At night, Maurice did not sleep much. He knew he should have made the most of this break in the fighting, but he couldn’t relax. Something big is going to happen soon.
One day near the end of October, the officers seemed to be stirring more than usual. In the evening, as the sun hit the horizon, the major called the junior officers into a circle; then the lieutenant of Maurice’s new odalenye, Mikhailov, gathered the men. “We’re going to do some reconnaissance across the river,” he said. He was short, broad, with large brown eyes, thick eyebrows and thick, dark brown hair. “Find out where Fritz has his cannons, tanks, and most important, supplies. Get the directions back to our gunners. You’ll have to be smart, quiet, and you can’t lose your head, or we’re all done for. The Major’s looking for four men.”
Sergeant Nikolaev was a tough communist who acted older than his years. He stepped in front of the unit. “Okay, with me, it will be Oleh, Maurice and Mykhailo—it’s your turn, comrades.” Maurice suddenly felt as though his guts were wide, hollow and empty at the sound of his name. Numbly he followed the sergeant and the other boys to the quartermaster’s wagon. He felt another cold shock when he saw German uniforms lying on the ground.
“Get dressed, boys,” said the quartermaster, leering.
Grumbling, they stripped off their Red Army uniforms and struggled into the tight-fitting Wehrmacht clothes. They griped as they swapped tunics and pants until each had as close a fit as they could manage.
Maurice picked one up: a corporal’s uniform, dirty and torn. There was a dark smudge along the pant leg; in the twilight, he couldn’t tell if it was oil or blood. As he pulled on the tunic, he couldn’t help but squirm thinking that its previous owner had died wearing it.
“Hey, Maurice, you got a promotion!” Mykhailo laughed.
“Shut up,” said Lieutenant Mikhailov, and handed out German small arms: handguns, extra ammunition clips to Sergeant Nikolaev, who was now wearing an unterleutnant’s uniform. Then he gave each of them a tiny flashlight. “Use these to signal us when you find the targets,” he instructed.
They walked silently to the riverbank, staying low so they wouldn’t be silhouetted against the purple sky for the German machine gunners across the river.
“Keep quiet, boys, and stay low. Crawl on your bellies. Don’t do anything to let the Germans see you, because if you do, we’re dead,” Nikolaev said. Without another word, he led them slowly down the bank to the river’s edge, where a private held the rope of a tiny wooden boat. He looked uncomfortable at the sight of men in German uniforms approaching from the eastern bank, but he relaxed when the Sergeant winked.
Maurice climbed aboard with the others, and the private pushed off before climbing smoothly into the boat. He was an expert boatman, rowing without splashing, barely making a ripple. Even so, Maurice felt sure that the Germans could hear every bump and creak. He expected the revving sound of a German machine gun any second, expected to feel bullets tear into him. But nothing came, except the sounds of the night, the water lapping on the side of the boat, and stressed breathing of the men on it.
As the far shore approached, he felt fear grow even stronger. He felt like he was going to be sick, but forced it down. I’ve faced danger before. I’ve come through. I may die tonight, but I won’t run. He hefted the German pistol. It felt strangely comforting, and he realized it was the first time he had held a handgun since his days in UPA. He thought, also, of his time as a Red Army officer. It felt so long ago.
They finally reached the south bank, which was a little steeper than the north side. They tried to climb out without making noise, but silence was impossible. As they splashed in the water a machine gun at the top of the bank roared out. Bullets whipped overhead, raising a deadly row of pinpoint splashes in the river behind them.
All four men threw themselves forward, pressing their bellies into the muddy bank. The machine gun raked back and forth, back and forth, and Maurice imagined the water splashing up in lines. He felt drops hitting his back. He did not dare breathe.
The firing stopped, only to start again after a few seconds. When it stopped again, Maurice realized that the German sentries had only heard them, but hadn’t seen four men splash onto the riverbank. Their fortifications are back from the bank, he realized, like ours are. They can’t see us, but we can’t see them, either. Maurice knew he did not dare move, not even to raise his head.
“Stay down, boys,” the sergeant said softly, but that just brought another sustained burst of machine gun fire from the top of the bank. No one said another word.
Maurice tried again to flatten himself into the ground. Overhead, he could barely make out the edge where the Lithuanian plain fell into the river’s valley.
Suddenly, for no reason the four men could see, furious fighting began overhead. The Germans started firing what seemed like thousands of shells across the river. The Soviets answered with heavy machine guns, rattling. The four would-be spies heard explosions over them and knew their comrades were firing mortars. A whoosh meant that Katyusha rockets were streaking across the river. All the men clinging to the bank knew that whether they were hit by errant shells from German or Soviet guns was only a matter of luck.
Gradually, the fighting died down again to sporadic bursts from machine guns, just a few shots to keep the enemy at bay. All five men on the south bank, the four would-be scouts and the boatman, knew that moving meant bullets for them, so they stayed still, feet freezing in the water.
Maurice soon began to shiver. He felt so tired, but knew there was no possibility of sleeping. Sometimes he closed his eyes, only to see nightmare visions of the Panzer crossing the Poltava, Messerschmidts over Kyiv. Every few minutes, guns fired from one side of the river, and were answered from the other: rrr-rrr from the Germans, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat from the Soviets.
“Maurice,” someone whispered hoarsely from his right. Mykhailo. Carefully, Maurice turned his head without raising it off the ground. “I have to take a piss.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?” he whispered back. He could almost see the fool, pushed up on his shoulders, trembling.
RRR-RRR! roared the German gun overhead. Across the river, the Soviets answered, rat-tat-tat-tat. Mykhailo threw himself down and was quiet, but Maurice could see his shoulders shaking.
Maurice felt now that he, too, had to pee. Damn Mykhailo! If he hadn’t mentioned it, Maurice might not have thought about peeing for another hour or so. Too late now. He tried to think about something else, and realized that his boots had soaked through and were now filled with water over his ankles.
If it’s not one misery, it’s another.
The night wore on. The shooting stopped for a long time, well over an hour, Maurice thought. Then, from his right, he heard Mykhailo whispering again, but more softly. “Oh, hell, I’ve pissed myself.”
Finally, dawn greyed the limited landscape that Maurice could see. Shivering, Maurice was grateful for the coming day that might warm him, at least a little, but at the same time wished for the dark that had so far hidden him from the Germans.