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himself upright, the embedded blade slicing into muscle that was already struggling to support his weight.
    The deadly knife missed its mark, swatted aside by the flat of the kukri.
    A swipe similarly missed the Russian, splitting the air as the Cossack rocked backwards in avoidance.
    Kazakov feinted with his knife and drew the expected defensive move from the Gurkha.
    His foot lashed out and made contact with the protruding blade, catching the exposed metal and ripping it upwards.
    Gurung wailed in pain and staggered backwards, thumping against a smouldering tree behind him.
    He raised his kukri, but realised his strength was going, the extended wound in his thigh draining blood from his body at an alarming rate.
    The Cossack lunged with his knife and the blade bit into Gurung’s stomach, driving right through and into the wood beyond.
    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