When Dmitri returned to the trench, he was still lost in thought from the earlier mental struggle. He crouched silently, absent-mindedly holding his rifle, his mind a whirlpool of conflicting emotions.
"Hey, Dmitri... Dmitri?"
"Oh!" Dmitri snapped back to reality at Okunev's voice.
"Tell me!" Okunev asked impatiently, eager to know what had happened. "What's the news?"
"Oh, yes!" Dmitri replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I've been made the squad leader!"
"Squad leader? You, the squad leader?" Okunev's eyes widened in disbelief. The nearby Soviet soldiers paused their activities and turned to look at Dmitri in unison.
"Yes!" Dmitri nodded, more calmly than he felt.
"That's great!" Okunev immediately jumped to his feet and saluted with mock seriousness. "Comrade Squad Leader, at your service!"
He then waved to the others. "Hey, did you all hear that? Dmitri's our squad leader now!"
The soldiers exchanged uncertain looks. Some wore expressions of reluctance, others seemed to be sizing up Dmitri. It wasn't just his rapid rise that caused discomfort—it was the reputation he'd built since his first battle.
One soldier, in particular, stood apart. He had thick glasses, sunken cheeks, and a sharp, eagle-like nose. He looked like someone who shouldn't be on the front lines, yet his uniform carried the unmistakable red star on the left breast, denoting his veteran status—he had earned his stripes in battle.
"Sorry, we haven't received the order yet." The veteran, Matvey, replied coldly, not even looking at Dmitri.
"Matvey!" Okunev snapped, clearly irritated. "What's with the attitude? You really want the Major to come over here and make the announcement himself?"
"I'll say it again, Okunev!" Matvey repeated, still not facing them. "We haven't received the order yet."
As Matvey casually wiped down his rifle, Dmitri noted how effortlessly he assembled it, without even needing to look at it.
Just then, an officer in heavy boots approached, his voice loud and commanding: "Squad 1 listen up, Comrade Dmitri will be your squad leader from now on!"
He turned to Dmitri, shaking his head with a smirk. "I'll be keeping an eye on you, Dmitri. You'd better make sure your men blow up some tanks, or they'll send you straight to Siberia!"
"Yes, sir!" Dmitri replied crisply.
The officer gave a half-chuckle and walked off. Dmitri soon learned that this officer was Pukarev, his immediate superior and the second platoon leader. He had a tendency to mix humor with his orders, a kind of dark joke to ease the tensions of the battlefield.
One by one, the soldiers came up to salute Dmitri, their movements reluctant and stiff.
"Comrade Matvey!" Dmitri called to the veteran as he was about to leave.
"What is it, Comrade Squad Leader?" Dmitri answered with a trace of disdain in his voice, eyes narrowing with thinly veiled sarcasm.
"Your Red Star Medal!" Dmitri gestured to the medal on Matvey's chest, trying to appear casual, though his voice carried an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. "Can you tell me its story?"
Dmitri knew that building rapport with the veterans in his squad was key to gaining their respect. They carried experience and a kind of gravitas that didn't depend on rank. They were respected, not because of their titles, but because they had survived the horrors of battle, and earned their place in the unit.
Matvey seemed momentarily caught off guard. He hesitated before answering. "Well, it's nothing, Comrade Squad Leader." He shifted uncomfortably. "It was during the Winter War. I spotted an enemy night attack while on guard and saved our unit from heavy casualties."
Dmitri, seizing the moment, feigned excitement. "Wow, you fought in the Winter War!" He signaled to the nearby soldiers to form a circle. "I think we should hear about Comrade Matvey's experience! This kind of story might save our lives on the battlefield one day!"
The soldiers, eager for any distraction from the tense atmosphere, agreed quickly, forming a small crowd around Matvey.
Matvey sat down slowly, scratching his head as he began to speak. "We thought it would be quick. The Finns would surrender in a few days... But they didn't. They didn't fight us head-on. Instead, they'd attack in small, sudden bursts. Every time we dropped our guard, they would strike, and we'd pay the price."
"Sounds a bit like the Germans, doesn't it?" Dmitri asked, trying to guide the conversation.
"Of course!" Matvey replied with a slight sneer. "The Germans are far more dangerous. They know how to fight."
The tone in the trench shifted slightly, as soldiers began to digest what Matvey had said. The tension in the air was palpable—the reality of the situation settling in. The Germans were a formidable enemy, much more so than the Finns had been.
Matvey fell silent, and the soldiers understood his unspoken message. If the Finns had caused such destruction, what would the Germans do to them?
"Don't worry!" Okunev said, trying to lift spirits. "Tomorrow, our troops will counterattack and rescue us! Isn't that right, Dmitri?"
"Oh, yes... yes," Dmitri replied, his voice faltering. "Tomorrow... until tomorrow."
Dmitri wasn't sure if any reinforcements were coming. The truth was that the fortress was surrounded, and the Germans were already closing in on Slutsk and Minsk. But he knew he couldn't tell them that. If the soldiers knew the dire truth, many of them would lose all hope and morale would collapse.
Dmitri believed that for now, lying was the right choice. The soldiers were mostly recruits, with little experience and even less psychological endurance. Telling them the truth would be the beginning of a mass panic.
However, Dmitri knew this couldn't go on forever. They couldn't keep pretending that help would arrive. Eventually, they would have to face the truth—unless they broke out of the siege soon, they would be trapped.
Matvey, perhaps reading something in Dmitri's expression, said nothing but nodded in understanding.
The evening crept on, the battlefield falling eerily quiet. The Germans seemed to have paused their assault for the night, perhaps to regroup or replenish.
But Dmitri knew this wasn't the end. The Germans weren't about to let the fortress fall so easily. The battle for Brest was far from over.
The question wasn't whether the fortress would hold. The question was, how long could they hold out?
And what would Major Gavrilov's belief about the fortress mean when it collided with the cold, hard reality of the instructor's orders?