"Would you like a sip?" Okunev whispered, sliding a small bottle of vodka across the trench. He had grabbed it from the officers' mess before the bombardment began.
"No." Dmitri shook his head. He needed a clear mind.
"Don't listen to what others say," Okunev muttered, shaking his head. "Some people drink to show courage. True bravery doesn't need vodka."
"I know," Dmitri replied, glancing at Okunev. For a moment, he almost didn't recognize the young man for his calm words.
Okunev grinned. "I just sound good when I say it. Think of it as… lines from a stage play called Liberation."
Dmitri couldn't help but have a faint smile. The nickname "Actor" suited him perfectly.
On the German side, patience had run out.
"This is your last chance!" a voice blared from the loudspeakers. "Ten seconds to surrender, or we launch a final assault!"
Silence. Then the countdown began: "Ten… nine… eight…"
At "one," the air was torn apart by the whistling of shells.
Dmitri instinctively curled over his lunchbox, but quickly realized that protecting food was absurd. Survival came first, he should have thrown the box aside and grabbed his rifle.
"Boom!" The explosions threw dirt and debris into the air, mixing with the smoke of German bombers overhead.
The Luftwaffe's Ju-87 "Stuka" dive bombers emitted their infamous screech as they dived the Jericho Horn, designed to terrify troops below. Even though the siren reduced the aircraft's maneuverability, the psychological effect was devastating.
Whistling bombs fell around the fortress. Each impact made the ground tremble, the air vibrate, and the soldiers flinch. Many ran blindly from cover, trying to escape imagined impacts. Dmitri forced himself to stay low.
He knew the true danger wasn't a direct hit, but shrapnel and the blast waves from nearby shells. In the chaos, a soldier's mistake could cost his life in an instant.
Dirt-covered, Dmitri lifted his lunchbox. The mashed potatoes were now mixed with soil, and the beans were gone. He froze at the sight of a gasoline barrel less than a meter away, likely dropped from a German bomber. If it ignited, the trench would be an inferno.
Okunev crawled up beside him, and together they moved along the trench, keeping low, rifles ready. They ran tens of meters, then another ten, careful to avoid the scattered explosives across the battlefield.
---
"The enemy is coming!" someone shouted.
The sound of engines grew louder, rolling over the smoke and chaos.
"Tanks! German tanks!" another voice yelled.
Dmitri looked up. Through the haze, three Panzer III tanks rumbled forward. Each vehicle had six road wheels on each side, painted in the standard dark gray with early-campaign camouflage.
Dmitri realized why the Germans hadn't fully committed their armor against Brest. Guderian's main Panzergruppe had bypassed the fortress, aiming for Minsk and deeper objectives. It was a stroke of luck. If the fortress had been the primary target, he might already be dead.
Now, however, the fortress's defenders were dangerously under-equipped. Artillery had been destroyed or incapacitated in the early bombardments. Anti-tank guns were scarce, and the soldiers lacked anti-tank grenades. Their rifles and light machine guns could slow infantry, but against the 37mm armor of the Panzer III, they were nearly useless.
The Soviet trenches fell silent, the men frozen in fear.
Major Gavrilov crawled into position with binoculars, scanning the approaching tanks. His voice cut through the dust and smoke:
"Quick Form a blasting team!"
The soldiers got to work immediately, explosives would have to be placed manually to damage the tank close-range, a suicide missions in effect. Against experienced German infantry and coordinated armor, the risk was almost certain death.
Dmitri's stomach tightened. The reality was clear: the Germans were mounting a huge offense and Brest Fortress would not fall quietly.
The battle had Kickstart once again.