A sudden squall swept through, and visibility plummeted instantly. While this made aiming a challenge, it became the perfect veil for the partisans.
Walter Ilves lay beneath a pine tree, allowing the falling snow to gradually blanket his shoulders and the barrel of his rifle.
The Eye of Death activated.
The blizzard ceased to be an obstacle; instead, it transformed into a series of lines through which trajectories could be calculated. Through his scope, he saw the Soviet sentry atop the watchtower, neck tucked into his collar, carelessly stomping his feet—clearly, the wretched weather had eroded his vigilance. He saw the cluster of soldiers huddled around the fire, even making out the one pulling a bottle of vodka from his greatcoat to take a long swig.
What a perfect day for a drink, Walter thought with a cold internal sneer, his finger resting lightly against the trigger.
Below the snow slope, Raivo and the assault team held their breath in concentration. Simo and several other partisans had already locked onto their respective targets. Every eye was fixed on Raivo's raised right hand.
"Ready..." Raivo's hand snapped down. "Fire!"
In nearly the same heartbeat, five or six rifles spat tongues of flame.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The gunshots were no longer scattered; they merged into a single, deafening peal of thunder. Walter's first shot drilled precisely into the brow of the Soviet observer on the tower. The soldier didn't even have time to scream; his body stiffened before he tumbled from the high platform like a discarded sack of flour.
At the same moment, Simo and the others opened up.
Dada-dada-dada—!
A dense hail of lead instantly blanketed the soldiers around the fire. This wasn't a battle; it was a calculated slaughter. The men who hadn't even processed the first gunshot fell like harvested wheat. Blood hissed as it splattered against the flames, sending up a sickening, metallic stench.
"Contact! Take cover!" a Soviet officer reacted with incredible speed, rolling behind a wall of sandbags while roaring orders for a counterattack. "Machine guns! Suppress those woods!"
The Soviet reaction time was formidable. Two Maxim heavy machine guns at the high points began to roar, their thick tongues of flame flickering through the storm as they lashed the trees where Walter and Simo lay hidden. Bullets sheared through branches, sending chunks of snow crashing down.
"Now! Move out!"
While the Soviets were fixated on the frontal fire, Lieutenant Raivo led his assault team in a strike from behind the flanking snowbank.
"Grenades!"
Wrapped in white camouflage, several partisans closed the distance under the cover of the blizzard, hurlng a volley of grenades into the Soviet trenches and bunkers.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Violent explosions rocked the valley in rapid succession. Several semi-buried bunkers collapsed. The black smoke from the blasts was instantly torn away by the gale, leaving behind only a landscape of wreckage and severed limbs.
Raivo charged through the drifts, his Suomi submachine gun barking. In close-quarters combat, the weapon known as the "Finnish Death" was peerless. Its 71-round drum provided relentless, ferocious fire that pinned back any Soviets attempting to peak out from cover.
Within minutes, the outer defensive line of the checkpoint was torn wide open. The white snow was littered with bodies in khaki greatcoats, and the air was filled with the wails of the wounded.
"That's enough!" Raivo knew better than to push his luck. The raid had already exceeded its objectives, with over a dozen Soviets dead and part of their fortifications destroyed. It was enough to deny them sleep for days. "Withdraw! Fall back as planned!"
Without hesitation, the partisans provided leapfrog cover and quickly melted back into the forest.
"Don't let them escape! Pursue! Find them!" The soot-stained Soviet officer crawled from cover, shaking with rage at the carnage. "A few of you stay and reinforce the line! The rest of you, follow me! We have to catch these rats! I want them hanged!"
Though furious, the officer had not lost his reason. He left enough men to hold the position and personally led a pursuit force of roughly twenty men out of the checkpoint.
…
"They're coming," Walter noted, watching the Soviets stumble through the deep snow.
The Soviets moved fast, but their formation grew loose in their haste. Leading them was the soot-stained officer, waving a Tokarev pistol and shouting at his men to keep up. But as he chased them into the eerie silence of the thicket, years of battlefield instinct made him stop dead.
"Halt!" The officer threw up his hand, a flash of terror in his eyes. "Something's wrong! Retreat! Fall back now!"
He spun around to run.
"Trying to leave? Too late," Walter's finger squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
A crisp report, like a judge's gavel. The Soviet officer's body jerked as a bullet punched through his back and out his chest.
The Soviet unit dissolved into chaos. The soldiers stared in horror at their fallen commander, scurrying like headless flies, unsure where to hide.
"Hit 'em!" Raivo roared, his Suomi leading the way.
Dada-dada-dada—!
The partisans lying in wait on both flanks opened fire simultaneously. Though the preparation had been hurried, the crossfire from a dozen submachine guns and rifles created a suffocating net of death over the twenty-odd leaderless, panicked soldiers.
Bullets poured down like a deluge, shredding bark and flesh alike. The Soviets fell in heaps. Some tried to return fire but were riddled with lead before they could pull the trigger; others tried to go prone for cover, only to find themselves staring into the muzzles of the enemy.
"Ahhh—!"
The screams, the gunfire, and the sound of boots trampling through snow turned the peaceful forest into a slaughterhouse.
Simo didn't rush his fire. He watched the field with cold detachment, picking off veteran soldiers who tried to organize a defense or flee. Every few bursts from his submachine gun resulted in another Soviet body hitting the ground.
It was an annihilation with no suspense. In this snow-choked wood, leaderless and broken-spirited Soviets were merely lambs for the slaughter, regardless of their numbers. Within minutes, most lay dead or dying. A few survivors dropped their weapons and scrambled back toward the checkpoint, wishing they had two more legs.
"Stop!" Raivo checked the men who wanted to give chase. "We've made our profit. If we push further, we might run into their reinforcements."
"Scavenge the field! Fast! Take everything useful!" Raivo commanded.
The partisans expertly stripped the dead of ammunition, rations, grenades, and even warm boots and gloves.
"Beautifully done!" Raivo strode over and clapped Walter hard on the shoulder, his face lit with unmaskable excitement. "That shot was divine! If that officer hadn't gone down so fast, we would've had our hands full."
"Luck," Walter smiled faintly, declining the glory. "It was the team's coordination."
"Is everyone accounted for?" Simo asked.
"Everyone," Raivo counted his men. "Just a few scratches, not a single serious injury. It's a miracle!"
For a partisan unit that lived on the razor's edge, walking away from a head-on clash unscathed was indeed something to celebrate.
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