Like silk-like fine rain enveloping the entire Warren-Shepuchenkov Forest, the birch grove, not very dense but tall and straight, was refreshed by the rain, white and green contrasting beautifully like a splendid oil painting.
At the edge of the jungle, a foraging grizzly bear wiggled its hefty rear, lazily rolling on the clover-covered grassland. Upon rising, its two round eyes were captivated by a field mouse poking its head out from a burrow. The robust grizzly bear clearly showed no interest in preying upon the tiny field mouse, and the diminutive field mouse seemed unafraid of the colossal creature sitting just outside its doorstep. Bear and mouse locked eyes in close proximity.
"Bang!"
A dull gunshot shattered the jungle's quiet and the harmony between the bear and mouse. Birds nesting in the trees took flight in alarm, while the field mouse at the burrow entrance quickly darted back underground, disappearing without a trace. The hefty grizzly bear twitched, grunted softly, and with a twist of its ample rear, fled into the depths of the forest.
"Bang! Bang!"
Again, there were two gunshots. On a riverbank no more than a hundred meters from the edge of the jungle, the last two bodies fell into the waist-high grass below the embankment with a dull thud, accompanied by a spray of blood.
Below the embankment, the nameless wild grass was lush and green, dotted with wildflowers in shades of purple and white. One or two butterflies fluttered gracefully between the green and the purple and white. In the same lush wild grass, three bodies in tattered clothes lay there. One of the bodies lay face-up, with matted hair clumped together with fresh blood. The forehead, covered in mud, had been shattered by the impact of a bullet, and the skull was lifted from the eye socket. Red and white brain matter oozed from the cracks in the bone, flowing over the deceased's cheek and dripping onto the trembling grass leaves.
Above the embankment, Viktor, with a shriveled cigarette in his mouth, stuffed the palm-sized sergeant's logbook back into the breast pocket of his olive-green military uniform. He adjusted the blue-banded peaked cap on his head before turning and walking towards the nearby black horse, leaping onto its back.
"Comrade Viktor Viktorovich," a corporal in the same olive-green military uniform, with a rifle slung over his shoulder, rode up and asked loudly, "The remaining two guys have fled into Warren Forest. Shall we pursue them?"
Viktor shook the reins, guiding his warhorse in a half-circle, facing the dense jungle not far away. He lifted the binoculars hanging from his chest and gazed for a moment before saying, "They can't escape. Let's head back to camp now, or we'll miss lunchtime again."
"Yes, Comrade Viktor Viktorovich," the corporal replied, then blew the whistle in his hand.
Soon, the over twenty soldiers who had gathered on the embankment mounted their horses one by one. They whistled as they galloped swiftly westward along the embankment.
The so-called "Warren-Shepchenkovo" Forest derives its name from two parts: "Warren" refers to the Warren-Podil Highlands that stretch through southwestern Ukraine, while "Shepchenkovo" denotes the forested area between Kopychyntsi and Zhovkva along these highlands. Within this forested region lies a settlement area of a minority ethnic group known as Shepchenkovo.
Shepchenkovo is not just a small town; accurately speaking, it is a small but very unique town. The total population of the entire town is less than thirty thousand, including Russian, Ukrainian, Moldovan, Belarusian, and other ethnicities. It's a small town with a complex mix of residents, although not large in scale. What makes it special is that, apart from military and police personnel, the majority of residents are criminals. These individuals were exiled here from Ukraine, Belarus, and southern Russia, engaging in various forms of labor as part of their rehabilitation to atone for their crimes.
Viktor led over twenty cavalrymen westward along the embankment of the river, and in less than an hour, they came upon vast expanses of wheat fields. The crisscrossing paths and the endless green shoots, as they came into view, gave a sense of tranquility and peace. This was the Red Flag Second Collective Farm of Shepchenkovo. Beyond this farm, not far ahead, lay Shepchenkovo itself.
Passing through the collective farm, a crude asphalt road appeared ahead. The road was narrow, accommodating only one truck at a time. On either side of the road stood large wooden billboard frames.
On the left billboard, there was an elderly woman with wrinkled face, dressed in traditional Ukrainian attire. Her expression was serious as she held up a notice, which bore a message written for her son. The gist of it demanded loyalty to the motherland and the Soviet Union, urging resistance against separatists and Polish spies.
On the right billboard, there was a silhouette of a worker holding a hammer. The giant hammer was poised to strike a clown-like figure. In the background of the billboard were the words in Russian: "Crush all traitors!"
It was approaching noon. Besides Viktor's group, there was also a marching army of over forty infantry soldiers. They wore olive-green military uniforms and bore the insignia of the 14th Infantry Division of the Tarnopol Border Guard.
Shepchenkovo belonged to the Tarnopol region, situated near the border with Western Ukraine under Polish control. Poland was a longstanding adversary of the Soviet Union, leading foreign intervention forces during the civil war. They not only controlled large territories in Western Belarus and Western Ukraine but also deployed numerous spies and guerrilla forces to incite rebellion and separatist movements in Ukraine.
To combat the active insurgent groups and anti-government guerrillas in the region, the People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs stationed three full infantry divisions and a division of internal security forces. Viktor belonged to this internal security force.
Of course, such a large force could not be stationed solely in small places like Shepchenkovo. In reality, the actual garrison in Shepchenkovo consisted of only one cavalry company. Viktor, as a senior sergeant, was the leader of the 3rd Cavalry Platoon in this company.
Shepchenkovo was built on a gently sloping hilltop. To the west of the small town, beneath the slopes, flowed the winding Dniester River. In such a place nestled among hills and forests, one might expect unique scenery, but the reality was disappointing. The town, almost entirely constructed from makeshift wooden shacks, lacked any aesthetic appeal. For most of its inhabitants, who were mostly prisoners, it was nothing short of a hellish existence.
Riding on his sturdy black warhorse, Viktor lazily entered the unplanned and chaotic town. The air was thick with the stench of urine mingled with the pungent odor of tanned leather, filling his nostrils almost instantly and causing a nauseating sensation.
People hiding in dilapidated wooden huts watched as the cavalry unit strode past the sewage-laden streets, their eyes filled with fear, apprehension, or numb resignation. To the majority in the town, these men in high boots, blue trousers, and olive-green uniforms were like the judges of hell who could condemn them at any moment. In the eyes of these "judges," they were not just prisoners but also class enemies.
Viktor was immune to the various stares. For him, instilling fear in these people was part of his job. If one day they stopped fearing him, he would become just another one of them—a cruel reality of Shepchenkovo.
In truth, the management in Shepchenkovo was not overly strict. The prisoners placed here enjoyed freedoms similar to those of most people. They could freely move around the town and even outside it, chatting and playing. However, every two days, they had to report to the Civilian Police Headquarters in the town center to prove they had not escaped. Those who failed to report on time would face the mounted police from the Civilian Police Headquarters or the internal security forces, who would shoot them on sight.
Additionally, eighty percent of their earnings from collective farming had to be handed over, with the remainder used for their sustenance. They could also exchange tanned leather for some food, medicine, or other essentials, although everything available for trade was often expensive. Therefore, in this town of thirty thousand people, food, necessities, and medicines were scarce, making it the harshest aspect of life in the small town.
The cavalry troop traversed much of the town, eventually halting on a dirt-covered open space on the south side. This was the location of the Civilian Police Headquarters, a two-story building constructed from red bricks and stones, serving as the headquarters of the Shepchenkovo Civilian Police.
Clustered nearby were rows of wooden houses, the barracks of the internal security forces cavalry company.
Viktor dismounted on the grassy verge of the open field. A girl with long braids and wearing a traditional Belarusian long skirt immediately approached. Her once-colorful skirt was now a dirty grayish-brown, her hands holding the mud-stained hem as she reached out to take the reins from Viktor's hands, timidly asking, "Sir, can I have the afternoon off to visit home?"
Viktor glanced at the girl but didn't immediately respond. He assessed his warhorse, running his hand along its muscular neck, before finally saying, "After lunch. Be back before sunset."