On the other side of the fortress, the other two squads had returned to Platoon Leader Pukarev with water and reported their status.
The mission had gone relatively smoothly. Among both squads, only one soldier had died, and two were wounded.
"What's taking so long?" Pukarev muttered, pacing back and forth. After a pause, he finally snapped: "Abramvich!"
Abramvich, the monitor of the second squad, was tall and lanky, with long legs that made him fast on his feet—a natural messenger.
"Yes, Comrade Platoon Leader!" Abramvich responded and sprinted toward the dormitory, rifle slung on his back.
Moments later, he returned, panting and wide-eyed. "Comrade Platoon Leader… they're not there! The first squad… they're gone!"
"Then where could they be?" Pukarev demanded.
"I don't know!" Abramvich admitted.
A soldier tried to joke, "Maybe they got lost?"
The others laughed—but Pukarev knew better. Even if Dmitri didn't know the exact dormitory layout, his squad certainly did. It was impossible for them to desert; the Germans were everywhere, leaving no escape.
That left only one terrifying possibility: they had surrendered to the enemy.
"Damn it!" Pukarev cursed. "Grab your weapons! We'll go get them!"
Just as he turned to lead the search, a group emerged from the traffic trench—Dmitri and his squad.
Pukarev froze for a moment, then cursed under his breath. "Finally… I thought you'd been sent to Moscow to fetch water!"
"Sorry, Comrade Platoon Leader…" Shulka said sheepishly.
"Did you bring the water back?" Pukarev demanded.
"No, Comrade Platoon Leader…"
"So you spent all that time and didn't get a drop?" Pukarev's gaze fell on the iron bucket Dmitri carried. Even from a distance, its light sway in the wind revealed it was not filled with water.
"Then what did you do?" Pukarev demanded, kicking the bucket over and grabbing Dmitri by the collar. "Where have you been hiding?"
Before he could finish, a sudden silence fell over the area. Pukarev's smirk of anger froze into surprise.
"What's happening?" he asked, confused.
"Comrade Platoon Leader!" Abramvich exclaimed, picking up something from the ground, disbelief written across his face. "It's… bread! They brought bread!"
"Bread?"
"Bread!"
The word spread like wildfire. Soldiers from nearby squads crowded closer, eyes wide. If the second-row soldiers hadn't held their rifles ready, some would have rushed forward to grab it.
"What's going on?" Pukarev demanded, suspicious. "Where did you get the bread?"
"I was just about to report, Comrade Platoon Leader!" Dmitri replied. "We found a batch of supplies that escaped the German bombing—hidden in the air-raid shelter!"
"A batch of supplies?" Pukarev asked, incredulous. "How many?"
"Twenty or so vehicles."
A ripple of excitement spread through the surrounding soldiers.
They had eaten only two small portions of mashed potatoes since the previous night, and had been fighting all day. Hunger gnawed at everyone, and now—Dmitri had discovered supplies.
"Is it all bread?" Pukarev asked.
"No!" Dmitri replied. "There's water, vodka, weapons, and ammunition!"
Every announcement drew cheers. If Pukarev hadn't restrained them, the soldiers might have lifted Dmitri onto their shoulders and thrown him into the air.
"Quiet! Back to your posts!" an officer barked, forcing his way through the crowd. "If the Germans fire just a few shells, your cries will turn into screams!"
The officer's warning was well-placed. On the battlefield, noise could draw enemy attention, and a mass gathering was extremely dangerous.
"Comrade Company Commander!" Pukarev stepped forward, saluting sharply. "My subordinates found a batch of supplies!"
"A batch of supplies?" the officer repeated, incredulous.
"Yes!" Pukarev said, motioning toward Shulka.
Only then did Shulka realize the officer was Company Commander Davydov. He quickly stepped forward. "Yes, Comrade Company Commander! Over twenty vehicles—full of ammunition, food, water, and possibly medical supplies. We haven't checked everything carefully yet!"
"Where is it?" the company commander asked.
"Jurav air-raid shelter!" Dmitri replied. "I've posted guards. No one may approach without orders."
"Excellent work!" the company commander said, giving Dmitri sharp, approving glance. "Are you… the soldier who blew up the enemy tank?"
"Yes, Comrade Company Commander!" Dmitri confirmed.
The commander nodded, then turned to a military correspondent. "Notify the Major immediately."
Indeed, these supplies were a priceless treasure. Major Gavrilov quickly dispatched personnel to secure the shelter, evacuating and redistributing the contents.
Even in a supposedly safe air-raid shelter, no place on the battlefield was truly secure. Dividing the materials and allocating weapons, equipment, and ammunition to troops improved combat effectiveness and ensured safety.
For the rest of the night, Major Gavrilov oversaw the process, and Dmitri remained unnoticed. He finally took a brief nap in the trench, rifle cradled in his arms.
Exhaustion clawed at him—his bones ached—but sleep was fleeting. He could only close his eyes and rest.
Moments later, he felt a presence beside him. Opening his eyes, he was startled to see Major Gavrilov.
"Major!" Dmitri started to rise and salute.
The major stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "You saved us, Comrade Dmitri. You've given me hope."