Midnight, the Lemetti forest.
The snow reflected the faint starlight. Occasionally, a pine branch, unable to bear the weight of the accumulation, would let out a sharp crack.
Walter signaled with a hand gesture. The entire squad halted on a small ridge approximately two hundred meters from the outer perimeter of their assigned Motti.
"Huff... huff..."
Kalle, overcome by nerves, was breathing too rapidly. Each breath sent plumes of white vapor through his winter mask like a small chimney.
Walter leaned close to Kalle's ear. "Put some snow in your mouth. If you keep puffing out white clouds, the Russians will pop your head like target practice."
Kalle, trembling, scooped up a handful of snow and shoved it into his mouth. The piercing cold jolted him, but it successfully forced him to steady himself.
Guided by the weak moonlight and the glint of the snow, the group crept silently to the edge of a Soviet camp. Thirty meters ahead, a T-26 tank, its fuel long exhausted, sat abandoned by the roadside. A Soviet sentry leaned against the tank's treads, clutching a rifle. His body shivered in the freezing wind, a thin layer of frost coating his greatcoat.
Even closer, behind a patch of shrubbery, three Soviet soldiers were huddled in a pit. At the bottom flickered a faint, dark red glow. A campfire kept very low, producing almost no flame. They pulled their necks into their collars, trying to extract life from that pitiful warmth, completely oblivious to the approaching Finns.
Kalle looked at the three Russians, then at Walter. His right hand instinctively moved toward the grenade at his waist, his eyes gleaming with the frantic heat unique to recruits.
"Not yet." Walter gripped his wrist firmly.
"Squad Leader... they haven't seen us," Kalle whispered in defense.
Walter didn't answer. He narrowed his eyes. Though he hadn't activated the Eye of Death, his heightened vision sensed something wrong. To the front-flank of the tank and in the snowdrifts beside the three sentries, thin, nearly imperceptible wisps of white vapor were rising.
That wasn't smoke. It was human breath.
"Look there," Walter whispered, pointing to a seemingly flat snow slope. "And there."
Vatanen, the veteran, reacted instantly, sucking in a breath of cold air. "Foxhole sentries? Those Russians finally learned some tricks."
After weeks of continuous harassment, the Soviets had adapted to Finnish tactics. They no longer relied solely on visible guards and roving patrols; instead, they had soldiers lying in snow pits, covered by white canvas and snow, leaving only a small air hole.
"Stay here. Don't move until I return."
Walter unslung his rifle and handed it to Vatanen, then drew his dagger. He crawled flat against the snow, using the sound of the wind to mask his movement. He reached the nearest snow pit, only five meters away. He could clearly hear the faint, ragged breathing coming from beneath the surface.
He gently brushed away the thin layer of snow, revealing a small hole supported by branches. An exhausted, bloated face covered in frostbite appeared. The Soviet soldier's eyes were open but vacant, his eyelashes heavy with frost. He wasn't guarding; he was simply enduring, enduring hellish torture. Whether there were enemies outside no longer mattered to this nearly frozen shell.
Walter did not hesitate. On the battlefield, pity is the ultimate betrayal of one's own life.
He peeled back the canvas cover, slid into the narrow pit, and clamped his left hand over the man's mouth and nose. The soldier's pupils dilated violently. He tried to struggle, but his frostbitten hands lacked the strength to fight back.
Shhhk—
The dagger sliced precisely through the throat. Walter felt the spray of warm liquid on his palm, but in the -30°C air, that heat vanished in an instant. He held the man down until the last twitch of the gaunt body ceased.
Walter sat in the dark pit for three seconds, wiped the blood from his blade, and then poked his head out. He gave Vatanen a "clear" signal before pointing to another hidden post near the tank.
Vatanen and two other veterans followed suit, efficiently neutralizing the hidden sentries in the other directions. Now, only one hidden post remained near the side of the tank.
Walter considered it for a moment and decided to give the recruits a chance to practice. He signaled two of the more courageous recruits, Eero and Mikko, pointing toward the spot and making a throat-cutting gesture. The two young men exchanged pale looks and nodded. Mimicking Walter's movements, they crept forward.
However, recruits are recruits.
When they reached the pit, their movements were noticeably clumsy. Eero used too much force when pulling back the canvas, creating a sharp ripping sound. The sentry dozing by the tank snapped awake, looking toward the noise in confusion.
What happened next almost made Walter explode in anger from his vantage point.
Eero lunged to cover the Russian's mouth, but in his panic, he hugged the man's entire neck and head against his chest. Mikko drew his dagger and began stabbing wildly at the Russian's abdomen, but because the man wore a thick greatcoat and Mikko's hands were shaking too hard to put weight behind the blade, most of the dozen stabs were merely shallow wounds.
"Mmph—Mmmph!"
The Soviet soldier struggled frantically, his boots kicking violently against the snow. Eero and Mikko lost their minds completely; they stopped trying to use the knife and instead threw the canvas over the man's head and began frantically shoveling snow on top of him, trying to bury him alive in the pit!
Snow flew everywhere. The commotion was incredibly loud in the dead of night.
"Ivan? Is that you?"
The sentry by the tank had stood up, cycling his bolt with a loud clack. The three soldiers by the fire also grabbed their rifles, their eyes scanning the area in terror.
Walter was lying in the snow a dozen meters away, empty-handed save for a blood-slicked dagger.
"Damn it!" he cursed under his breath. It was too late to charge the sentry with a knife. He ducked low, bursting through the deep snow with incredible speed as he sprinted back to his squad.
"Vatanen! The rifle!" Walter roared in a low voice.
At that moment, the sentry by the tank pulled the trigger.
Bang!
A bullet whizzed past Mikko, spraying snow into his face. The two recruits finally snapped out of their trance, letting out high-pitched cries as they scrambled to climb out of the pit, slipping repeatedly on the body of the Soviet soldier who wasn't even dead yet.
Walter dove into the snowdrift, snatching his Mosin-Nagant from Vatanen. He leveled the rifle, pressed his cheek against the cold stock, and without a second's hesitation, pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The first shot tore through the night, striking the tank sentry in the neck. The man slammed back against the tank's road wheel and slumped down.
"Ojala, cover! Lindholm, take the three by the fire!" Walter ordered sharply, cycling a new round into the chamber.
"Get up! Run! Get back here!" Walter bellowed at the two stunned idiots.
Eero and Mikko finally moved. They even dropped their own rifles, hopping through the deep snow like startled rabbits. Behind them, more Soviet soldiers were emerging from covers and foxholes, their angry Russian curses filling the air.
Bang!
Walter fired again, dropping a Soviet officer who was trying to aim at Eero's back.
"Those two idiots!" Vatanen cursed through gritted teeth as he fired off shots. "They woke up every Russian for a mile!"
"Shut up! Suppress them!"
Every one of Walter's shots claimed a life, trying to tear open a safe corridor in the chaotic camp.
"Kalle, throw grenades toward the fire! Don't let them see how many of us there are!"
BOOM—!
A violent explosion erupted by the campfire, sending sparks and snow flying to create a natural screen. Under the cover of the flash, Eero and Mikko finally tumbled and crawled behind the snow ridge where Walter was stationed.
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