Dmitri had no choice but to focus on the approaching tank, though every instinct screamed at him to stay down.
Tanks were the backbone of the German assault—the Panzer III, with up to 37 mm armor in 1941, coordinated with infantry and aircraft. Eliminate them, and the Soviet defenders might survive; fail, and the fortress would fall.
But how? The Soviet defenders lacked proper anti-tank weapons. Dmitri didn't have a PTRD-41 anti-tank rifle, nor did he have satchel charges like the demolition teams. Even if he did, approaching the tank under a hail of German rifle and machine-gun fire would likely mean certain death. And explosives thrown at the armor rarely stuck—unless placed precisely under the tracks or on the hull, a near-impossible task alone.
Then a memory flashed in his mind: a Soviet soldier in newsreels, lacking proper anti-tank weapons, hurled a bottle of flammable liquid at a Finnish tank during the Winter War—and it stopped the vehicle dead.
Molotov cocktails. That was the solution.
Dmitri's hands shook with anticipation. He looked to Okunev, who was nervously firing at the Germans. "Where's your vodka?" he shouted.
"What?!" Okunev had just emptied his last rifle clip and was reloading. "Are you crazy? Now you want vodka?"
"Give it to me!" Dmitri grabbed the bottle.
Okunev tossed it over, grinning grimly. "It's yours—save some for me. I want to taste it one last time before I die." He ducked back under the trench parapet, firing at the German infantry again.
Dmitri uncorked the bottle and poured the liquid into the overturned gasoline barrel nearby, careful not to spill it on himself. Then he tore a strip of cloth from his uniform, ignoring the sharp sting of the scissors cutting through the fabric and scraping against his skin. He stuffed the cloth into the bottle, leaving the end exposed as a wick. The Molotov cocktail was ready.
Through the smoke, a Panzer III tank came into view, moving parallel to the trench, turret rotating, coaxial machine gun spitting rounds. Charging Soviet soldiers drew the tank's attention—perfect.
Dmitri gritted his teeth, setting the rifle aside. He crawled out of the trench, low to the ground, dodging bullets and debris.
"What are you doing?" Major Gavrilov appeared at the edge of the trench, shouting.
Dmitri froze for a moment. Until he raised the bottle, Major Gavrilov saw what it was—a Molotov cocktail. Recognition flickered across the major's face.
During the Winter War, Major Gavrilov had seen Finnish troops use the same makeshift incendiary bottles to disable Soviet tanks. Now the roles were reversed: the Soviet defenders were under-equipped, facing a better-armed opponent, yet the improvisation could work again. Major Gavrilov nodded. "Go. I'll cover you."
Two DP-27 machine guns opened fire along the flanks, pinning down German infantry behind the tank. The curved and uneven trench system meant the tank couldn't advance recklessly without exposing its sides.
Dmitri edged closer, heart hammering. The tank's turret clacked as it turned, the hatches rattling, and the Panzer III's gun recoiled from previous fire. Every meter was a battle against fear itself.
Finally, he was within a few meters of the tank, the heat and smell of gasoline filling his senses. One wrong move, one glance from the crew, and the tank's machine guns could tear him apart in an instant.
Dmitri inhaled, lit the cloth wick, and prepared to throw—the battlefield, the fortress, and survival itself hanging on this desperate act.