The regiment had lost so many men to the German counter-strike that they had to reorganize the companies. Captain Baranov merged Lieutenant Vasilyev’s odalenye into one that had lost most of its men, but not its commander, nor its Maxim machine gun.
Lieutenant Maxim Schwatchko looked like he had been an athlete before the war: tall and fit with massive shoulders and arms. He had thick, black hair that swept over his forehead and angry brown eyes. He commanded with terse orders, as if he were about to hit anyone who questioned him.
There were three privates left alive in his odalenye, all Russian, all just twenty years old. Vadim Glukhov was thin with brown hair and large, expressive eyes.
Grigory Kornev was the newest recruit, sent from a farm near the Latvian border that had been razed by the retreating Germans. He stood very straight all the time, as if he were trying to emulate the soldiers in the posters. “Fucking Germans killed my whole family,” he said in response to “I’m Maurice Bury.”
Dmitry Rusnak always looked sleepy. Short and stocky, he had dark hair and his face always bore a trace of stubble, even after he shaved. He was chatty, and somehow found optimism, even when the bullets flew.
The deep penetration strategy was so effective, the Red Army’s advance so fast, that the supply lines had trouble keeping up.
One night, the sentries woke the men in the unit at midnight. Captain Baranov led the company away from the main body of the army. They marched along a muddy road, stopping at a deserted farm. Maurice knew they were somewhere in Lithuania, but he had given up on asking exactly where they were—Lieutenant Schwatchko either would not tell him or didn’t know.
A soldier busted the farmhouse door in with the butt of his rifle. Captain Baranov, Commissar Sorkin and the lieutenants, including Schwatchko, went inside to discuss plans, but mostly to look for any valuables or liquor left behind.
Schwatchko came out a few minutes later. “Sergeant Nikolaev, set up sentries along that raised bank over there,” he growled, pointing to a small ridge that the farmer had probably once used as a road for wagons, raised above the fields that would be soft mud in a wet season.
“What about the other side? Fritz could come from there, too,” said the Sergeant.
“Don’t question my orders, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Schwatchko said. “But for your information, Orlov’s odalenye is looking south and Federov’s is guarding the west. Now get the men into position.”
Nikolaev saluted, more formally than usual, Maurice thought. The sergeant turned to him. “Bury, Kuchnir and Koval, set up the Maxim on that bank.” He turned to Old Stepan. “Grampa, you make sure they have plenty of ammunition. The rest of you, find someplace to take cover. The action begins at sunrise, unless something happens in the meantime.” Maurice did not want to think about what “something happens” could be.
Setting up the heavy, clumsy machine gun in the dark was especially challenging. The wheels kept getting stuck in ruts and holes in the churned, muddy ground. By the time they had it pointed over the raised bank and settled firmly on the ground, Maurice estimated it was close to 4 a.m.
He leaned against the grassy bank, the smell of damp earth in his nostrils, laying the barrel of his rifle across the top and looking forward. He dozed off, waking as the sky to the east, behind him, was just starting to turn grey.
He straightened and stretched. Around him, other men dozed against the bank, too. Behind them, he could see a shadowed figure standing straight, looking at the Red Army soldiers. From his posture, it had to be Commissar Sorkin.
Sergeant Nikolai Nikolaev was on the other side of Mykhailo, alert, scanning the darker shadows to the west.
Slowly, the dawn illuminated the landscape in front of them, to the west. At the moment orange light tinted a cloud in the east, Maurice heard a deep boom to the south.
Mykhailo jumped alert, eyes wide. He clutched his rifle to his chest and looked left and right.
Another boom, followed by a continuous drumming that they felt in the ground as much as they heard. Now, all the men along the earthen bank were wide awake, looking south.
“It’s started, boys,” said Sergeant Nikolaev. One hand slid down and up the barrel of his submachine gun in a loving gesture. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
As the sun rose, Maurice could see a line of trees that formed a windbreak about fifty metres away in front of them. Beyond the line, the land sloped gently upward to a crest.
“You think Fritz is under those trees?” asked Dmitry Rusnak, on Maurice’s right.
“Fritz is everywhere,” Maurice said. “If it’s not the Germans, it’s partisans. Not everyone loves the Russians.”
“What do you mean? We’re liberating Lithuania from the Nazis,” Dmitry said.
Lieutenant Schwatchko appeared between them at that moment, throwing himself chest-down against the earthen bank. The pace of the artillery fire accelerated, a continuous drumming that made the grass on the bank vibrate in time with the soles of Maurice’s feet.
“This is it, boys. The main group is driving Fritz this way. They’re going to come through that gap over there,” Schwatchko said, pointing at a gap in the windbreak that was just wide enough for a single tank to come through. “When they do, cut them down. Every single one of the bastards. No survivors, no prisoners. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” said Mykhailo.
“Fucking Germans killed my whole family and burned down my house,” Grigory Kornev said again, already aiming his rifle.
“Don’t chamber a round yet, private,” Sergeant Nikolaev said. “There’s no sense endangering your comrades unnecessarily.
But Lieutenant Schwatchko slapped Kornev on the back. “That’s the spirit. Be ready to kill, private.” He disappeared, running down the line of men.
The drumming continued for an hour, then suddenly ended. Maurice heard a low, buzzing drone and turned to look over his shoulder to see a row of Pe-2s, the Soviets’ light bombers, flying low. Maurice could not see where they dove beyond the trees, but he felt the impacts of their bombs in the ground beneath his feet, and in his hands, too, when they braced against the earthen bank.
Overhead, the men could see the silvery flash of Messerschmidt fighters like fish fighting the hook. Soviet fighters buzzed from the east, the sun at their backs in an aerial dance of death.
Even though all the Red Army soldiers were lying in protected positions, waiting for the enemy, the first appearance of a grey uniform between the trees shocked every one of them. Maurice had to will his hands to loosen on the stock of his rifle when he saw one man in a Wehrmacht uniform appear over the crest of the low hill in front of him.
“Hold your fire,” said Sergeant Nikolaev. “Wait till we see more of them and they can’t get away.”
The single man on the slope was soon joined by another, then a whole company. They ran down the hill the way only men pursued by a deadly, irresistible force will run.
A single Panzer appeared in the gap, with two men riding on it. Then another tank, and more men in grey uniforms and flared helmets.
“Now,” said Sergeant Nikolaev. He squeezed the trigger of his black PPS-43 submachine gun and cut down the first man, who fell into the grass, arms and legs loose as a rag doll.
The other Germans dropped to the ground, firing their submachine guns. Maurice heard the Maxim rattling to his right and saw German soldiers falling like the wheat they walked through.
The lead Panther tank opened up with its machine guns. Maurice and all the others in his company dropped below the lip of the bank as bullets zipped over their heads.
Maurice raised his head over the edge of the earthen bank. To his left, a heavy 100 mm anti-tank gun opened up. A round hit the Panzer, penetrating the armour. Maurice saw the tank shake. The top hatch popped open and flame and smoke poured out of it.