The English Captain had mastered all facets of his command, from the language and culture through to being able to hold his own in the Gurkha skills, and to that end, he carried his own Kukri.
With his Webley revolver in his left hand, he raised his right hand high. Brandishing his blade, he shouted the battle cry loud enough to hearten the men fighting to his front.
“Ayo Gurkhali! Jai Mahakali! Ayo Gurkhali!”
His small group plunged forward into the fighting, immediately driving back the nearest cavalry troopers.
The sides fell briefly apart, and firing grew as blades were substituted for guns, both sides shocked by the nature of the fighting.
A burst from a PPSh knocked over a number of Gurkhas to the left of Gurung’s position.
In the centre, it seemed that Graham’s counter-attack had succeeded in restoring stability.
On the right, part of the mixed force had rushed to bolster the sagging 6th Platoon, but the fighting was hard and bloody.
The CSM made a quick assessment of where the next attack would focus.
It seemed obvious to the experienced NCO.
It would be on the left, where he was positioned, so Gurung readied his men for the charge.
The PPSh’s did more work, and another two riflemen fell, encouraging the Cossacks to push in once more.
Gurung gave the order and charged forward, the pain in his wounded shoulder now forgotten. Despite the hammering of the Thompson in his left hand, his mind was focussed on his right hand, now occupied by the weapon of his youth.
Blinking rapidly to clear the tears brought on by the smoke, the CHM sought another target. The Thompson yielded its last bullets, smashing down a panicky cavalryman as he reloaded his PPSh.
Tossing the empty weapon to one side, Dhankumar Gurung threw himself forward, rolling under the thrust of a Soviet bayonet, coming up into the crouch and ramming his kukri home, point first, the tip exiting the back of his screaming opponent.
Releasing the blade, he rolled again, avoiding a massive swipe from a bearded Cossack, the tip of the shashka kissing the rim of his helmet and creating a ringing metallic sound.
Slipping as he tried to rise, Gurung’s wounded shoulder impacted with a discarded ammo box, and he cried out in pain.
Seeing weakness in his opponent, the bearded Russian attacked once more, intent on using his strength and reach to batter the Gurkha down.
Blade met blade as Gurung fended off the blows, but the Gurkha was being penned back, acting solely defensively, as the big Cossack pressed harder still.
Suddenly, the man halted in mid swipe, his face demonstrating a lack of understanding, whilst his body knew very well that it was dying.
A second shot from Graham’s Webley dropped him lifeless to the earth.
The captain bore all the hallmarks of a man drunk on blood, his wild eyes and grinning face betraying his combat madness.
In his right hand, he now carried a bloodied shashka, the former owner having no further use for it. Graham’s kukri remained deeply embedded in his skull.
“Up and at ’em, Havildar-Major, up and at ’em I say.”
In an instant, he was gone, gobbled up by the steadily increasing fight.
Securing the position, Gurung installed a Bren gun team with back up to prop up the left flank, and pushed back into the throng to help secure the centre.
More Cossacks entered the fight, the organised remnants of the 3rd Battalion focussing on the perceived weak point, desperate to break through.
Some Cossacks were learning the hard way that a trench was not the best place to be when the enemy has a kukri, its lack of length suddenly becoming a strength, as the longer shashkas fouled the wooden boarded sides of the old German earthwork.
The sun disappeared, leaving the illumination to the flames and flashes from explosives and weapons.
A group of cavalrymen became isolated and pressed on both flanks, the heavy bladed kukris carving men into pieces, until the Gurkhas met in the middle over the dead bodies of their enemy.
A Soviet grenade exacted a price from the victors of that small battle, levelling the score in an instant.
Parts of the wooden trench began to burn, slowly at first, but then gathering in ferocity.
One group of Gurkhas, under the command of Naik Rai, stepped back from the close fight and started to pour fire into the approaching Cossack reinforcements, forcing them into cover and delaying the support they tried to bring to their fellows.
5th Platoon’s commander attempted to turn the right flank of the Cossack attack, advancing two sections to the southeast.
As they rushed the road, the Gurkhas fell foul of Soviet machine-gunners, positioned to cover just such an effort.
5th Platoon lost a dozen men and failed to affect the fighting on the other side of Route 317.
The Captain commanding the Soviet machine-gunners sent up a magnesium flare to help see. It deflected off an overhanging branch, slamming back into the ground and illuminated his own positions long enough for a Bren gunner to extract some revenge.
The remaining men of 6th, 7th and 8th Platoons fought harder in an attempt to throw the enemy out of their positions, but they were fighting high calibre troops who had no intention of giving ground.
It made for a bloodbath.
The final portion of Major Graham’s reserve launched itself forward and fell in behind the close combat zone, firing at targets of opportunity, careful to avoid their own side.
Rai, the Naik, was down, legs smashed by a burst from a DP, but he still encouraged his men, directing their fire, and keeping them focussed with his shouted encouragement.
Graham appeared on the edge of the position, his loud voice immediately getting the attention of the carrier platoon’s Havildar commanding the adjacent reserve. He followed the officer’s gesture, spotting a group of enemy pressing hard to the left of centre.
The Havildar’s group switched their fire, dropping a few Cossacks, but the cavalrymen refused to halt, speeding up to get to the doubtful safety of close quarters.
Ordering his men forward, the Havildar fell in mid-shout, a single rifle bullet instantly taking his life.
None the less, his men plunged into the fray, driving hard into the flank of the new Soviet arrivals and, once again, balancing the numbers in the frontline position.
Gurung, his wounded shoulder aching badly, watched as the battle temporarily moved away from him. He permitted himself to take a few deep breaths before seeking further involvement elsewhere.
He spotted Graham fighting like a man possessed, lashing out with the Cossack blade and his empty Webley.
Horror overtook him, for his leader had not seen the approaching danger.
Gurung screamed a warning at his officer.
“Sahib! Behind you!”
Throwing a kukri was an acquired and delicate skill, and CHM Gurung was renowned as an able practitioner and excellent shot.
The bloodied kukri flew through the air.
It missed.
On hearing the warning, Captain Graham had turned, just in time for a bayonet to slam into his solar plexus, punching through gristle and bone, folding him in two with the weight of the thrust.
The dying officer tried to swing the sabre, but he was robbed of his strength, rolling away to the left as the Cossack twisted his rifle, causing unspeakable agony.
The rifle spoke once, blasting a larger hole in Graham’s chest, stopping his heart in the briefest of moments.
Beside himself with rage, partially at the death of the popular British officer, and partially because of his own failure, the maddened Gurung threw himself forward, crashing into the Cossack, and sending both men flying.