"Private!" the instructor snapped, his voice cutting through the smoke. "I must remind you we repelled the enemy at this range just now!"
"That was only a probing attack, Comrade Artur," the major interrupted, stepping forward. "The Germans are short on troops. Don't overstate their threat."
The instructor fell silent, unwilling to contradict the major in front of the men.
The major's gaze shifted to Dmitri. "What's your name, Private?"
"Dimitri, Comrade Major," Dmitri answered quickly.
"So, Dimitri" the major said, fixing him with a steady look. "At what distance do you think we should engage the enemy?"
"Five hundred meters, Comrade Major." Dmitri replied without hesitation. "That's the effective maximum range of their 50mm mortars. At that distance, their mortars and submachine guns can't suppress us effectively."
The major considered this briefly, then nodded. "You're right, Dimitri. I will take your suggestion into account." He clapped Dmitri on the shoulder and walked away.
The instructor glared at him, as if searching for a reason to punish him further but eventually, he let it go.
The bearded soldier beside Dmitri let out a low whistle. "Do you know how lucky you are?"
"Lucky? What do you mean?" Dmitri asked, still catching his breath.
"You'll be delivering ammunition," the man said grimly. "The Germans will target anyone carrying supplies immediately."
Dmitri's stomach sank. He understood, there were far deadlier spots than the trenches he'd been in.
After a moment, he leaned toward the bearded man. "Who's that major?" he whispered.
The man squatted in the mud, rolling tobacco in old newspaper. "Comrade Major Gavrilov," he said casually. "Commander of the 44th Regiment. He's the one organizing the troops to hold this line."
Dmitri's mind went blank. Gavrilov… the Brest Fortress? He had read about this in modern accounts and forum a legendary figure. When the Soviets were crushed in the early days of the war, Gavrilov had led the remaining defenders to hold the Brest Fortress for an entire month.
"Is this… the Brest Fortress?" Dmitri asked, incredulous.
The bearded man looked at him with mild amusement. "Comrade Dimitri, you'll need to keep up if you want to survive here."
Dmitri quickly pieced it together. The man before him was Okunev, a fellow soldier who had trained with him before the war. His memory had been hazy, but now it returned.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out his Soviet soldier's card a small kraft-paper booklet with a red star printed on the cover. Soldiers were issued these after completing basic training and had to carry them at all times.
He opened it.
Designation: 1st Infantry Battalion, 131st Regiment
Rank: Private
…
The photo section was blank. He would later learn that it was common during the chaos of wartime; many soldiers never had the chance to have their pictures taken. Identification was crude, leaving openings for enemy spies.
As Dmitri stared at the card, a sharp whistle shrieked above.
"Aircraft! Air raid!" someone shouted.
The ear-piercing air defense sirens went off, and before Dmitri could react, the Luftwaffe's Ju 87 "Stuka" dive bombers descended, their shrill sirens signaling imminent destruction.
Explosions rocked the trenches, and artillery fire joined the assault. Shockwaves and heat rolled over Dmitri's position, rattling the mud and sandbags.
Fortunately, the trench was not the main target. The previous German attack had been reconnaissance by fire, focusing on a four-story building behind the line. The Soviets had fortified it with sandbags, heavy machine guns, and barricaded windows turning it into a mini-bunker.
The Germans dropped bombs and incendiary devices on the building, many of which failed to detonate. Dmitri soon realized these weren't traditional explosives they were oil drums, filled with gasoline. The Luftwaffe lacked specialized incendiary bombs, so they improvised, igniting fuel with bullets or explosives to set the building ablaze.
Flames erupted, engulfing the structure in seconds. Thick smoke curled into the sky as soldiers trapped inside screamed, some jumping from windows into the fire below, only to land in an even more horrific inferno. Flames licked at their bodies, consuming uniforms, flesh, and the wooden floors.
A Stuka swooped in again, its dive precise. A bomb smashed through the building's second floor and struck the ground beneath. Shards of concrete and splinters erupted in all directions, and the wooden structure groaned, swayed, and collapsed into a pile of burning rubble.
"Prepare for combat!" shouted a sergeant, rallying the men.
Only then did Dmitri realize: this was what soldiers called "firepower preparation" softening the enemy with bombs and artillery before sending in infantry.
He gripped his rifle tighter, heart pounding, knowing that when the next wave came, he would have to survive or die in this hellscape.