Opening Moves

Whilst most of his comrades recoiled from such bestiality, one American saw, for the first time, his natural element. Or rather the raw natural element of his tribal ancestors. Tsali Sagonegi Yona of the Aniyunwiya Tribe, named as Cherokee by the Creek Indians, named as Corporal Charley Bluebear by the US Army, and known both jokingly and seriously as Moose by his friends. The 6’5” frame had all the litheness and flexibility associated with his tribe but accompanied by a body tone, solidity and strength rarely seen in combination.

Add to the mix, courage beyond measure and then offer up an enemy disposed for close quarter fighting and the recipe for untold savagery and slaughter was in place.

What happened next was a blur of metal and blood.

Bluebear discarded his BAR and reached around his waist belt, extracting his heirlooms, ready to fight in the manner of his ancestors and with their weapons, treasured items entrusted to him by his family before he left for the war. A tomahawk and a battle knife that had last seen enemy blood in the Argonne Forest during 1918, when wielded in his father’s hands against the German. Uttering his father’s name, he plunged forward. As he struck out and killed he bellowed the battle cry his father had taught him, once for each enemy who fell under his blades.

“Tsuhnuhlahuhskim!” for which the English translation would be, “He tries, but fails.”

The US platoon officer went down, stunned by a rifle butt, the attacker shaping to plunge his bayonet deep into the senseless man while another guardsman drew back his entrenching tool, also intending to end the officer’s life.

In a blur, the Cherokee stepped over his leader and struck out, his tomahawk curving in a backhanded stroke, from right to left through the eye sockets of the rifleman, bodily detritus flying from the awful wound, closely followed by the knife slamming low and hard into the groin of the other attacker.

The screams were as much for the horror of the witnesses of both sides as they were for the pain of the wounded.

“Tsuhnuhlahuhskim!”

Bluebear stood in defence as others grabbed the unconscious officer and pulled him clear.

Another bayonet lunged but missed.

The brave Russian soldier ducked the intended hatchet blow only to have the battle knife driven powerfully and terminally into the side of his neck.

“Tsuhnuhlahuhskim!”

Gushing blood over his killer, the dying Russian stuck on the blade, pulling the Cherokee to one side with his body weight.

Another soldier with the courage of youth, that courage the young possess that makes them feel invulnerable, saw his chance and leapt forward, thrusting a bayonet forward, and penetrating the jacket of his target.

Bluebear did not notice the blade slice his flesh, although pain caused by the swift movement of it down his rib could not be ignored or overcome by his adrenalin.

He backhanded his tomahawk into the young soldiers’ neck, a glancing blow because of his lack of balance, penetrating but not enough to kill by itself. However, the blow caused swelling to such an extent that the airway virtually closed up in an instant.

Letting go of his rifle, the youth fell to the ground, not aware of Bluebear’s yelp of pain as the unsupported Nagant rifle dropped away and caused the bayonet to rip out his side.

Focussed by pain and anger for a moment, the Cherokee spared a second to stamp on the back of the head of the dying boy, breaking the neck instantly and, although not his design, releasing the soldier from the longer and more painful journey.

“Tsuhnuhlahuhskim!”

Men who had stood the rigours of a Stalingrad winter, and who had been in close combat in a score of skirmishes since, paled before the deadly whirling apparition.

An experienced Corporal managed to slice through Bluebear’s left forearm with a spade cut but received a blow to his left temple that stove his skull to his brain stem and dropped him dead to the floor.

The battle knife dropped from Bluebear’s useless fingers but the killing went on.

All around the stable block, men scrambled away from the death giver, friend and foe alike recognising the bloodlust that had overtaken him. No longer using his war cry, simply screaming as hard as his capacious lungs permitted, the Cherokee moved like lightning, slowed neither by the wounds or by the efforts he had already expended in his frenzy.

Panic is a virus that spreads at speed. Self-preservation took over and the surviving guardsmen escaped as best they could, more than one screaming in fright as they ran.

One Guards Sergeant turned and fired off every round left in his pistol unaimed, in panic and desperation, virtually closing his eyes to blot out the apparition he was running from.

Bluebear, in the act of pulling his hatchet from the head of another victim, felt the sting as two bullets hit him in the right thigh.