Early February 1940, dawn.
The Lemetti woods remained locked in a persistent -30°C deep freeze.
Every breath drawn into the lungs brought a needle-like sting. Within this massive encirclement, hunger and cold were far more lethal than bullets; here, supplies were life itself.
When the low, rhythmic drone of engines drifted from above the leaden clouds, the woodland, previously as silent as a graveyard, instantly surged to life. Soviet transport planes skimmed the treetops like heavy grey birds, excreting strings of yellow-green dots from their underbellies.
They were supply crates.
"All squads, independent action! Spread out and seize those supplies!" Second Lieutenant Koskela barked, wiping the frost from his eyelashes.
Before the order had even finished resonating, Simo had already led two Finnish soldiers into the depths of the dense forest. Koskela took the rest of the men, advancing at full speed toward another drop zone.
"Prepare to move," Walter uttered, his voice cold.
"Corporal, you've got to be fast for this kind of work. Any slower and we won't even find a loose thread," Vatanen remarked, squinting at the recruits who were clumsily checking their gear while he inspected his Suomi submachine gun magazine.
Walter wasted no words. He knew this wasn't just a supply run; it was the first real combat experience for the nine men of 1st Squad.
The crates had scattered across an awkward zone. A few landed within Soviet strongholds, but the majority fell into the vacuum of no-man's-land, a slope stripped of its canopy by artillery, cluttered with deep snow, jagged rocks, and shattered pines.
"Follow me!" Vatanen didn't even wait for Walter's command. With a low growl, he led Ojala and Lindholm as they burst from cover.
The three veterans displayed staggering proficiency. They didn't move in a straight line; instead, they used fallen trunks and craters as cover, their silhouettes weaving left and right through the snow. Walter followed with the six recruits. Due to their raw, clumsy movements, Kalle even nearly tumbled into an ice fissure, the squad's overall pace was significantly dragged down.
The Soviet troops at the base of the slope moved as well. The soldiers trapped in the pocket had long been pushed to their absolute limits by hunger. Seeing the airdrop crates, they emerged from behind their snow walls like a pack of wild dogs scenting carrion, charging forward with fixed bayonets.
Rat-tat-tat—Rat-tat-tat—
Vatanen fired first. His Suomi spat out textbook short bursts, and three men from the first wave of six or seven Soviets instantly crumpled.
"Lindholm, that rock pile on the left! Ojala, suppress that machine gunner in the rear!" Vatanen roared commands while executing a roll through the snow, somehow managing to close within twenty meters of the supply crate.
The Soviets were clearly desperate. A Soviet NCO bellowed, swinging a folding shovel; Ojala didn't even raise his rifle, instead lunging sideways to shoulder-check the man before drawing a dagger in an upward arc, precisely severing the man's windpipe.
The coordination between the veterans was seamless. The three of them formed a miniature but impenetrable web of fire, carving out a barrier around the supply crate built from Soviet corpses.
By the time Walter arrived with the six panting recruits, Vatanen had already kicked open the heavy wooden crate.
"Ha! Look at this!" Vatanen shouted in excitement. He crudely hauled several wool blankets from the crate, tossing them to his companions.
"Good find! And this!" Lindholm dug out several tins of luncheon meat stamped with Cyrillic script.
They looked like bandits dividing loot in the wilderness. Vatanen expertly pried open a tin with his dagger, dug out a glob of congealed fat with his finger, and shoved it into his mouth, a look of morbid satisfaction crossing his face. As for the black bread and dehydrated rations, they tossed them onto the snow like trash; some were even trodden into the mud.
"Hey, you greenhorns, the scraps are for you," Vatanen sneered at the approaching recruits while stuffing tins into his tunic.
The recruits looked at the field of corpses and blood, then back at the three veterans who looked like gods of slaughter, and hesitated, too intimidated to step forward.
Walter walked over. His pace was slow, his boots making a rhythmic crunch against the snow. His gaze swept over the discarded rations and finally settled on Vatanen.
Vatanen stopped chewing. He patted the blankets in his arms and grinned. "Squad Leader, we took this spot. By the rules, the best stuff goes to—"
Walter didn't speak. He suddenly raised his right hand.
Click.
The safety on his Mosin-Nagant was flicked off, the muzzle pointing steadily toward the three veterans.
"Corporal, have you gone bloody mad?" The smile vanished from Vatanen's face. He lunged for his submachine gun as Ojala and Lindholm's expressions shifted violently, their bodies tensing instinctively.
The recruits were terrified. Kalle cried out with a tremor, "Squad Leader, don't... we're on the same side!"
Walter's eyes didn't flicker. His line of sight passed over Vatanen's shoulder, locking onto a pile of "corpses" five meters behind the crate. Amidst the khaki greatcoats, a Soviet soldier drenched in blood suddenly twitched. His left hand was trembling as it reached for his waist, where a stick grenade hung, its string yet unpulled. His eyes were filled with the madness of mutual destruction as he fumbled for the pull-ring.
Bang!
Walter pulled the trigger. The searing bullet whistled past Vatanen's ear, the sharp crack of the air sounding like a resounding slap. Vatanen felt his ears ring as the warm scent of gunpowder filled his nostrils.
With a dull thud, the bullet burrowed precisely into the eye socket of the Soviet soldier. The man's head snapped back, and his entire body went limp, collapsing heavily.
The smoke dissipated quickly in the cold wind. Walter slowly lowered his rifle.
Dead silence.
Vatanen turned his head. He saw the Soviet soldier just behind him, his eye socket churned into a mess of pulp by the bullet. The stick grenade was still gripped tightly in a rigid hand, the pull-ring half-extracted and swaying slightly in the wind like a viper's tongue.
Vatanen froze in place, cold sweat soaking his back. If not for Walter's shot, he would have been reduced to fertilizer for this snowfield by now.
Gulp.
Vatanen's parched throat constricted. The mockery and greed that had been plastered across his face vanished completely. He looked at the corpse, then slowly turned back to Walter, who was methodically cycling his bolt to chamber a fresh round.
Ojala and Lindholm exchanged a glance and silently lowered their submachine guns. They were veterans, and veterans understood how to respect the strong.
Vatanen's posture slumped slightly, his overbearing "old-timer" ego crushed into the frozen earth by that icy gunshot. He looked down at the tins of luncheon meat in his arms; a moment ago they were a supreme delicacy, but now the heavy iron cans felt like they were burning his hands.
He silently loosened his grip, letting the extra tins drop back into the crate.
"Squad Leader..." Vatanen murmured. The tone of malicious compliance was gone, replaced by a simple, honest submissiveness. "What... what do we do next?"
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