Losses on the Road to Moscow

The three French cuirassiers kicked in the peasant hovel door. The road from Smolensk was long, and they were hungry, tired, hot in their breastplates. The village had been empty, burned, only this one lone hut still stood. A bony-legged babushka cowered in the corner. 

“Food,” the first cuirassier bellowed. “Understand, old cow? Food!”

The crone’s eyes watched them, unblinking and uncomprehending. 

The second cuirassier mimed eating. “Eat. You know?”

Understanding dawned, and the old woman nodded eagerly. 

The door to her hut slammed shut, and in the darkness Baba Yaga towered to her full height. Her head scraped the roof and her taloned arms stretched from one corner to the other. She smiled an iron smile, filled with iron teeth, and said: “Yes, food. We shall eat.”