A gunshot cracked through the air, and a German soldier collapsed, an arrow of lead piercing his chest.
Dmitri froze. He hadn't expected to hit anyone. His intention had only been to spur the Soviet soldiers into action.
And yet… as he saw the dying man's resentful eyes staring at him, a chill ran down his spine.
He won't survive… I killed someone…
The thought was absurd killing was part of the battlefield but Dmitri couldn't stop the pangs of regret gnawing at him.
Still, his plan had worked.
The volley of gunfire erupted. Rifle reports rang out like drumbeats across the trench line. Machine guns joined in, spitting a torrent of bullets like a torrential downpour. German soldiers leapt forward and a dozen of them fell, blood pooling around their limbs.
The battle intensified. As Dmitri had anticipated, the Germans' 50mm mortars began to answer, shells screaming overhead and detonating near Soviet positions, knocking out machine-gun nests and scattering troops.
"Who fired that shot?!" the Soviet officer bellowed, voice cutting through the chaos.
Dmitri didn't have time to worry. He loaded, aimed, and fired again.
Another German soldier fell but this time, the bullet struck his leg. A chunk of mud had shifted on the rifle barrel at the moment of firing, deflecting the shot. The soldier screamed like a wounded beast before others finished him off.
A few seconds later, Dmitri fired again. A German soldier had rushed to within fifty meters, clutching a grenade and preparing to lob it into the trench. Half a second later, the smoke grenade would have detonated beside him.
Dmitri squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, the soldier fell, and the grenade clattered harmlessly to the ground.
There was no time to think. The battlefield was a place where hesitation meant death.
He pulled the trigger again and nothing.
Reloading frantically, he realized his rifle was empty. His hands shook violently; cartridges spilled onto the mud.
Fortunately, the German assault had paused. The enemy's first wave had been a probing attack, gauging Soviet positions before planning a heavier strike.
The gunfire faded. Dmitri slumped against the trench wall, exhausted, chest heaving.
Cheering erupted from the surviving Red Army soldiers they had held the line.
Then the instructor's voice cut through the celebration like a whip:
"Who fired the first shot? Who dared to open fire without order?"
No one answered, eyes turning toward Dmitri. He raised his head.
"It was me, Comrade Instructor!" he admitted.
"Dammit!" the instructor snapped, grabbing him by the collar. "It's you again, Dimitri! You coward!"
Dmitri that was the name they called him.
"Do you know what you've done?" the instructor hissed. "If it weren't for you, we could have annihilated more of them… maybe all of them!"
"No, Comrade Instructor," Dmitri said quickly. "I don't think that's true."
"Silence!" the instructor roared. "Who allowed you to have your own ideas?"
The Soviet Army of this era did not permit individual initiative. Soldiers were expected to follow orders without question. Dmitri didn't yet understand this, but he was learning fast.
"Take him! Assign him to carry ammunition!" the instructor barked. "I don't want to see him causing trouble again!"
"Wait, Artur!" a new voice called. A major ran along the trench, tall and lean, scarred across the forehead an officer hardened by combat. His arrival brought Dmitri a measure of relief; someone with battlefield experience could understand his reasoning.
The major crouched beside him. "You said it wasn't like that. Explain yourself."
"Comrade Major," the instructor started, "he was hiding in the trench, leaving his rifle aside. Pure cowardice!"
The major ignored him and turned to Dmitri, signaling him to speak.
"Comrade Major," Dmitri began, "it's simple. I don't think we should engage the Germans at such close range in these conditions."
Soldiers nearby stifled laughs. The instructor's pride and disdain were visible. The bearded man who had saved Dmitri earlier shook his head with a wry grimace.
At this time, the Red Army emphasized courage and spirit. Officers often pushed for frontal assaults and close combat. The Germans had been drawn closer deliberately but Dmitri believed this was a mistake.
The major's gaze was serious. "Why? Do you think our marksmanship surpasses the enemy's? Do you think we hold a firepower advantage?"
"No, Comrade Major," Dmitri replied. "Our aim is less accurate than theirs, and our firepower is inferior."
"And you think we shouldn't fight in melee?"
"Yes," Dmitri said firmly. "The Germans have mortars, MP38 and MP40 submachine guns. We have a few PPDs at best. Within 300 meters, they hold absolute superiority."
The instructor scoffed. "And you forget we have mortars too!"
He raised a small 37mm light mortar. It was portable, weighed only about three kilograms, and could even double as a shovel. Standard Soviet issue.
"I know, Comrade Instructor," Dmitri replied calmly. "But its maximum range is 250 meters. The Germans know this. That's why they willingly engage us at 200–300 meters, where we are at a severe disadvantage."
The major nodded slowly, weighing Dmitri's words. Experience, strategy, and survival on this battlefield, common sense often clashed with doctrine.