Chapter 63: A Desperate Gamble

February 16, 1940. Late at night.

The sky above the Lemetti forest was stained a haunting, dark crimson.

The Soviets had put the torch to everything they couldn't carry—tanks, trucks, and supplies. Flames roared toward the heavens, sending billowing plumes of thick smoke churning into the freezing night air. Even at the Finnish positions several kilometers away, the acrid scent of burning rubber and fuel was unmistakable.

The Soviets were no longer hiding. Or rather, they no longer had any way to hide.

"Those Ruskies have gone mad."

Inside the First Squad's dugout, Vatanen lay propped up on the bunk, struggling to lift himself enough to peer out at the red glow through the small window. The bandages on his rear were bunched up like a massive bun; every slight movement made him hiss and bare his teeth in pain.

"Judging by this, the Russians are going for broke," Vatanen muttered, sucking in a sharp breath of cold air before slapping the wooden frame of the bed. "Dammit, of all the times for the 'Artillery King' to fall, it has to be now. This big a show feels lacking without me there."

Walter was busy waxing his skis, his movements steady and forceful.

"Just stay there and nurse your backside, 'King,'" Lindholm joked as he stuffed extra magazines into his rucksack. "What were you planning to do? Chase down tanks with your ass in the air?"

"Piss off!" Vatanen cursed, then turned back to Walter, his expression turning grave. "Squad Leader, be careful out there. A cornered beast is dangerous, let alone a cornered man."

Walter didn't say a word; he simply nodded. He slung the Mosin-Nagant, wrapped in its white camouflage cloth, over his shoulder, pulled open the door, and stepped out into the bone-chilling wind.

Outside, the platoon position had entered full combat readiness. Second Lieutenant Koskela was directing the recruits and veterans alike in a frantic effort to reinforce the machine-gun nests. Those recruits Walter had once looked down upon were now moving with significantly more agility after a few days of training under Simo, even if their eyes remained wide with nervous tension.

"Recruits on ammo, veterans on the guns!" the Lieutenant's roar echoed through the gale. "The Russians don't have skis; they'll have to crawl through the drifts. Wait until they're close, then treat them like target practice!"

Walter and Simo glided to the edge of the position on their skis. Clad in full white camouflage suits, they looked like two ice sculptures illuminated by the distant, towering inferno.

"Orders from the Company Commander?" Walter asked.

"Just came in," Lieutenant Koskela replied, his face grim. "The Russians have split into two massive columns, pushing east toward Uoma."

"We don't know who's leading, but there are definitely big fish in there," the Lieutenant continued, his eyes reflecting absolute trust. "The machine-gun nests will handle the frontal interception. But you two..."

He looked at Walter and Simo. "Use your speed. Hit the flanks. Don't go head-to-head with the main body; hunt the ones waving their hands, blowing whistles, and giving orders. Choke off the head, and the rest will turn into headless flies."

"Understood," Walter replied softly.

He glanced at Simo. The two men gave a powerful thrust with their ski poles. Their skis, treated with low-temperature wax, made only a faint hiss against the icy surface as they vanished into the forest where red light and deep shadows intertwined.

…

Inside the Encirclement.

Major General Kondrashov stood beside a burning truck, the firelight dancing across his face, which was caked in grime and stubble.

"The time has come," he said hoarsely, glancing at his watch.

By now, the remaining ten thousand Soviet troops had been organized into two gargantuan columns. Most of these soldiers were emaciated and weak, their once-neat greatcoats now tattered like beggars' rags, yet every pair of eyes burned with a manic intensity.

"Northern Column, follow me!" Kondrashov shouted, waving his pistol. Behind him were the divisional staff and the remnants of the infantry battalions.

"Southern Column, follow Colonel Kondratiev!"

Colonel Kondratiev, commander of the 34th Tank Brigade, nodded. This officer, who had once commanded a torrent of steel, now held only a rifle scavenged from a corpse. He led the group of tankers who had lost their vehicles, preparing to force a crossing through the marshes to the south.

"For the Motherland! Break through!" Kondrashov let out a near-desperate roar.

"Urra!"

The Soviet soldiers erupted in a thunderous shout that echoed across the empty snowfields, carrying the tragic weight of men burning their bridges. They had no skis; they had to march on foot into waist-deep snow. Every step consumed a staggering amount of their remaining strength.

Unable to carry heavy weaponry, they clutched their rifles or strapped themselves with grenades, surging slowly and ponderously eastward toward Uoma. Behind them, the massive fires raged, casting long shadows of these figures struggling through the drifts.

Ten thousand remnants, squeezed to their absolute limits by hunger and despair, had transformed into two gray torrents, crashing irrevocably into the deathly silence of the snowfields.

The Northern Column under General Kondrashov, totaling over six thousand men, labored along the edge of the forest north of the road. The Southern Column, with the remaining four thousand tankers and infantry under Colonel Kondratiev, attempted to find a way through the more treacherous terrain to the south.

The Soviets had hoped the burning tanks and trucks would distract the Finns, but they were wrong.

Whump—whump—whump—

Three brilliant flares trailed smoke into the sky, instantly illuminating the dark forest as if it were midday. The Soviet soldiers were exposed completely.

"Fire!"

Lieutenant Koskela's command exploded across the position.

Immediately, the Finnish light and heavy machine guns stationed on every height spat out vengeful tongues of fire. The heavy, rhythmic chugging of the Maxim guns merged into a single, seamless wall of metal.

The breaking Soviet columns were hit with devastating force. Trapped in waist-deep snow, the soldiers had nowhere to hide; before the concentrated hail of bullets, they were nothing but stationary targets.

"Don't stop! Push through! Push through to live!" Soviet officers shrieked manically within the ranks, waving pistols and even sabers, driving their men to throw their flesh and blood against the Finnish line.

It was no longer a battle; it was an unshielded slaughter.

Because of their density, the Northern Column saw rows of men fall like wheat before a scythe in the first volley. Blood sprayed onto the snow, venting steam before the cold froze it into purple-black crusts. Those behind stepped over the still-warm bodies of their comrades, firing blindly into the pitch-black woods.

"This is nothing but a futile suicide run," Walter muttered.

He lay crouched behind a tree on the left flank of the Northern Column, his pupils constricting in the intense cold. As he activated the Eye of Death, the six-thousand-man column appeared as a dark red serpent composed of thousands of suffering, weak heat signatures, writhing frantically through the shadows of the forest edge. Every falling heat signature sent a ripple of rapid cooling through the deep blue background of his vision.

"There are too many of them," Walter whispered, using his momentum to glide effortlessly alongside Simo. "The snowbanks in this sector won't hold back a charge of this scale."

Simo's face was half-buried in his white scarf. "They're using bodies to fill the snow pits. If they can just punch one hole, the remaining thousands might have a chance."

Walter turned his head, looking into the distance. The two dark-red serpents were splitting toward different directions: the six thousand infantry to the north, and the four thousand dismounted tankers to the south.

"We can't stay together, Simo. Staying at one point is too inefficient."

Simo turned his head, a flicker of agreement in his pale blue eyes.

"We split up," Simo said. "I'll take the north. You take the south."

Simo gave Walter a brief, stoic smile before vanishing instantly into the shadows of the dense southern woods.