The snow in the Lemetti woods already reached mid-calf.
When Walter and Simo jumped off the sled, the heavy drifts let out a dull, compressed groan. This was the temporary headquarters for the 4th Company, a shack hastily assembled from logs, its roof piled high with snow to serve as camouflage.
Pushing open the shaky wooden door, they were met with a room choked with pungent tobacco smoke and the acrid scent of burning wood.
"Sir. Sergeant Simo Häyhä and Corporal Walter Ilves reporting for duty."
The Company Commander, who had been scowling at a map, looked up at the sound. He was a scruffy veteran with weary eyes. But when his gaze fell upon their chests, the two Crosses of Liberty with Swords glinted in the dim light of the kerosene lamp.
The commander's eyes lit up. He didn't ask for their history; he simply shouted toward a partitioned area: "Second Lieutenant Koskela! Your Sergeant and Squad Leader have arrived!"
A curtain was pulled aside, and a young lieutenant stepped out. He looked to be in his early thirties, his collar fastened tight. His face had been etched with anxiety, but the moment he saw Simo and Walter standing at attention, that tension vanished.
Lieutenant Koskela didn't know them, nor did he know of their legendary exploits. But he was a man who had led troops, and he recognized the golden swastikas and crossed swords instantly. Those were honors reserved for those who had not only survived true bloodbaths but had distinguished themselves within them.
Furthermore, he looked at their eyes. They were as calm as the surface of a frozen lake, devoid of the darting panic common in green recruits.
"Welcome. Welcome, both of you."
Koskela approached and shook their hands with genuine courtesy. In the Finnish Army, a platoon leader worth his salt knew that two battle-hardened, decorated NCOs were worth half a platoon on their own.
Leaving the drafty shack of the company headquarters, Lieutenant Koskela took the lead. The sky was now pitch black, with only the snow reflecting a faint, sickly pallor. The soldiers had trodden narrow paths through the drifts, and the snow on either side was piled high like white earthen walls, just barely tall enough to conceal a man's silhouette.
"Our platoon is up ahead. There's a mound there to block the wind; it's warmer than here," Koskela remarked over his shoulder.
After walking for about ten minutes, the Lieutenant led them into a bunker half-buried in the earth. It was roofed with thick logs and weighed down by frozen soil and snow, exceptionally sturdy. In the center of the bunker, a small stove fashioned from a gasoline drum roared with fire, casting a red glow across the walls.
"Sit. Take off your coats and warm up."
Koskela was hospitable. He unbuttoned his collar and pulled an oilskin-wrapped bundle from a wooden crate beneath a bunk. Inside were two pieces of blackened, smoked venison and several potatoes that had been kept warm by the stove. To Walter and Simo's surprise, the Lieutenant even produced an unopened bottle of vodka.
"Captured this a few days ago. Haven't had the heart to drink it yet."
Koskela bit off the cap with his teeth and filled three aluminum cups. The room was instantly filled with the sharp, heavy scent of spirits.
"Come. A toast to those two Crosses with Swords." Koskela raised his cup, his eyes filled with sincere respect. "To be honest, my platoon has been desperate for hands like yours."
They clinked cups. The biting alcohol slid down their throats like a streak of fire, blooming in their bellies and chasing away the accumulated chill of the march. After a few rounds, Koskela began to talk more freely. He pointed to a map in the corner of the bunker, which was marred by several cigarette burns, and his tone turned somber.
"I won't hide it from you, half my platoon are just kids fresh from the rear. They can barely hold their rifles steady. In a place like Lemetti, the Russians might be cut off and surrounded, but they aren't dead yet. They still have tanks and artillery."
"We're short-handed. If I don't have a few pillars to hold the line, this fight is impossible."
Simo took a sip of his drink. His eyes, so used to peering through iron sights, glittered in the firelight. "Once a recruit tastes blood, if they don't die, they become a veteran soon enough."
"True, but someone has to lead them so they can survive," Koskela said, looking from Simo to Walter. "Sergeant, you're the Platoon Sergeant now. I'm counting on you for the sentry posts and ambushes in these woods."
Simo nodded, accepting the charge with a grunt.
Koskela turned to Walter and patted his shoulder. "Corporal Walter, 1st Squad is yours. There are a few old scoundrels in there, and a few 'fledglings' who've had the soul scared out of them. That medal on your chest is more effective than any military order. Show them what a Finnish elite looks like."
The meal was simple, but the bottle of vodka had dissolved the awkwardness between the three men. The Lieutenant laid out the terrain and the patterns of Soviet movement with absolute clarity. Walter sat by the stove, feeling the warmth slowly seep into his bones. He knew this drink was a gesture of recruitment, but also a sacred entrustment between brothers-in-arms.
"Alright. We've breathed enough warm air. Time to see the outside."
Lieutenant Koskela wiped the trace of vodka from the corner of his mouth and readjusted his slightly worn field cap. He grabbed the Suomi submachine gun leaning against the door and expertly cycled the bolt.
Back outside, the meager warmth from the alcohol was instantly stripped away by the biting wind. The -40°C air cut into their throats like small knives; their exhaled breath turned to frost before it could even dissipate, clinging to their eyelashes.
The Lieutenant led them through the snow. There were no trenches here; in weather cold enough to crack stone, trying to dig into soil as hard as iron was a fool's errand.
"Stay low. Be careful," Koskela whispered.
The Lieutenant stopped, crouching behind a red pine that had been snapped in half. He brushed aside a branch and nodded toward the slope below.
"Look. That's the Motti we're responsible for."
Walter peered out. On the valley road ahead, hemmed in by the forest, Soviet trucks and tanks were packed together in a dense mass. What should have been a majestic armored column now resembled a black serpent that had been killed and hacked into segments, lying rigid across the white woodland. The low sun reflected off the cold steel, casting a sickly, deathly pallor.
"The Russians trusted their wheels and tracks too much," Simo said, staring at the trucks. "A formation that long in these woods is just a free meal for us."
"Isn't that the truth," Koskela whispered. "Our boys blew the lead and rear vehicles first, sealing the road. Then the ski teams struck from the flanks, cutting their kilometers-long column into a dozen isolated circles. Now, they're trapped. They can't even retreat."
Through the sparse silhouettes of the trees, Walter could see the Soviet soldiers below working in desperation. Unable to dig foxholes in the frozen earth, they were piling snow walls around their tanks and trucks. In some gaps, Walter even saw them stacking the frozen, rigid corpses of their comrades like bricks to deflect stray bullets.
The roar of a tank engine flared occasionally, only to fall silent again.
"They're trying to stay warm," Walter noted, frowning. "And they're low on diesel."
"Smart," the Lieutenant sneered. "Once that fuel is gone, those tanks become their iron coffins. We've cut all their phone lines. They don't even know if the men in the next pocket are alive or dead."
Just then, a dull drone of engines echoed from the horizon. Three Soviet transport planes buzzed low over the treetops, and dozens of small white dots drifted down from the sky.
"Gifts again," Koskela said, unfazed. "The pocket is too small and the woods are too thick. If a Russian pilot's hand shakes even slightly, the supplies come straight to us. Yesterday, we cooked their own canned meat right under those starving devils' noses. The wind blew the scent right to them. Two Russians couldn't take it, they ran out with their guns up to surrender immediately."
"Alright, Walter. Time to go meet your 1st Squad." Koskela patted Walter on the shoulder.
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