Chapter 309: Operation Spring Rain
With Yezhov's downfall, Boris finally took command of the Soviet war effort.
But command did not mean freedom.
Stalin had already drawn a clear red line around the campaign: the offensive against Finland was to continue. Boris could adjust methods, correct logistical failures, and reorganize units, but he could not simply halt the war and return to negotiations.
Still, his appointment brought immediate improvements.
Within days, Boris issued six consecutive directives demanding accurate casualty reports, transparent logistics, and stricter coordination between frontline formations. The reckless attacks previously launched by confused or politically terrified middle-ranking officers quickly decreased.
For the first time since the war began, Soviet casualty figures fell to something approaching a tolerable level.
But restoring order came with a price.
The collapse of the northern offensive, combined with the replacement of the commanders directing the campaign, forced Soviet formations across several sectors to contract their lines and reorganize.
Nearly half the territory purchased with the lives of close to a hundred thousand Soviet soldiers was abandoned.
Naturally, Stalin was furious.
Pressure from the Kremlin began to mount almost immediately.
Boris therefore had no choice but to prepare a second major offensive.
Its codename was Operation Spring Rain.
And the first blow would come from the sky.
After nearly two weeks of miserable weather, the Soviet Air Force finally received a window.
For days, low clouds and relentless rain had grounded large bomber formations around Leningrad. Now the weather had improved enough for them to take off.
One formation after another climbed through the gray sky.
Their target was Helsinki.
The Finnish capital.
Far to the west, completely unaware of what was approaching, a German cameraman named Laro wandered through the streets with his camera resting against his chest.
He filmed everything.
The shoreline.
Dockworkers unloading cargo.
Fishermen repairing their nets.
Children chasing one another along the square.
And above them all, the blue and white Finnish flag fluttering stubbornly against the spring wind.
The European Union correspondent accompanying him finally lost patience.
"Laro, what exactly are you filming?"
Laro lowered his camera.
The reporter gestured irritably toward the harbor.
"We didn't come to Finland to advertise beaches."
He stepped closer and lowered his voice.
"No one is going to donate money because Helsinki has attractive scenery. No one is going to curse Stalin because fishermen look picturesque. And no one is going to volunteer for military service because children are playing in a square."
He tapped the camera with one finger.
"You're not photographing wildlife anymore. We're covering a war."
Laro gave him an annoyed glance but said nothing.
The correspondent had once worked in planning for the German Ministry of Propaganda. He understood something Laro disliked admitting.
Public opinion was rarely shaped by truth alone.
It was shaped by emotion.
And emotion could be manufactured.
"Come on."
The reporter dragged him toward the central square.
A Finnish infantry column was marching through beneath a large banner.
DRIVE SOVIET RUSSIA FROM OUR LAND!
"That," the reporter said, "is what people want to see."
Laro reluctantly raised his camera.
The reporter positioned him beside a wall covered with anti-Soviet posters, making sure a mud-stained Finnish flag remained visible within the frame.
Then he went further.
Two newspaper boys were called over.
The correspondent handed them three German Marks, an outrageous amount of money for children their age.
Within minutes, the boys had been given patched clothing, had water dabbed beneath their eyes to resemble tears, and were holding anti-Soviet placards while staring solemnly toward Laro's camera.
Laro watched the performance with visible disgust.
It was false.
Every element had been arranged.
The tears.
The clothing.
The expressions.
Even the angle at which they held the signs.
But work was work.
He found the cleanest composition he could and filmed the scene.
Their behavior soon attracted attention.
Two Finnish policemen approached.
"Gentlemen, what are you doing here?"
Before the questioning could continue, the reporter calmly produced his passport.
German.
The attitude of the policemen changed almost immediately.
In the new Europe, a German passport carried nearly as much weight as gold.
Germany had defeated France, broken Britain, dominated continental politics, and established itself at the center of the European Union.
Few officials wanted a minor incident involving a German citizen to become a diplomatic headache.
Especially after Berlin's earlier declarations concerning ethnic Germans in Central Europe had shown how quickly an individual dispute could be transformed into an international issue.
The policemen relaxed.
One was about to return the passport when a sound rose over the city.
Woo...
The air raid sirens began to howl.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then everyone looked upward.
Dark shapes were emerging through the clouds.
Bombers.
Soviet bombers.
The policemen reacted first.
"Air raid!"
One of them grabbed his whistle.
"Everyone take cover! Basements! Shelters! Move!"
His shout broke the paralysis.
The square exploded into chaos.
People shoved past one another.
Parents grabbed children.
Shopkeepers abandoned their stalls.
Workers ran for stairwells and underground shelters.
The two German journalists, as foreign correspondents, immediately received special treatment.
"This way!"
A policeman seized the reporter's arm and hurried him toward a nearby basement.
The correspondent allowed himself to be dragged inside.
Then he looked around.
Something was wrong.
"Laro?"
No answer.
He looked again.
"Laro?"
His face went pale.
"Where the hell is Laro?"
Outside, Laro was walking directly into the air raid.
His hands gripped a Bell camera fitted with a specialized Zeiss lens.
Everyone else was fleeing underground.
He was heading toward the open streets.
Above him, Soviet bombers circled through the gray clouds.
Laro raised the camera.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Finnish anti-aircraft machine guns opened fire.
Tracer rounds streaked upward, converging across the sky in glowing streams.
Then the heavier batteries joined them.
Boom!
Black bursts of anti-aircraft fire blossomed between the bombers.
One aircraft jerked violently.
Another lost control.
Two Soviet bombers began spiraling downward.
One slammed directly into the spire of Helsinki Cathedral.
Flame and wreckage erupted around the tower.
For a fraction of a second, the cross stood framed against burning aircraft debris and black smoke.
Laro captured it.
Click.
Another frame.
Click.
Again.
He could barely breathe.
Adrenaline flooded through him so violently that fear disappeared altogether.
He was no longer thinking about survival.
Only the image.
The composition.
The moment.
For those few minutes, Laro felt like Dante walking through Hell and discovering that the inferno was real.
Above him, bomb bay doors opened.
The first bombs fell.
Whistling.
Descending.
Then came the explosions.
Boom!
A tavern that had been crowded earlier vanished beneath a cloud of brick, dust, and flame.
The blast tore through the structure and collapsed the upper floors.
Among those sheltering inside were the children who had spoken with the journalists earlier.
The same children the reporter had tried to turn into props.
They did not emerge.
Laro's camera remained raised.
Smoke rose from burning alcohol and shattered timbers.
Through the chaos, he thought he could hear people screaming beneath the ruins.
Then the industrial district was struck.
Boom!
A storage tank erupted.
Flaming fuel surged outward.
Another explosion followed.
Then another.
Within moments, a vast orange glow had swallowed the skyline.
The clouds above Helsinki turned the color of blood.
Factories still operating despite the war disappeared beneath falling bombs.
The Soviet Union claimed to represent the worker.
The bombs made no distinction.
Workers died with everyone else.
Then came the incendiaries.
Hundreds of burning points descended through the sky like sparks cast from some enormous furnace.
Roofs caught fire.
Wooden buildings ignited.
Whole streets began burning at once.
Heat pushed through the city in waves.
Gunpowder mixed with smoke, scorched wood, burning fuel, and something far worse.
Burned flesh.
The smell nearly made Laro vomit.
Still he filmed.
He recorded homes collapsing into flame.
He recorded civilians dragging the wounded from shattered buildings.
He recorded blackened bodies lying beside broken masonry.
He recorded fragments that had once belonged to human beings.
"My God..."
The words escaped his mouth without thought.
Yet his camera continued running.
Only when the Soviet formation finally withdrew and Finnish fighters arrived to pursue the stragglers did Laro's strength abandon him.
He dropped beside the fountain in the square.
The camera remained in his hands.
His legs would no longer support him.
For several minutes, he simply sat there amid drifting ash and distant screams.
Then the reporter appeared.
Two policemen were with him.
The correspondent spotted Laro and immediately ran toward him.
"You absolute lunatic!"
He grabbed Laro by the shoulder.
"Are you insane? If you die here, I'm finished too!"
Laro barely reacted.
Instead, he slowly raised the film canister in his hand.
"I recorded everything."
The reporter froze.
His eyes shifted toward the burning city.
Then toward the film.
Understanding struck him all at once.
He snatched the canister from Laro's hand.
"Everything?"
Laro nodded.
The reporter stared at it as though he were holding a bar of gold.
Then he kissed the film canister.
"Jesus Christ."
Again.
"Jesus Christ, Laro, you've done it."
His exhaustion vanished beneath excitement.
"When we get back to Berlin, I'm buying you the finest French dinner money can buy."
He shook his head.
"No. Forget that. I'll take you to Paris. London too!"
He held the film up.
"This will make us famous. Do you understand? Famous!"
His eyes were almost shining.
"This could make us rich. Hell, this might even earn us an audience with the President."
Laro said nothing.
A policeman reached down to help him stand.
Laro waved him away.
Slowly, he forced himself onto his feet.
Around them, civilians and firefighters were already trying to extinguish the flames.
Buckets moved from hand to hand.
Men climbed onto shattered roofs.
Women dragged belongings from burning homes.
Somewhere in the distance, someone was crying for a missing child.
Laro looked at the film canister in the reporter's hand.
Then he spoke quietly.
"Throw away everything we filmed before."
The reporter's smile faded slightly.
"The staged shots?"
"All of it."
Laro stared at the burning streets.
"No fake tears."
"No arranged children."
"No manufactured misery."
His voice was exhausted, but firm.
"We don't need it anymore."
He looked toward the smoke rising over Helsinki.
"Let's show them something real."
…..
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Frieren: The Demon Who Learned to Love