When Dmitri entered the command post, the medical orderly was tending to Major Gavrilov's wound. A bright red bloodstain soaked through the white bandage across the major's forehead, stark against the clean fabric.
"Major!" Dmitri straightened and saluted.
Major Gavrilov squinted and nodded. "Good work, Dmitri! That's your name, right? I remember correctly?"
"Yes, Major! You remember correctly."
"We captured a few prisoners," Major Gavrilov continued. "The intelligence they provided aligns with what you reported. The main German force has bypassed Brest Fortress and is advancing toward the Soviet lines. They took Brest in under an hour and are moving to Slutsk."
Dmitri remained silent. Slutsk had likely already fallen—he knew the historical pace of the German armored advance: 349 kilometers to Minsk in just four days. The speed and efficiency of the Wehrmacht were terrifying, even by their own standards.
He wisely kept this observation to himself.
"Dmitri, I owe you an apology. We misjudged you." Major Gavrilov said earnestly.
"It's alright, Major. Mistakes happen sir." Dmitri replied evenly.
A touch of duplicity lingered in his tone. He had been almost executed as a traitor, and he knew that if it weren't for Major Gavrilov's intervention, it would have been over.
"No, it's not trivial!" Major Gavrilov said, adjusting the bandage on his head. "We almost shot a hero as a traitor. That's unfair, not just to you, but to the army—and to the Soviet Union itself. We must be more careful in the future. Do you agree?"
"Yes, Major. I fully agree."
Dmitri's eyes flicked toward the instructor sitting nearby. Major Gavrilov's words were carefully measured, directed at the instructor, though Dmitri could see right through it.
However, the instructor remained unmoved, lounging in his chair, newspaper in hand, legs crossed, while a row of Soviet soldiers knelt at attention, heads lowered. Among them was Boris.
"Given your performance today, Dmitri." Major Gavrilov continued, "I've decided to promote you to squad leader of squad 1. What do you think?"
Dmitri hesitated. A rookie just thrust into the chaos of the battlefield, suddenly appointed squad leader? It seemed surreal.
Yet in context, it made sense. The garrison at Brest Fortress consisted largely of unseasoned soldiers, and after heavy losses, the army had few competent leaders left. A proven fighter like Dmitri could fill the void.
After a moment's reflection, Dmitri answered, "No objections, Comrade Major. I will obey your orders unconditionally."
He knew he wasn't really being asked—soldiers did not have the luxury of independent thought, as the instructor had said.
"Very well." Major Gavrilov nodded. "Get acquainted with your subordinates, and lead them with the same courage you showed today."
At that moment, the instructor spoke up, voice cold and deliberate. "I have a different opinion."
"What?" Major Gavrilov frowned, irritated.
"It's simple." The instructor folded his newspaper, eyes fixed on Boris kneeling before him. "One squad cannot have two squad leaders simultaneously."
Dmitri's stomach sank—Boris was his current squad leader.
"He's dismissed." Major Gavrilov said without hesitation. "I assume you agree he's no longer fit to lead, Comrade Artur?"
"Of course." The instructor adjusted his uniform and belt. "However, there must be a ceremony to mark the transition. This will set a precedent for subordinates and maintain discipline. Agreed?"
Dmitri understood immediately.
This was not merely a formality—it was a test. He was expected to execute Boris.
Two guards dragged Boris to an open space beside headquarters. Weak from exhaustion, he barely stumbled along. Kneeling on the ground, he trembled as Dmitri raised his rifle.
"Raise your rifle, Dmitri!" the instructor commanded.
Dmitri's palms were slick with sweat. He had killed before, but never a comrade-in-arms, never at point-blank range. Boris was only two meters away.
"Don't… don't do this, Dmitri!" Boris pleaded, voice cracking. "I… I have a wife and two children waiting for me…"
"He is a traitor, Dmitri!" the instructor said, puffing on his cigarette. "A coward like him must be removed, like gangrene from the body, without mercy! Prove with action that you are worthy of command! Show your courage—shoot!"
Dmitri gritted his teeth. He could not close his eyes and pull the trigger. This was not a battlefield kill—it was murder, cold and calculated.
"Shoot!" the instructor snapped.
After a moment, Dmitri slowly lowered the rifle. "No, Comrade Instructor. I cannot do this. You may punish me, or appoint another, but my rifle is for the enemy alone."
The instructor stared at him, expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. "Congratulations, Comrade Dmitri. I believe you."
Dmitri realized the test: a true traitor or spy would have fired without hesitation.
He turned to leave—then a gunshot cracked behind him.
Bang!!
Dmitri spun reflexively. Boris collapsed to the ground like a wooden stake, blood spurting from a hole in the back of his head, lifeless.