Standing before the large wall map, Viktor picked up a grease pencil and marked two crosses in the center of a marshland.
“According to the intelligence we’ve received,” he said, turning to the two lieutenants beside him, “this is the Shtepovka Marsh.
We believe there’s a partisan camp hidden somewhere within this area.
Unfortunately, our information is still limited.
All we know is that a guerrilla unit of roughly twenty men is believed to be operating here.”
He paused for a moment before continuing.
“My proposal is straightforward.
Whether this intelligence proves accurate or not, we should begin by sweeping the outer perimeter of the marsh.”
Reaching to the lower corner of the map, Viktor picked up several aerial photographs and handed them to the officers.
“These were taken during a recent reconnaissance flight.
Take a close look.”
The two lieutenants examined the photographs in silence.
“Notice the cultivated plots surrounding the marsh,” Viktor continued.
“Small patches of farmland have appeared in several locations.
They shouldn’t exist there.
It’s reasonable to assume the guerrillas are growing at least part of their own food supply.”
The officers passed the photographs between them, nodding as they studied each image.
“Our objectives are therefore clear,” Viktor said, taking out a pack of cigarettes and offering one to each of them before lighting his own.
“First, destroy those cultivated fields and eliminate the partisans’ food source.
Second, inflict the greatest possible losses on their fighting strength.
As for the operation itself, both of you have considerably more field experience than I do.
I’d like you to take command.
My cavalry company will be placed under your operational control if necessary.”
Viktor understood his own limitations.
Although he had once commanded a People’s Militia cavalry platoon, policing exiles and leading regular military operations were entirely different things.
The two Border Guard officers had spent years commanding infantry in difficult terrain.
When it came to planning and executing combat operations, they were the professionals.
Neither lieutenant wasted time with formalities.
They stepped closer to the map, quietly discussing the terrain while tracing possible routes through the forest with their fingers.
After several minutes, the bearded lieutenant finally looked up.
“Comrade Lieutenant Viktor Viktorovich, this map is too general.
We don’t yet have an accurate picture of conditions inside the marsh or the surrounding forest.
Before launching an assault, we’d recommend sending reconnaissance patrols to survey the area.”
Viktor nodded thoughtfully.
“How long would that take?”
“Two days should be sufficient,” the lieutenant replied.
“We’ll organize reconnaissance teams immediately.”
“Very well.”
Viktor accepted the recommendation without hesitation.
The meeting ended shortly afterward, and after seeing the two officers to the door, he quietly let out a breath.
The pressure resting on his shoulders was enormous.
He had only recently survived a death sentence, and now Moscow expected him to produce results almost immediately.
In the current political climate, success meant survival.
Failure often meant the opposite.
Valenka entered the office carrying a thick stack of files.
“Comrade Chief,” he said, setting the documents on Viktor’s desk, “the reports compiled from the collective farms have arrived.
Where would you like me to put them?”
“Leave them on the desk.”
Viktor glanced at the folders before asking another question.
“Have the supplies I requested arrived yet?”
“Not yet,” Valenka replied as he neatly stacked the documents.
“But they should be here before long.”
Viktor nodded, walked behind his desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down.
Reaching for the stack of documents before him, he opened the first file and began reading.
Although the Shevchenko State Security Bureau had officially been established, it barely existed in practice.
Apart from Viktor and Valenka, the entire bureau consisted of only two clerks responsible for routine paperwork.
Building a functioning State Security office from scratch was no simple task.
Under normal circumstances, personnel would have been assigned by higher headquarters, but the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs throughout eastern Ukraine was still in the midst of a massive reorganization.
Inspection teams were busy screening officials at every level, and few people in regional headquarters had the time—or inclination—to concern themselves with a remote settlement like Shevchenko.
Oddly enough, Viktor regarded that as an advantage.
The delay gave him an opportunity to build the bureau according to his own ideas.
Rather than waiting for Moscow to send strangers, he intended to recruit his own personnel from within the local People’s Militia stationed at the surrounding collective farms.
Those men already knew the terrain, the people, and the problems they would be expected to deal with.
The files Valenka had just delivered contained personnel records for the People’s Militia serving in all thirteen collective farms around Shevchenko, together with reports of the cases they had handled over the previous two years.
By studying those records, Viktor hoped to accomplish two objectives at once.
First, he could evaluate which officers were competent enough to transfer into the State Security Bureau.
Second, he could review older investigations.
Besides suppressing the partisan movement and strengthening local security, one of his new responsibilities was to reopen cases that had been mishandled during the previous administration and correct convictions based on fabricated evidence or political persecution.
Viewed from Moscow, the entire People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs was undergoing a complete reconstruction.
Beria’s reforms were dismantling the old system piece by piece while attempting to build an entirely new organization in its place.
If that reorganization could be compared to a vast net stretching across the Soviet Union, then Shevchenko was nothing more than one insignificant knot within it.
Following the personnel reforms introduced earlier that year, thousands of officers from military academies, Party organizations, and Red Army units had been transferred into the Commissariat.
In eastern Ukraine alone, nearly four thousand newcomers had arrived within a matter of weeks.
Politically they were considered reliable, but professionally they were complete novices.
Few had any experience in counterintelligence, counterespionage, or anti-partisan operations.
Most were still learning both the nature of their work and the enemies they were expected to fight.
Moscow understood that experience could not be created overnight.
The plan was simple: allow these new officers to learn through practice, evaluate their performance in the field, and gradually separate the capable from the incapable.
Compared with those newly transferred officers, Viktor possessed one undeniable advantage.
He already knew exactly what kind of war he was fighting—and exactly who stood on the other side.
…..
The early morning mist still lingered beneath the birch canopy, and crystal-clear droplets of dew clung to the pale green leaves of the mimosa shrubs scattered across the forest floor.
Concealed beneath the branches of a fallen fir tree, Viktor pulled his brown-green canvas cloak tighter around his shoulders before raising the binoculars hanging from his neck.
Beyond the trees, where the forest gave way to the edge of the marsh, lay a small clearing.
Several crude triangular huts built from rough logs stood scattered across it.
Their roofs had been carefully covered with fresh branches and patches of turf, blending them almost perfectly into the surrounding woodland.
Thin columns of smoke drifted lazily above the camp. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Through the binoculars, Viktor could make out figures moving between the huts as breakfast preparations came to an end.
From a distance, the camp appeared almost peaceful.
It was one of the larger partisan bases in the Volyn–Shevchenko Forest.
According to the Border Guard’s reconnaissance reports, roughly thirty guerrillas were stationed there.
The marsh protected their eastern flank, while the dense forest concealed every approach.
If attacked, they could simply retreat deeper into the wetlands, where pursuit would become nearly impossible.
The terrain throughout the Shevchenko Forest made such camps exceptionally difficult to eliminate.
During the dry season, the marshes remained isolated from one another, but once the water level rose, they merged into a vast network of wetlands stretching westward toward Volyn, eventually connecting with territory under Polish control.
For the guerrillas, those marshes served not only as a fortress but also as an escape route.
Determined to make their first operation under Viktor’s command a success, the two Border Guard lieutenants had spent several days preparing every detail.
Their reconnaissance patrols had mapped the safest approaches through the marsh, losing one scout in the process.
During the previous night, their companies had quietly completed the encirclement of the camp, while two machine-gun platoons were positioned to cover the narrow passages leading deeper into the wetlands.
The plan itself was straightforward.
Infantry would assault the camp from the forest, driving the partisans toward the marsh.
Once they entered the open ground, the concealed machine-gun positions would cut off their escape and destroy them before they could disappear into the swamps.
Minute by minute, the forest remained silent.
In the clearing ahead, the guerrillas gathered outside their huts, eating breakfast and talking among themselves.
Even from this distance, faint laughter drifted through the trees.
Standing beside Viktor, the bearded lieutenant glanced repeatedly at his wristwatch.
When the agreed hour finally arrived, he looked toward Viktor without saying a word.
Viktor met his eyes and gave a single firm nod.
The lieutenant raised the whistle hanging from his neck and blew a short, piercing signal.
Almost immediately, answering whistles echoed from every direction within the forest.
Before the last note had faded, a thunderous explosion shattered the morning silence.
Through his binoculars, Viktor watched one of the log huts erupt into the air.
The blast hurled shattered timbers, mud, and splintered wood high above the camp, instantly shattering the calm that had existed only moments before.
The peaceful scene vanished in an instant.
The partisans who had been eating breakfast scattered in every direction as the explosion tore through the camp.
Some instinctively threw themselves to the ground, while others scrambled toward the weapon racks or fled blindly for the safety of the marsh.
A heartbeat later, the forest erupted with sound.
Border Guard infantrymen in olive-brown uniforms and peaked caps burst from the tree line, charging straight into the camp.
Grenades exploded among the huts, showering the clearing with splintered wood and dirt, while the relentless chatter of machine guns echoed through the forest, drowning out every other sound.
These men were called partisans, but they were nothing like the disciplined guerrilla forces that would later gain fame during the Second World War.
Most were little more than armed fugitives, deserters, or outlaws who had taken refuge in the forest.
Though dangerous in small-scale raids and ambushes, they were no match for a well-planned military operation carried out by regular troops.
The assault unfolded almost exactly as planned.
To Viktor, the outcome felt hopelessly one-sided—a cannon fired at a mosquito.
Within little more than ten minutes, the Border Guard had secured the entire camp.
Sporadic rifle fire still echoed from the direction of the marsh, punctuated by the steady bursts of machine-gun fire.
Those were the partisans who had managed to reach the wetlands, only to run directly into the blocking positions established during the night.
There would be no escape through the marsh today.
The ambush waiting there would finish what the assault on the camp had begun.