March 6, 1940, 03:00 AM.
West bank of Vyborg Bay, Frontline Headquarters of the Soviet 7th Army.
The air was thick with the acrid, pungent stench of low-grade makhorka tobacco.
Kirill Meretskov stood before a massive operational map, his expression grim. As the Commander of the 7th Army, he felt a chilling sensation at the back of his neck, as if an invisible scythe were perpetually suspended there.
His stomach spasmed violently, the agonizing protest of an ulcer brought on by chronic high pressure and irregular meals. Yet, that physical pain paled in comparison to the sheer terror he felt toward Moscow.
Months ago, when the Winter War had just broken out, he had confidently promised Stalin that Finland would collapse within two weeks. Reality, however, had seen the Red Army bloodied and broken against the Mannerheim Line, with tens of thousands of soldiers frozen solid in the Karelian forests.
After that disastrous defeat, Stalin's voice over the phone hadn't been one of explosive rage, but rather a bone-chilling calm.
"Comrade Meretskov, you seem rather... unfocused in Karelia. Perhaps you need a change of scenery to clear your head?"
Those words were practically an invitation to the Lubyanka.
If Semyon Timoshenko hadn't taken command of the Northwestern Front, and if Stalin hadn't decided that keeping him alive to atone for his crimes was more useful than a firing squad, Meretskov would likely be facing the cold iron instruments of the NKVD right now.
"Vyborg must be taken... it must be completely secured," Meretskov muttered to himself.
Though the 7th Army remained nominally under his command, he knew every offensive plan had to be scrutinized by Timoshenko before being reported to Stalin.
"Comrade Commander."
A steady voice interrupted Meretskov's brooding. The tent flap lifted, admitting a gust of freezing wind and Mikhail Kirponos, Commander of the 70th Infantry Division.
The Ukrainian commander's eyes were bloodshot, and the hem of his greatcoat was caked in drying mud and grease, but his gaze remained sharp. It was his proposal for the daring ice-crossing maneuver that had finally allowed the Soviet forces to bypass Vyborg's outer defenses and strike at its flank.
Moments later, Kirponos, along with the other division commanders and senior officers of the 7th Army, assembled before Meretskov. They stood stiffly, hardly daring to breathe.
"The artillery's job is done. Now, it is your turn."
Meretskov didn't sit. Instead, he grabbed a pencil from the table and tapped heavily on the Vyborg industrial zone.
"Comrade Kirponos, and the rest of you. I do not want to hear about your tactical preparations or the difficulties you face." His gaze raked across the faces of every commander like a blade. "My order is simple: Attack! A general offensive! Attack at any cost!"
Meretskov raised a finger, stabbing it ruthlessly into the air.
"If the battalion in front of you is wiped out, throw in two more. If a tank is blown up, push the wreckage aside and keep charging. If the infantry are too terrified to move, let the blocking detachments shoot the company commanders on the spot!"
Meretskov began to roar hysterically, flecks of saliva spraying onto the map.
"You don't need to occupy every house! You don't need to clear every corner! Your task is to sweep over them like a tsunami! Drown them!"
"Whether you crush them with tanks or pile the bodies high, the Red Flag must be planted on the other side of the industrial zone before sunset today!"
"I don't want your casualty reports! I only want Vyborg!"
"But, Comrade Commander," a staff officer interjected timidly. "According to reconnaissance, while the surface structures are destroyed, the underground pipes in the industrial zone are complex. If we push too fast, our flanks might be—"
"There are no 'buts'!"
Meretskov seized an inkwell from the desk and hurled it against the floor.
"There are no flanks! The entire two hundred thousand men of the 7th Army are a wall! If anyone stops for fear of their flank, I will personally shoot them!"
He turned his back to the group, his shoulders heaving with agitation.
"Kirponos, your 70th Division is the arrowhead. Tell your soldiers: in those ruins, whether they see something move or hear a sound from underground, they do not need to ask for permission. They do not need to identify the target."
"Burn it with flamethrowers. Blast it with satchel charges."
"Go. Turn that place into a graveyard for the Finns."
"Yes, Comrade Commander!"
Kirponos and the other officers saluted in unison, turned, and strode out of the bunker.
Meretskov knew the massive meat grinder was turning once more. He slumped into his chair, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
For the next twenty-four hours, Vyborg would cease to be a city; it would be a vast crematorium. And he had to be the one to light the fire, the price of his own ticket to survival.
But Meretskov did not know that fate is a playwright fond of dark humor. Even if he took Vyborg, won his medals, and eventually became a Marshal, the doors to the Lubyanka would still swing open for him late one night in 1941.
…
Walter, accompanied by Simo, Laine, and Jukka, moved slowly through the rubble.
Their target was the Soviet assembly point ahead. According to Walter's plan, if the Soviets were hasty to rest after the bombardment or had grown complacent by the prospect of imminent victory, they might slip in to take out a few soldiers or sow chaos.
However, as they scaled the "high ground," a collapsed water tower, and peered through the lingering haze toward the east, Walter's heart sank.
There was no darkness there, only artificial day.
Hundreds of vehicle searchlights, truck headlamps, and massive bonfires illuminated the entire staging area. The Soviets weren't afraid of being exposed. They knew the Finnish artillery had fallen silent.
Through his binoculars, Walter saw a sea of helmets. The Soviet soldiers weren't sleeping, nor were they celebrating. They were working in a chilling, disciplined silence.
Engineers leveled roads under the glare of searchlights; bulldozers filled craters to clear a path for the coming armor. Rows of brand-new KV-1 heavy tanks were warming their engines, their exhaust pipes spewing black smoke that formed gray curtains in the harsh light.
And in the gaps between these steel beasts stood countless infantrymen with fixed bayonets. They were being issued ammunition, hard liquor, and grenades, while commissars brandished pistols, delivering final exhortations to the ranks.
"This is just..." Laine lay beside Walter, his voice trembling. "This is too much."
At the very front, Walter even spotted machine-gun nests manned by NKVD blocking detachments. The barrels weren't pointed at the Finns, they were pointed at their own lines of advance.
It meant that once the assault began, there was only forward. There was no retreat.
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