The group of women was led by a young female NCO named Agata. Dmitri recognized her rank immediately — Sergeant Major. In many armies, a non-commissioned officer would never command large groups of troops, but the Red Army was different now. Too many officers had died during the purges and the first brutal days of the war. Positions that once belonged to captains and colonels were now held by whoever was still alive.
That was why Major Gavrilov, only a major, commanded what remained of an entire regiment.
Near the corner of the basement, Agata stood speaking quietly with Platoon Leader Pukarev. Their voices were low, tense, almost nervous. Then Pukarev suddenly turned and called out:
"Dmitri!"
Dmitri quickly stood up. "Yes, Comrade Platoon Leader!"
Pukarev pointed toward the women.
"You're responsible for them now."
Dmitri blinked in confusion. "Responsible… how?"
The women were armed. Some carried rifles slung over their shoulders, others had pistols tucked into their belts. They did not look helpless.
Pukarev avoided Dmitri's eyes for a second before answering.
"Just do your duty."
"Yes, Comrade Platoon Leader."
The answer felt strange. Too short. Too heavy.
Agata walked toward Dmitri with calm confidence and extended a hand.
"Sergeant Major Agata."
Dmitri shook it awkwardly. "Private Dmitri."
Agata laughed softly.
"You can stop worrying about ranks now. None of that matters anymore."
Her tone was light, but something behind her eyes made Dmitri uncomfortable.
She looked young, maybe twenty or twenty-one. Her brown hair was cut short like many Soviet women serving at the front. Unlike most civilians hiding in the fortress, she still looked somewhat orderly. Her uniform was dusty and wrinkled, but intact. Compared to the women wrapped in torn blankets and bed sheets, she almost looked untouched by the war.
Almost.
Dmitri noticed the exhaustion beneath her eyes.
"You look confused," Agata said as she leaned her rifle against the wall and sat down on an ammunition crate.
"I just don't understand why I was assigned here."
Agata gave him a long look before speaking.
"Because your platoon leader doesn't want to do it himself."
"Do what?"
Agata stared at him for a few seconds. Then she quietly asked:
"Do you have a cigarette?"
Dmitri instinctively looked toward Okunev.
Okunev spread his hands helplessly.
"Gone. Smoked the last of it during the bombardment."
Agata sighed dramatically.
"What a terrible final night."
The word final made Dmitri uneasy.
Then Agata spoke again, this time more seriously.
"Your mission isn't really to protect us."
Dmitri frowned.
"It's for the last moment."
Dmitri felt cold.
For a second, the sounds around him disappeared — the distant artillery, the coughing wounded, the rumble above the basement ceiling. Everything faded.
Only her words remained.
The last moment.
He understood immediately.
If the Germans broke through… if capture became inevitable… Dmitri was expected to shoot them before the Germans reached them.
The realization hit him harder than artillery.
"No…" Dmitri muttered.
Agata watched him carefully.
"You understand now."
Dmitri looked at the women nearby. Some sat silently against the wall. One cleaned her pistol with trembling fingers. Another held a child-sized scarf tightly in her lap. A blonde nurse stared blankly at the floor like her soul had already left her body.
He was supposed to kill them?
Agata leaned closer and lowered her voice.
"You must do it if the time comes."
Dmitri couldn't answer.
He imagined raising his rifle.
Imagined pulling the trigger.
Imagined their faces.
His stomach twisted violently.
Agata seemed to read every thought on his face.
"Listen to me," she said firmly. "If the Germans take this fortress, our fate won't be quick. You know that."
Dmitri did know.
Rumors about the Germans had already spread through the garrison. Political officers were shot immediately. Female soldiers were treated even worse.
Still… he could not imagine doing it himself.
He glanced toward Pukarev again, but the platoon leader deliberately looked away, pretending to study the map hanging near the wall.
Coward, Dmitri thought bitterly.
The basement suddenly shook.
BOOOOM!
Dust rained from the ceiling as another German shell exploded somewhere outside.
Children screamed.
Someone shouted for a medic.
The lights flickered violently before stabilizing again.
The air smelled of smoke, blood, sweat, and damp concrete.
Food had become another serious problem.
Kobrin Fortress once had enough supplies because Dmitri had accidentally discovered hidden stockpiles earlier in the siege. But after joining the defenders in Central Fortress, most of that food had already been shared with starving civilians and wounded soldiers.
Now there was almost nothing left.
Major Gavrilov rubbed his tired face and muttered:
"There must be something left somewhere."
Commissar Fomin shook his head.
"We've searched nearly every storage room."
"Then search again," Gavrilov replied stubbornly.
Several soldiers began rummaging through side rooms and locked storage chambers. Among them was Fovalikov — nicknamed "Thief" by everyone in the regiment because of his suspiciously useful talents.
A few minutes later, metallic clanking echoed from a nearby storage room.
Then:
CLICK.
The door swung open.
WHOOSH!
A pile of strange rubber equipment tumbled onto the floor.
Fovalikov picked one up excitedly and pulled it over his head.
"Look!" he shouted dramatically through the mask. "The Germans can gas us now!"
A few exhausted soldiers laughed weakly.
"I'd rather it was bread," Matvey muttered.
"Don't complain, old man," Fovalikov replied, tossing him a gas mask.
Matvey failed to catch it. The mask rolled across the floor and stopped at Dmitri's boots.
Dmitri bent down and picked it up slowly.
It was a Soviet GP-style gas mask with a long hose attachment. Heavy rubber. Thick eye lenses. Filter canister attached at the end.
He stared at it silently.
World War I had taught armies to fear poison gas, so every major army entering World War II still carried gas masks as standard equipment. But actual chemical attacks were rare now.
Still…
Something about the mask caught Dmitri's attention.
"What?" Agata asked. "Never seen one before?"
"I have," Dmitri lied automatically.
In reality, he had only seen them in books.
Agata shrugged.
"Doesn't matter. The Germans don't need gas. They already have artillery."
"No…" Dmitri whispered.
An idea suddenly flashed through his mind.
A dangerous one.
His eyes widened slightly.
Agata noticed immediately.
"That look worries me."
Dmitri stood up slowly, still holding the gas mask.
"I may not have to complete your mission after all."
Agata frowned.
"What does that mean?"
But Dmitri had already turned away.
He moved quickly through the basement toward the command area where Major Gavrilov and several officers studied maps beneath a dim hanging lamp.
Even now, Gavrilov refused to give up.
That was the terrifying thing about him.
The fortress was collapsing. Men were starving. Water was nearly gone. German artillery pounded them nonstop. Yet the major still searched for solutions like a man refusing to accept reality itself.
Dmitri respected him deeply for that.
Historically, Brest Fortress would continue resisting long after most organized defenses had collapsed. Small groups of Soviet soldiers would fight from ruins, basements, and shattered walls for weeks.
Men like Gavrilov made that possible.
Most people would have broken already.
Dmitri almost had.
But Gavrilov kept moving, Kept thinking, Kept fighting.
"Comrade Major," Dmitri called out.
Gavrilov looked up immediately.
"What is it?"
Dmitri stepped forward and placed the gas mask on the table beside the map.
"I think this might help us survive."