Walter stepped forward and bent down to pick up the chunks of black bread they had tossed into the snow. They were frozen as hard as stones. He patted away the loose snow.
"Take the black bread. Take the rations."
Walter surveyed the area coldly, his gaze sweeping over the supplies the veterans had previously disregarded.
"Leave nothing behind. Kalle, get the recruits over here to lend a hand. Move fast."
"Yes, Squad Leader!"
Kalle's voice was louder than ever. The recruits, who had been shrinking back moments ago, now looked at Walter with eyes full of near-blind worship.
The three veterans didn't grumble or stall this time. Vatanen even took the initiative to grab crates from the recruits and load them onto the sled. His movements were crisp, stripped of his previous dawdling.
As they were hauling the supplies, a sharp, piercing shriek suddenly tore through the air.
Thump— Thump—
The sound of mortar shells leaving the tubes.
"Get down!" Walter roared.
Everyone dove into nearby snowdrifts by instinct. Seconds later, two bursts of flame erupted beside the clearing where the airdrop had landed. Frozen earth, gravel, and wood splinters rained down on their helmets like icy hail.
Just as Walter poked his head out of the snow, the sound changed. It was no longer the muffled roar of mortars, but a sharp, crystalline crack, like a massive sheet of metal being snapped in two.
CRACK—!
The Soviet 76mm regimental gun.
This direct-fire weapon was far more precise than the mortars. The shell arrived with a searing howl, slamming directly into an old red pine at the edge of the clearing. The tree snapped at the trunk, raining fiery wood chips down upon them.
"It's not just mortars, they've got field guns! Those Russians are mad, they've pushed the big stuff right to the front line!" Vatanen hissed, a sliver of blood trailing down his face from a wood splinter.
Walter instantly activated the Eye of Death.
In his slowed field of vision, he saw the shadows deep within the forest swaying violently. Countless khaki greatcoats were surging out from all directions. Clearly, these few airdrop crates had become the hottest bait for miles around. More Soviet troops, lured by the sound of cannons and the promise of food, were launching a desperate charge.
"We can't take it all!" Walter glanced at the half-loaded sled. The Soviet vanguard was less than a hundred meters away. "Kalle! Take the recruits and the sled and get out of here! Vatanen, Ojala, cover them!"
Walter issued his final ultimatum: "Take only the food and ammo. Abandon the rest!"
"But the blankets and—" Kalle started.
"A blanket you're too dead to use is just a shroud for a corpse! Move!"
Walter bellowed, yanking a Molotov Cocktail from his belt. Vatanen, his arrogance long gone, expertly shouldered his Suomi and cut down the first two Russians to show their heads. Without looking back, he roared, "Listen to the Squad Leader! Go!"
The group scrambled toward the dense forest through gaps in the shelling. Several recruits pulled the heavy sled together, plowing a deep furrow through the snow. Walter stayed behind, looking at the remaining half-crate of wool blankets and the dozen bags of rye bread.
If Finnish bellies couldn't be full, the Russians wouldn't have it either.
He pulled the igniter on a stick grenade, held it for a second, and jammed it deep into the airdrop crate before hurling a Molotov Cocktail over his shoulder.
Sizzle— Smash!
Flammable liquid erupted over the wooden crate. The roaring fire, coupled with the boom of the grenade, instantly turned the life-saving supplies into a torch. Walter spun around amidst the flames and vanished into the timber.
Behind him, the furious curses of the Soviet soldiers echoed through the sky. Field gun shells slammed into the burning ruins one after another, but they succeeded only in shattering charred ash.
…
Returning to the log bunker, a sense of desolation greeted them.
"Go, get the stove going. Stuff some dry wood from behind the door in there," Vatanen told Kalle. His tone was blunt, but the contempt was gone.
The recruits busied themselves. Soon, flames flickered within the gasoline-drum stove, casting a red glow over the cold wooden walls. The bunker finally felt inhabited again.
Walter unslung his Mosin-Nagant and sat heavily on a log bench. Vatanen walked over, hung his ragged greatcoat on a crossbeam, and pulled two captured Soviet tins from the sled, placing them firmly on the wooden table in front of Walter.
"Eat, Squad Leader. This Russian luncheon meat is greasy, but it's the best thing for you right now." Vatanen pried a tin open with his bayonet.
Walter didn't stand on ceremony. He used a dagger to lift a large chunk of congealed fat and meat into his mouth. The cold meat melted on his tongue, and the rush of calories slid down his throat into his stomach, allowing his frayed nerves to loosen slightly.
The bunker was quiet, save for the crackling of the stove and the sound of chewing. The recruits huddled by the fire, drying their soaked socks and carefully dividing the rock-hard black bread.
"No movement from the Russians," Simo said, pushing the door open and letting in a gust of frigid air. He brushed the snow from his gear and sat beside Walter. "I checked. The Soviets in our motti are busy reinforcing their cover. I doubt they'll try a breakout anytime soon."
Walter swallowed the last of the meat, his eyes cold and clear. "The Russians aren't moving because they're planning something; they're just too hungry to move. They're waiting for dawn, hoping something to fill their bellies will fall from the sky."
"In their dreams," Vatanen sneered, wiping grease from his lip. "When the planes come, the supplies are ours. If they stay cooped up for a few more months, I wonder how many will be left breathing."
Walter looked through the narrow slit of the window. The sky was darkening.
"The day belongs to them, because they have cannons and planes," Simo said calmly, wiping his Finnish puukko knife.
Walter understood perfectly. In this motti warfare, the Finns were in no rush for a general offensive. Instead, under the cover of night, small squads would send out elite teams for endless harassment and precision killing. They would creep up to Soviet campfires in the dead of night, toss a grenade, or fire a burst of submachine gun fire, ensuring the exhausted Soviet soldiers never dared to close their eyes.
This was the daily work of a "logger"—sawing away at the trapped timber, bit by bit, in the dark.
"Everyone, get some sleep while you can," Walter stood and gave the order. "Vatanen, you take the first watch with two men. Rotate every two hours. When the midnight whistle blows, it's time to entertain the Russians."
"Understood," Vatanen replied crisply. In his heart, he had fully accepted this young squad leader.
Soon, the sound of heavy breathing filled the bunker. Walter leaned into the corner, rifle in his arms, and closed his eyes. Outside, the winter wind began to weave through the trees, howling like a pack of wolves.
…
Deep within the Lemetti encirclement, Headquarters of the Soviet 18th Rifle Division, 8th Army.
Major General Kondrashov was curled up inside an infantry command vehicle, its armored plating having turned into a frozen iron shell in the extreme cold. His hands shook as he tried to pull a cigarette from a pack, only to find his knuckles were frozen stiff.
"Comrade Division Commander, a report from the 427th Regiment."
The Chief of Staff's voice was so raspy it was nearly unrecognizable. His stubbled face held more than just exhaustion, it held a bottomless numbness. "This morning's airdrop... we recovered less than a fifth."
Kondrashov said nothing. He simply stared at the scattered circles drawn in blue pencil on the map. That was his division, the pride of the 18th. Two months ago, they were the vanguard of the 8th Army, high-spirited on the roads north of Lake Ladoga, their slogans shattering the snow of the birch forests.
Telegrams from Moscow had urged them daily: "Advance! Do not let the ski bandits in the forest slow you down! Capture Sortavala! Flank the Mannerheim Line!"
The big men in Moscow sat in heated offices, drawing perfect red lines on maps. They didn't believe an entire elite Soviet division could be strangled in the woods by a bunch of peasants on wooden planks with old rifles. So, Kondrashov followed orders. He led his troops like a lumbering giant python into the deep, dense forest.
Then, the tragedy began.
The Finns had sawed his forces into segments like timber. Every motti became an island. Initially, they tried to hold and wait for relief, but the so-called reinforcements were merely disorganized battalion-level charges that were cut to pieces at the forest's edge.
"Moscow authorized a breakout in early January," Kondrashov finally spoke. "The Great Man gave a reluctant nod, but he doesn't know that the 18th Division ceased to be an army long ago."
Visions of abandoned heavy equipment on the roadsides flashed before his eyes. Tanks became immovable iron boxes because there was no fuel; horses had long been slaughtered and eaten; even the leather from belts and boots had been boiled into soup by starving soldiers.
Even more terrifying to Kondrashov was the news from Chuikov's 9th Army regarding the 44th Rifle Division. An elite force of over 20,000 men had been completely dismembered by the Finns using the same tactics on the road near Suomussalmi. Twenty-three thousand went in; barely a thousand crawled out alive. General Chuikov's reputation was ruined, and the designation of the 44th Division became synonymous with death overnight.
"If we scatter for a breakout now, what do you think will happen?" Kondrashov turned, his sunken eyes reflecting a deathly grey terror.
"It will no longer be a retreat, Comrade Commander," the Chief of Staff whispered, his head bowed low. "It will be a massacre of total collapse. The men have no strength to march through deep snow. They will drop their weapons and be picked off one by one in the woods by the Finns."
Kondrashov closed his eyes in agony. He thought he heard the sound of explosions in the distance. It was the Finns destroying their airdropped supplies.
That "Sizzle, Smash" of fire felt like it was incinerating the last spark of life in the 18th Division. In that moment, the Soviet Major General had a hallucination. He didn't feel like the Finns were enemies; they felt like the forest itself—cold, silent, and invincible.
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