Dmitri had certainly considered all of this.
Otherwise, he would never have proposed the swamp.
Ironically, the marshes became a path to survival precisely because they were not a path to survival.
Large formations of Soviet troops were already retreating north and south of the Pripyat region. Those movements drew the bulk of German reconnaissance aircraft, armored spearheads, and supply columns. Compared to collapsing fronts and encircled armies, a few hundred men vanishing into swamp water were insignificant.
Aircraft would not waste fuel and ammunition bombing reeds and fog.
But that was only part of it.
While the officers had been arguing about breaking out north into the forest, Dmitri realized something far more dangerous:
The northern plan had been flawed from the beginning.
Not tactically.
Strategically.
The fortress lay directly in the path of German Army Group Center—the main German thrust of the invasion. After June 22, its armored spearheads were advancing dozens of kilometers per day. Within three months, they would stand before Moscow.
No infantry column moving through forest on foot could outrun that.
Even if they escaped the immediate encirclement, they would only walk into a larger one.
Their choices would be simple:
Die in the forest.
Or wage guerrilla war for years, waiting for an uncertain counteroffensive.
The swamp was different.
The Pripyat Marshes divided the battlefield like a natural wall. North of it, the German center drove toward Moscow. South of it operated German Army Group South—strong, but not the Schwerpunkt.
Opposing them were some of the Red Army's heaviest formations: the Kiev Special Military District—soon reorganized into the Southwestern Front—and the Odessa Military District, later the Southern Front.
German progress there was slower. At points along the Dnieper River, Soviet resistance even stalled them temporarily.
Once Dmitri understood that, the conclusion was obvious:
Only by crossing the swamp could they escape the gravitational pull of Army Group Center.
Only there did the encirclement thin.
Major Gavrilov agreed.
But this time, there would be no second leak.
They would lie.
Major Gavrilov strode to the forward trench line.
"Comrades!" he shouted. "Yes, the Germans may have learned of our plan. Yes, there may be traitors. But after deliberation, headquarters has determined there is no alternative. We attack north at seven o'clock—according to the original plan!"
An uproar followed.
"That's suicide!"
"They'll have machine guns waiting!"
"Why not change direction?"
Major Gavrilov raised his voice.
"Change to where? East? West? South? Tell me!"
The men quieted.
On the surface, every other direction looked worse.
"Only the forest protects us," Major Gavrilov continued. "Tanks cannot move between trees. Aircraft cannot see under branches. And the forest is north. Unless you can move the forest somewhere else, that is our path."
"Is there no other way?" someone called.
"Comrade Vasikt," Major Gavrilov replied sharply, "if you have a better solution, headquarters welcomes it. Now."
Silence.
No one spoke.
Several soldiers drifted toward Dmitri.
"Is that really it?"
"What did you hear?"
Dmitri shrugged.
"Officers are human too," he said calmly. "They want to live as much as we do. Do you think they would choose death?"
It was an irrefutable argument.
"So we're finished?" someone whispered.
"Not necessarily," Dmitri answered. "Two hours is not much time. The Germans may not fully prepare. They may not even finish digging in. We still have a chance."
That explanation comforted many.
The Red Army had not yet learned the terrifying efficiency of German field engineering.
"That's right," someone said. "They can't fortify everything in two hours!"
Okunev exhaled slowly.
"So it'll be a hard fight."
"Yes," Dmitri nodded. "Very hard."
Without a word, Okunev emptied his precious tobacco into a thick roll of newspaper and twisted it shut like a cigar.
He was a heavy smoker, but tobacco was scarce. He normally rolled thin, careful cigarettes.
This was extravagance.
Later, much later when he learned the truth, he would shout.
"Dmitri, you bastard! You could've at least stopped me before I wasted it!"
---
The lie had another purpose.
If there were informants—and there always were—word would reach the Germans.
Let them strengthen the northern perimeter.
Let them prepare their machine guns.
Let them wait.
Time passed.
An hour remained.
Dmitri finally had a moment to inspect his equipment.
Standard-issue M1936 pack.
Mess tin, Soap case, Tooth powder, Comb, Razor.
He stared at it all in disbelief.
The former Dmitri—whoever he had been—seemed like a different species of Soviet man. No tobacco pouch. No flask. Not even the faint smell of alcohol.
Only toiletries.
"Can I ask you something?" Dmitri said, holding up the razor. "How did I get this?"
Okunev blinked. "You don't remember? You traded your Makhorka tobacco and matches to Tiktov for it."
"Why would I do that…" Dmitri muttered.
Okunev gave him a sympathetic look.
"There's more."
Dmitri froze.
He opened the side pocket.
A small mirror.
Of course.
If you have a razor, you need a mirror.
He didn't want to imagine what that had cost.
From several dozen meters away came shouting.
"Hey! Get back here, you cowards!"
Gunshots cracked.
No one needed to look.
Another men running toward the German lines.
Another defection.
The northern assault had not yet begun and already, the lies were doing their work.