Chapter 54: Handing the Fledglings to the White Death

The group ran for a while under the cover of the wind and snow. Only after confirming there were no Soviet pursuers did Walter signal them to halt.

In the small forest clearing, everyone was gasping for air.

"Where are the rifles?"

Eero and Mikko were huddled by a snowbank, trembling uncontrollably. Eero opened his mouth, his teeth still chattering loudly. It took a long moment before he managed to squeeze out a single word: "Left... left them in the snow pit..."

"Not only did you lose your rifles, you nearly became fertilizer for the Russians."

Vatanen leaned on his own rifle and let out a cold snort. The look he gave the two recruits was filled with unmasked contempt. Though he was usually every bit the "old soldier" slacker, he knew better than anyone that in the frozen wastes of Finland, losing your rifle was no different from losing your life.

"Squad Leader... that Russian was too heavy, and his greatcoat... I couldn't get the blade through..." Mikko tried to explain with a sob. His hands were still shaking, and the Soviet blood on his palms had already frozen into a dark purple crust.

Walter didn't explode immediately.

At this moment, he felt as if two red-hot iron wedges had been driven into his temples, ruthlessly gnawing at his every nerve. Walter used to think the soul-shuddering side effects of the Eye of Death were the limit of human agony.

But at this moment, he realized he was still too young.

The "intelligence-lowering" impact delivered by these two idiots was far more potent. The side effects of the Eye of Death merely made him weak; these recruits made him feel like his actual brain matter was boiling.

"Do you know the penalty for losing a Mosin-Nagant in the Finnish Army?"

Walter walked toward them, one step at a time, his leather boots making a heavy, rhythmic crunch against the snow.

"That rifle is something Marshal Mannerheim saved by scraping it from his own teeth to give you a fighting chance. It is your second life!"

Walter suddenly lunged and seized Mikko by the collar, hoisting him halfway off the ground.

"You tried to play 'bury the man' on a battlefield? Did you think this was a game of hide-and-seek at home? Your stupidity didn't just almost kill you, it almost buried the entire squad!"

"I'm sorry, Squad Leader... I'm sorry..." Eero collapsed into the snow, his psychological defenses utterly shattered.

Walter let go abruptly, letting Mikko fall back into the drifts. He suddenly realized that compared to the prickly veterans, these recruits, full of hot-blooded fervor but devoid of mental fortitude, were the true time bombs. The veterans were slackers, but they knew when to kill and when to keep their mouths shut. These recruits, however, could lead the entire team into a grave with a single mistake.

…

Back at the low, damp bunker, heavy with the stench of cheap tobacco and sweat, the atmosphere was suffocatingly oppressive.

Eero and Mikko curled up in the darkest corner like frightened quails, not even daring to huddle near the heat of the stove. Nearby, the veterans silently wiped down their bolts, occasionally casting looks at the recruits that held the cold indifference one might show a dead man walking.

Walter sat on a log bench, head in his hands. The migraine triggered by his fury had eased slightly, but he still felt waves of nausea. He glanced at his so-called "core team," and a sense of powerlessness washed over him again. Without a word, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped back out into the all-consuming cold.

He trudged through the snow-covered paths until he reached the bunker serving as Platoon HQ. Inside, Simo was sitting by a flickering hurricane lamp, patiently wiping down a scopeless Mosin-Nagant with an oiled rag.

Walter sat down and recounted the details of the failed night raid. Simo set down the bolt and pulled a small flask from his tunic, handing it over. Walter took a long swig; the harsh spirits burned down his throat like a ball of fire.

"It's not that they're afraid to die," Simo said calmly, watching the flame. "They're afraid to kill."

"In their minds, killing should be a bullet flying out, a target falling down, clean and simple. But when you shove a knife into a man's flesh and feel his struggle and his body heat, a novice will lose their mind."

"I don't have time to wait for them to adjust," Walter sighed. "The Russians in the pocket are starving and desperate. Next time they try a breakout, these recruits will drag the whole squad to hell."

Simo was silent for a moment, then picked up his rag and resumed wiping the rifle with slow, deliberate movements.

"Your current state isn't fit for teaching them. You look at them and get a headache; they look at you and see a wolf coming to eat them. If this continues, they'll be scared to death by you before they even reach the front."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Give all the platoon's recruits to me," Simo said flatly. "I'll take them to the perimeter. Not to charge, but to observe. I'll make them lie in the snow and watch how I take the scalp off a Russian drinking soup two hundred meters away."

"I'll make them lie in a snow pit for six hours in -30°C. No moving, no talking. Even if they piss their pants, they'll swallow the shame and stay still."

Simo's method involved no tactical lectures, only the most primitive, brutal observation of survival and slaughter.

"If you've made up your mind, let's go see the Lieutenant," Walter said, standing up. His headache had mostly vanished.

…

The Platoon Leader, Second Lieutenant Koskela, was currently brooding over his maps. Upon hearing Simo's request, the officer, who had been plagued by the poor quality of his replacements, looked up with a rare flash of joy.

"You want to personally train the recruits?" The Lieutenant looked at Simo in disbelief. "Simo, you're our ace. If something goes wrong while you're out there..."

"Walter can take the veterans to handle the 'hard bones,' and I'll take the greenhorns," Simo replied evenly.

The Lieutenant looked at Walter, then back at Simo, and finally slammed his hand on the table.

"Fine! Starting tomorrow, all recruits in the platoon, including the ones in Walter's squad, are under your command. Walter, you take the veterans and form an elite group. You're responsible for mobile harassment and taking out Soviet heavy weapon nests."

"Yes, sir." Walter snapped a salute, feeling a massive weight lift from his chest.

…

Returning to his bunker, the gloom in Walter's heart had largely dissipated.

"Vatanen, watch these two idiots while they clear out our latrine. No eating and no sleeping until I give the order."

Walter dropped the command coldly, not even glancing at Eero or Mikko as they sat slumped on the floor. Vatanen smirked. Even though he loved to slack off, he'd been scared half to death by the recruits tonight. He gave Mikko a rough kick in the heel. "Get up! You 'Grand Masters of War,' go get to work before the shit freezes solid!"

Walter leaned against the cold wooden wall, watching the firelight wax and wane. His restless heart finally cooled. He realized he had made a serious error.

He was used to Simo's efficiency and his own "transmigrator's" foresight, forgetting that these boys were just farmers who had just set down their hoes and students who had just closed their books. He had been too impatient, pushing them into a bloody mess before they had even seen a drop of it. It wasn't just the recruits' incompetence; it was his own arrogance and oversight as a commander.

More lethal than the enemy was one's own underestimation of the limits of human endurance.