"The enemy is advancing again!" Okunev shouted, his voice tense. "Pick up your rifle, Dmitri! The instructor's watching don't let him catch you slacking again!"
Dmitri glanced toward Comrade Instructor Artur. Sure enough, the man's glare was sharp, his eyes practically daring him to falter.
For a moment, Dmitri felt helpless. It seemed that, besides the Germans, the instructor wanted him dead more than anyone.
He gripped his rifle, raised his head cautiously, and peered through the haze of smoke and gunfire. Figures began to emerge first a few, then dozens, until the Germans formed a moving wave advancing across the open ground.
"Calm yourselves!" the instructor barked. "Wait for orders before shooting! Only cowards fire at shadows and let fear control their hands!"
The words were clearly aimed at Dmitri, but he ignored them. In this moment, the instructor's scolding was trivial. Survival, not petty authority, mattered. Any rational person here would unite against the enemy rather than target their own comrades.
Taking a deep breath, Dmitri steadied his racing heart and began analyzing the battlefield.
The ground ahead was an open field, perfect for defense. Gavrilov had clearly chosen this terrain deliberately. From this distance, it would be nearly impossible for the German army to break through the Soviet lines at least in theory.
"Only in theory," Dmitri reminded himself.
The disparity between the two armies was immense. Shuerka knew the history of this battle the Battle of Brest Fortress well. In modern records, when the German invasion began, their army was divided into three groups: North, Center, and South. The Central Army's objective was Moscow, and Brest Fortress lay directly in its path.
This meant the fortress was facing some of Germany's most elite troops.
Meanwhile, the Soviet garrison was made up of engineers, communication units, and administrative soldiers. During peacetime, the fortress regularly sent troops out for exercises, leaving only the headquarters and duty units behind.
To make matters worse, the Germans struck on a Sunday, when most officers were away on leave. Dozens of command personnel were miles away, visiting families in the city of Brest.
Dmitri swallowed. From a historical standpoint, the fortress was doomed, but he couldn't afford to dwell on that now.
"Fire!"
The sudden command startled Dmitri. The Germans were still nearly 600 meters away, beyond the distance he had suggested. But he realized the decision made sense: at 600 meters, the Soviet line had more time to respond, and Major Gavrilov had clearly trusted his judgment.
Dmitri fired, though he had no certainty where his bullets struck. Figures fell in the distance, but he couldn't tell if he had hit them himself. Smoke and gunpowder obscured the battlefield.
Another round flew. Same result. Visibility was poor.
But that didn't matter. At this point, the goal was not precision it was suppression. Firepower itself could shape the battlefield, slowing the Germans, breaking their formations, and forcing them into disadvantageous positions.
Dmitri emptied rounds into the advancing troops, sometimes firing without aiming. Around him, the Soviet line did the same. Tactical discipline and raw firepower worked together to devastating effect.
The Germans had not anticipated an attack at this range. Their formations became disorganized. And, as Dmitri had predicted, their 50mm mortars were useless at this distance.
During the earlier probing attack, the Germans had planned to use mortars to suppress Soviet positions, then close in with grenades and submachine guns. This time, the plan had failed spectacularly.
Soviet light and heavy machine guns raked the Germans, bullets tearing through advancing ranks. Shuerka noticed Major Gavrilov giving orders to target German mortar crews specifically. Any soldier attempting to set up a mortar was cut down by concentrated fire.
The Germans were pinned roughly 500 meters from the trench. Wave after wave of soldiers fell in pools of blood.
"Call in the Luftwaffe!" Captain Rolf shouted to his signalman. "Clear the smoke and destroy the enemy's firepower!"
"Kapitän," came the reply, "the smoke is too dense. The air units cannot locate the targets."
Rolf's face darkened. The improvised burning of buildings with gasoline barrels had blinded his pilots.
"Perhaps we can flank their left wing?" Lieutenant Jonas suggested.
Rolf shook his head. "No. Mines cover the left flank, and we cannot risk unknown defenses."
"What then?"
"Retreat." Rolf ordered, his voice firm. "We have time."
The German army fell back, at least temporarily. Dmitri knew why, Brest Fortress, once a border stronghold, had become isolated. The fortress garrison was a lone army, surrounded by enemies, unresupplied, and unknown to higher Soviet commands.
No reinforcements would arrive. No new supplies. No support.
The men in the fortress did not yet understand this grim truth.