The defense of Vyborg had effectively begun the moment Soviet tanks made landfall on the western shores of Vyborg Bay that morning. From that instant, Walter and the ground beneath his feet became nothing more than a gray speck on the map, swallowed by the Soviet encirclement.
Vyborg was now besieged from the east, south, and west, leaving only a narrow sliver of an opening to the north. The industrial zone, like a dying sled dog, was drawing its final, rattling breaths. On the macroscopic tactical map, the situation had deteriorated to the point of utter ruin.
The primary forces originally defending Vyborg, the 1st, 3rd, and 5th Infantry Divisions, had been ground down to nothing in the preceding bloodbaths. These three elite divisions, which should have boasted a combined strength of forty-five thousand men at full complement, could now barely scrape together enough living souls to fill a single regiment. Many infantry companies, meant to hold 150 men, were down to 20 or 30.
Twelve thousand ragged Finnish regulars, starved of ammunition, were scattered across Vyborg's streets, ruins, and factories. Facing them was the steel tide of the Soviet 7th Army, numbering over two hundred thousand men. The Soviets wielded over two thousand artillery pieces, ranging from 203mm B-4 howitzers to ML-20 152mm gun-howitzers. Every inch of the Finnish positions was about to endure a baptism of tons of steel. Conversely, the Finnish artillery was down to its final shells.
With the chain of command long since shattered, the industrial zone, a jungle of steel comprising hundreds of factories and thousands of warehouses, was filled with isolated units like Walter's, fighting their own private wars. Propping up this line, alongside the remnants of the regular army, were over four thousand irregulars like Old Man Tano, who possessed no heavy weaponry whatsoever.
They were the Vyborg Civil Guard: wrinkled retired laborers, boys from supplementary battalions not yet eighteen, truck drivers who refused to evacuate, and dockside coolies.
…
By dusk, the sky had turned a bruised, dark red. The Soviet artillery positions in front of the industrial zone were set. With a collective shriek that tore the air asunder, the heavy bombardment began.
The brunt of the fire came from ML-20 152mm gun-howitzers and M-30 122mm howitzers. Shells rained down like iron hail. Massive shockwaves flipped factory roofs in an instant; red brick walls disintegrated into dust, and towering chimneys came crashing down.
"Get down! Get down now!"
Walter roared, directing the surviving soldiers and Civil Guard members into the cable trenches. As the heavy cast-iron covers slammed shut with a resounding clank, the cacophony of the surface was cut in half, replaced by a heart-pounding, muffled thudding.
The underworld of Vyborg's industrial zone was a strategic labyrinth that the Soviets had gravely underestimated. To an outsider, it was a dead end; to "locals" like Tano, it was home turf.
First were the industrial cable trenches. During the large-scale modernization of Vyborg's steel and machinery plants in the 1930s, the power cables were laid in concrete galleries rather than buried in soil to meet massive electricity demands. Finnish soldiers could move through them quickly with only a slight hunch. In the narrower branch pipes, though they required crawling, they served as perfect ambush points and ammunition caches. These trenches were relatively dry and protected by thick concrete slabs; unless a 203mm shell scored a direct hit, the devastation above barely touched them.
Next were the steam and heating lines. Finland's sub-arctic climate necessitated an incredibly advanced central heating system. These pipes, wrapped in thick asbestos insulation, sat within spacious concrete culverts.
"This leads to the boiler room; that way goes to the administrative building basement," Tano said, pointing into the bifurcating darkness. These pipes were the industrial zone's blood vessels, reaching everywhere. Though there was a risk of scalds from burst pipes, the residual warmth in the minus thirty-degree night offered a touch of ironic comfort. The space was wide enough for two fully armed soldiers to pass side-by-side, making it an excellent corridor for moving the wounded.
The lowest level was the sewers—damp, dark, and foul. As Vyborg was a coastal city, the main sewage trunks exceeded 1.2 meters in diameter, reinforced with red brick or concrete. It was now early March, the beginning of the spring thaw. Knee-deep or even thigh-deep freezing wastewater flowed through the pipes, a cocktail of industrial oil and human waste.
The greatest advantage of this subterranean maze lay in Vyborg's unique geology. The city sat upon a foundation of solid granite. This meant the underground pipes possessed the natural attributes of an air-raid-shelter, making large-scale collapses from surface pressure or vibrations nearly impossible.
…
In the suffocating darkness, time stretched into infinity. The roaring above lasted for six straight hours. Every 152mm shell that landed sent a tooth-grinding tremor through the buried concrete galleries.
Walter and his group had retreated near the steam lines. Initially, the pipes radiated heat like a sauna. But after the boiler room was leveled by Soviet heavy guns at midnight, these thick metal vessels rapidly lost their vitality. By 2:00 AM, the last trace of warmth vanished.
Condensation on the pipe walls began to freeze. The chill seeped through the concrete cracks and into their very marrow, mixing with the smells of machine oil, sweat, and blood to create the distinct scent of death.
Then, the surface vibrations stopped. This unannounced silence was more terrifying than the preceding thunder.
"It's stopped," Walter whispered, his voice echoing. In the dark, dozens of eyes lit up simultaneously, a flicker of terror intertwined with the will to survive.
Walter struck a match. The weak, flickering orange glow illuminated faces covered in soot and despair. He turned to the old worker in the corner. "Tano."
"Here, Lieutenant," Tano looked up.
"Since you're the head man here, logistics are your responsibility," Walter said, gesturing to the scattered crowd. "Take those boys and inventory everything we have. Bullets, grenades, Molotov cocktails, count even the rusted axes. I need to know how much food and water we have, and how long we can hold out."
"Understood." Tano didn't waste words. He slapped the shoulders of several trembling apprentices. "You hear that? Stop shrinking like girls and move!"
With logistics handled, Walter turned his gaze to the two soldiers beside him, survivors who had followed him all the way from the western shore of Vyborg Bay: Corporal Laine and Private First Class Jukka.
"Laine, Jukka," Walter lowered his voice. "You two and Simo come with me to the surface. Remember: reconnaissance only. Do not fire."
The four figures moved through the pipes. Walter led the way, navigating by memory to the manhole they had first descended. Above them was a cast-iron cover that should have opened into the steel plant's workshop.
"Give me a hand," Walter whispered to Jukka. The two stepped onto the vertical ladder, braced their shoulders against the cover, and heaved upward.
"Nngh..." Jukka let out a muffled grunt, the veins in his neck bulging.
It didn't budge. The cover felt as if it had been welded shut; not even a crack of light appeared.
"Stop. Don't waste your energy," Walter slumped his shoulders, dust falling over his head. "The workshop above must have collapsed."
In the dark, Jukka sounded panicked. "Are we buried alive?"
"Quiet." Simo suddenly tapped Jukka with his rifle butt, shocking him back into silence.
Though Walter had earlier torn up the map Tano gave him, the routes were already seared into his mind. "East, three hundred meters. There's a drainage outlet."
The journey was grueling. Some sections of the pipe were deformed, turning wide passages into twisted bottlenecks where they had to crawl flat beneath fractured concrete slabs. Ten minutes later, a pungent smell of cordite mixed with cold air drifted in from a lateral breach. It wasn't a planned exit; a large-caliber shell had punched through the earth and the gallery ceiling, creating a natural skylight.
Walter signaled for them to stop. He cautiously poked his head out. Outside was pitch black, save for the weak glow of dying fires. Confirming there was no movement, the four emerged one by one.
When his boots hit the soft mix of shattered brick and snow, Walter felt a desolation he had never known. The Vyborg Steel Plant, which had stood imposing that morning, was gone. Giant steel girders were twisted like pretzels amidst the rubble; the chimneys that once pierced the clouds were now mere jagged stumps. The world was hauntingly quiet, punctuated only by the occasional groan of a collapsing structure.
"God in heaven..." Laine muttered.
Walter didn't speak. He took a deep breath of the freezing air, closed his eyes, and steadied his breathing.
Eye of Death, activate.
In a world of silent, cold tones, Walter first saw the faint, flickering heat signatures in the nearby ruins. Those weren't enemies; they were survivors. Under a pile of red bricks to the left, a dim orange light was fading. Near a collapsed pillar to the right, two humanoid yellow spots were huddled together. This ruin was a massive, cooling tomb.
However, when Walter raised his head to look into the distance, a shiver struck the depths of his soul, despite his mental preparation.
At the edge of his gray vision, there was no darkness. Countless red dots were packed together in a dense, continuous sheet, like a river of encroaching magma.
It was tens of thousands of Soviet soldiers, their body heat illuminating the night.
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