Chapter 7: Target Practice

In the Karelian Isthmus during early November, the cold wind felt like a blunt knife, incessantly scraping against any exposed skin. It was under these harsh conditions that the cohesion training for the 6th Company, First Squad, began.

In this patchwork collective, the differences between men were greater than the differences between men and dogs, a fact Walter Ilves observed clearly over several days of physical drills.

The logger brothers from Salla, Matti and Toivo, were essentially two brown bears draped in military wool. When carrying logs to construct bunkers, they moved in tandem, shoulders bearing hundreds of pounds of pine, their breathing perfectly synchronized. They spoke little; an occasional grunt from the elder, Matti, was all it took for the younger, Toivo, to tacitly shift the timber two inches to the left. Walter mentally labeled them "Reliable Tanks."

Then there was the university student, Antti. Though thin-framed and clearly struggling with heavy ammunition crates, he was intelligent. During breaks, he would always pull out a small piece of deerskin to meticulously polish his gold-rimmed glasses, a stubborn glint in his eyes.

As for Eero...

Walter cast a cold glance toward the corner. The stuttering little man was attempting to hook his entrenching tool back onto his belt, but his hands were shaking so badly he failed three times. Even the sight of a squirrel leaping through the treetops made him hunch his shoulders like a startled rabbit.

...

In the afternoon, they moved to the firing range. The sky was leaden, looking as if it might collapse at any moment. The wind was high, a frustrating, shifting crosswind.

"Live fire exercise. Five rounds each. One-hundred-meter targets," Simo Häyhä announced, standing by the firing line. He was still chewing tobacco, his gaze placid. "This isn't hunting; I don't need you to hit the dead center. As long as you can get it on the paper, you can put a Russian down."

The first group up was the "Problem Child" trio: Pekka, Juha, and Eero.

The gunshots rang out sporadically. Juha lay on the ground like a mountain of flesh. He knew nothing of windage correction, relying entirely on raw strength to fire.

BANG! BANG!

Despite his unsightly form, Juha’s brute force managed to land three rounds on the target paper, though they were scattered like a handful of sesame seeds. Pekka fared worse; his impatient nature led him to jerk the trigger, leaving only a single round barely grazing the edge.

The real disaster was Eero. From the moment the first shot rang out, he squeezed his eyes shut. The heavy recoil sent his shoulders shuddering, and his glasses slid down to the tip of his nose.

"Eyes open! Eero, open your eyes!" Simo barked, his voice unusually raised.

But fear had seized Eero’s mind. With a face contorted in near-tears, he fired off his remaining rounds blindly. The marker waved the red flag, signaling complete misses.

"I... I'm sorry..." Eero hunched over, not daring to meet the squad leader’s eyes, his voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Walter watched the scene expressionlessly, his finger tracing the bolt of his rifle. Compassion has no place in command. If he were the squad leader, he might suggest transferring Eero to the mess hall to peel potatoes.

"Next group. Matti, Toivo, Antti."

The atmosphere shifted instantly. When the two brothers lay down, an aura as steady as bedrock settled over them. Their rate of fire wasn't fast, but it was rhythmic. When the five rounds were finished, their results were solid. Matti hit the target with every shot, mostly 6s and 7s; Toivo had one flyer, but the rest held the paper. For a standard infantryman, this was qualified fire output.

"Antti, you’re up."

The bespectacled student took a deep breath and lay in the cold, damp mud. Walter watched Antti’s movements with interest. Is this kid... calculating?

Antti didn't aim by feel. He extended his thumb to measure the distance and seemed to be muttering under his breath. His adjustments to the sight were slow, tedious, even. It took a full thirty seconds before he squeezed off the first shot.

BANG!

An 8.

Another long adjustment.

BANG!

A 9.

By the time Antti finished his five rounds, he had taken three times longer than the others. When the scorecard came back, aside from the first 8, the remaining four were all 9s. Impressive data.

"Not bad!" Juha whistled. "Seems knowing math is good for something after all."

Antti pushed up his glasses shyly, a trace of pride on his face. "It's not that hard."

"It’s not hard," Simo’s voice cut in, not loud, but piercing. He looked at Antti and shook his head. "You’re accurate. But in a real fight, while you’re adjusting for that first shot, a Russian would have already charged and bayoneted you."

Antti’s smile froze, and he lowered his head in thought.

"Finally, Walter." Simo turned and unslung a Mosin-Nagant without a scope. "Come on. Let's make it a pair."

It wasn't an order; it was an invitation. The entire squad’s attention snapped to the two of them. Walter smiled and settled into the firing position next to Simo.

"No need for formalities. Five rounds rapid fire. Smallest grouping wins," Simo said, cycling his bolt.

"I’m game."

This time, Walter didn't hesitate. In that instant, the noise of the world fell away.

Eye of Death, activated.

His heartbeat became heavy and slow. Through his 3.5x Zeiss scope, the bullseye a hundred meters away was as clear as if it were right in front of him. Even the minute vibration of the wind catching the target paper was captured by his retina and infinitely magnified. He didn't need to over-adjust like Antti; the trajectory of the bullet simplified into red, intuitive lines in his mind.

Round one. The moment the non-existent red cross overlapped with the scope’s reticle, his finger pulled back naturally.

BANG!

Almost simultaneously, Simo fired.

Walter didn't pause. In the lingering echo of "bullet time," he worked the bolt with fluid speed. The brass casing ejected by the extractor tumbled through the air, glinting in the dim light.

Second round... third round...

The gunshots of the two men interlaced like a rapid drumbeat. Compared to Antti, their shooting was a form of art. Simo’s speed was a fluid, flowing grace, relying on mechanical sights and the muscle memory of tens of thousands of rounds. Walter’s speed was a heart-stopping precision, a lock-on that felt like cheating.

Five rounds finished.

Walter didn't need the marker to run out; he could see the results through his scope. On Simo’s target, five holes were tightly clustered around the bullseye, roughly the size of a fist. Under shifting winds and with iron sights, this was superhuman.

And on Walter’s target...

There was only one irregular, large hole directly in the center. Five bullets had literally chewed through the exact same spot in the ten-ring.

A dead silence fell over the range.

Matti and Toivo stood with their mouths hanging open, looking as if they had just seen a bear riding a bicycle. Even Antti forgot to wipe his glasses, staring blankly at that "single hole."

"Is... is that even humanly possible?" Pekka stammered.

Simo lowered his rifle and stood up. He wasn't annoyed by being "bested." Instead, he walked over to inspect Walter’s target paper closely.

"Walter."

"Here." Walter cased his rifle. The mental strain of that round left him slightly lightheaded, but he hid it well.

"That’s not the marksmanship of a soldier," Simo said, looking at him meaningfully. "It's too cold. Like a machine. But..." A slight smile tugged at the corner of Simo’s mouth as he patted Walter’s shoulder. "As long as it’s pointed at the Russians, the colder the better."

He turned back to the stunned recruits and roared:

"Have you seen enough? Then clean your rifles! If I find a single grain of sand in a barrel, no one eats tonight!"

Walter watched Simo’s short silhouette walk away and let out a silent sigh of relief. It seemed the firepower of "First Squad" was starting to take shape. Despite Eero's weakness and Antti's theoretical obsession, as long as he and Simo served as the two sharpest blades, they stood a chance, even against the Red Juggernaut.

However...

Walter looked toward the east. The sky was growing darker, as if a blizzard were brewing. The wheels of history had reached the edge of the cliff.

November 30 was not far off.