonets if you please.”

The Jemadar passed the order on once more, despite the fact that he and his men preferred to do their close work with the kukri.

The noise of approaching cavalry was increasing and Graham’s bayonet order undoubtedly eased some of the tensions growing amongst the Nepalese hill men.

Amongst the trees to their front, the shadows flitted as the day drew to a close, and the Cossacks pushed their horses hard.

In front of Graham’s eyes, the shadows became real, and dangerous.

“Fire!”

All along B Company’s positions weapons fired, filling the air with .303” bullets. Vickers heavy machine guns and Bren guns, held in competent hands, punched out their own version of death in deadly streams of bullets.

Lee-Enfields, bolts being worked furiously, added their own .303” rounds to the wall of metal into which the Cossacks of the 3rd Battalion charged.

A bugle sounded, bringing to the battlefield a feeling of days long gone by, of times when Napoleon and his peers had held sway in matters of war.

Many bullets found trees or occasionally nothing, hurtling on into the approaching night beyond.

Those that were left found flesh, horse and man, in equal measure.

Two hundred and ninety-one riders and mounts had started the attack, the remaining strength of the experienced cavalry unit.

Now, dead men and horses filled the woods in front of the Gurkha positions, the attack losing momentum as the trees restricted alternative manoeuvre and obstructed the second wave.

A Soviet officer rode forward, picking his way through a number of wounded beasts, commanding his men to dismount and fight on foot until a rifle round plucked him from the saddle.

Angered more by the loss of their mounts than the deaths of their comrades, small groups of Cossacks started to organize and push forward, their superiority in numbers finally coming into play.

Soviet mortars were quickly brought into firing position, and accurate shells dropped on the defensive lines once more, buying time for the attack to be restarted.

Some cavalrymen deployed their own machine-guns, and a deadly exchange commenced, lives being claimed on both sides.

Kazakov opened his eyes, the effects of his collision with the ground heavy on him still.

His horse had been chopped from underneath him and collapsed immediately, throwing the old Cossack into the forest floor face first, temporarily stunning him.

Spitting out a combination of blood, earth, and teeth, Kazakov tried to orient himself, whilst the self-preservation part of his brain checked that he was in some sort of reasonable cover.

Babaev watched him, desperate to attract his attention but unable to move, unable to shout, unable to cry out for release.

His mount had also been shot down in the charge and the Captain had been thrown off as the dying animal fell forward, hurling him against a tree.

That would have been painful enough, but Babaev was still on that tree, transfixed by a stubby branch root that stood proudly out of his back.

Hanging two feet off the ground, the Cossack officer was dying in excruciating pain, but his damaged lungs and windpipe did not permit him the release of screaming.

He tried to speak, and managed a tortured sound, enough to attract the attention of the man he had recently humiliated.

Kazakov examined the apparition, noting the large amount of blood and protruding wood with a detached professional interest.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the final effects of his fall, he rolled over to the base of Babaev’s tree.

The officer’s eyes were streaming with tears, blood trickling from his nose and mouth, occasionally surging, fresh and crimson, occasionally absent.