The dull, distant boom emanating from the woods was like a crisp school bell to Wolf's ears.
He sat hunched over a fallen log, gnawing at his fingernails with a morbid intensity. His greasy, filth-stained dark brown greatcoat was now speckled with several fresh, jarring splotches of dark crimson—spray from his earlier "labor" upon the two Finns.
Wolf seemed utterly indifferent to the stains. Even as he bit at a hangnail, his tongue caught a lingering, metallic hint of blood. This primal, revolting habit was his go-to ritual whenever he was gripped by extreme excitement.
Finally ceasing the self-mutilation of his hands, Wolf grabbed the binoculars hanging at his chest and stood, peering toward the site of the explosion.
"Finally showed your heads."
Through the lenses, Wolf saw the drifting gunsmoke and the white figures shrinking back and cursing in the snow. He patiently adjusted the focus, scanning the crowd. Soon, two familiar silhouettes leaped into view. One was the short veteran who always lurked in the shadows with godlike marksmanship; the other was the young man who had nearly peeled off his scalp.
"Twenty men," Wolf counted under his breath.
He glanced behind him. Fifty Soviet soldiers lay coiled in the shadows of the forest, with two 82mm mortars already set up beside them. By all logic, fifty against twenty, the advantage was his. Following a successful ambush and a counter-strike, Wolf should have ordered a general charge.
But he didn't.
The psychological shadow Walter and Simo had cast over him was too deep; they were practically Finnish supermen. Until he determined whether the enemy had further reinforcements, he chose the most cautious path.
"Hold fire. Spread out and tail them," Wolf commanded in a low rasp. "I'm going to wipe them out along with that partisan base we haven't been able to find, all in one go."
…
At the edge of the clearing where the blast occurred, the atmosphere was suffocatingly grim.
"Stop looking! Move! It's a trap!" Simo barked, grabbing Lieutenant Raivo, who looked to be on the verge of a breakdown.
Walter stood by the ruins of a trench. Though his Eye of Death was currently deactivated, a sharp instinct made the hair on his neck stand up. He didn't look at the mangled remains on the ground; instead, he snapped his head toward the depths of the thicket to their rear flank.
"They're watching us," Walter's voice was extremely low, yet carried an undeniable certainty.
"It's Wolf," Simo felt the bolt of his submachine gun. "The bastard's learned. He's waiting for us to lead the way."
Lieutenant Raivo panted heavily, a flicker of reason returning to his bloodshot eyes. He looked toward the base, the direction of the hunter's cabin, and then toward the opposite southeast.
"We absolutely cannot lead these bastards back to the cabin. Juha and Aalto are still lying there. Old Juhani and the few left behind won't be able to stop them," Simo muttered.
Raivo ground his teeth so hard they nearly cracked, then gave a fierce wave of his hand. "Everyone, full speed toward Bone-Crusher Ridge! Lead them away!"
Seeing the Finns suddenly pivot and accelerate, Wolf knew the game was up.
"Since we're spotted, there's no need for hide-and-seek."
He leapt from the log, brushed the snow from his coat, and gave a cold wave of his hand. "Fire! Mortars, two rounds rapid! Infantry, advance by bounds, suppress them!"
Thump! Thump!
The dull reports of the mortars shattered the silence of the forest. Immediately after, the fifty-plus Soviet soldiers did not engage in a blind, screaming charge. Instead, they displayed a remarkably steady tactical discipline. They moved in squads, utilizing the trees for cover and leapfrogging with practiced precision. The soldiers in front went prone in snow pits to provide suppressive fire, while those in the rear dashed to the next point of cover.
"Cover! Return fire!" Simo yelled.
Walter rolled behind an earthen mound and shouldered his Mosin-Nagant M28/30. Through the iron sights, he saw a Soviet soldier leaning out from behind a massive tree.
Bang!
Walter pulled the trigger; the soldier collapsed instantly. Walter aimed again, picking off a Soviet soldier trying to set up a light machine gun. When that gunner fell, his loader lunged for the weapon almost instantly, dragging the machine gun behind another tree to continue spitting lead.
Something was wrong.
In Walter's estimation, while these enemies weren't quite as elite as the squad Wolf had led previously, they were certainly not green recruits who would be broken by a single shot. Their advance was not fast, but it was rhythmic; their fire support was nearly seamless. These were clearly regular infantry, well-trained and battle-hardened.
Walter's heart sank. Wolf had brought fifty of these men, and they weren't blundering or faltering. They were like a tightening iron ring, grinding forward with steady deliberation. This was the most headache-inducing tactic possible. It meant Wolf was no longer chasing a flashy surprise attack; he intended to use absolute superior numbers and fire volume to bleed them dry in this forest.
…
The gaps between the trees became lethal apertures; every trunk potentially hid a spitting muzzle.
"Flank! They're crawling up the slope!"
"Three," Walter whispered mechanically. The Mosin-Nagant let out a heavy metallic clack as he cycled the bolt, the scalding brass casing hitting the snow and releasing a faint wisp of blue smoke.
Simo, meanwhile, was a tireless harvester. He didn't stay in one position, moving rapidly through the snow from cover to cover. Every time his submachine gun barked, it was a rhythmic three-round burst.
Dada-da—dada-da—
Simo always found the seams between the trees, his bullets drilling into the armpits, waists, or ankles of the khaki greatcoats.
However, the Soviet retaliation was equally violent. Wolf roared from the rear, driving his men to push through the pressure.
"Mortars! Eleven o'clock!"
Thump—thump—
The dull thuds sounded, followed by an explosion twenty meters in front of Walter. A massive shockwave of frozen earth and black smoke surged upward. A pine tree, sheared in half by the blast, came crashing down with a whistle, nearly burying Walter beneath it.
He saw a partisan push out from cover to shield a wounded comrade, firing wildly. But in less than two seconds, at least five rifles opened up on him simultaneously. His body jerked violently in the snow, as if pulled by countless invisible wires. His chest was shredded into a bloody sieve, blood spraying across the ground like water.
The Soviet soldiers in the woods were like a brownish-tan tide. Though the rocks and Finnish bullets forced them into bloody sprays of foam, the momentum was unstoppable.
"Grenades! Keep them down!"
Several Finnish stick grenades were hurled, blossoming into fireballs among the trees. Using the screen of smoke from the explosions, Raivo led his remaining survivors in a desperate dash toward Bone-Crusher Ridge.
At the final moment of the retreat, Walter stole a glance back. The woods were littered with fallen bodies, some leaning against trees, others face-down in snow pits. The khaki and the snow-white corpses intertwined to form a tableau titled "Hell." He saw Wolf standing beside a scorched crater, his boot resting atop a Finnish casualty who hadn't quite died, staring coldly in the direction of the retreat.
…
Bone-Crusher Ridge, masked by heavy snow, wasn't a vertical precipice but a high slope composed of jagged rock piles. The terrain was treacherous, riddled with cracks hidden under the snow and stone ridges sharp as knives. The incline was steep, exceeding sixty degrees. To those unfamiliar with the terrain, it was a literal bone-crusher; a single misstep could send one plunging into an ice-covered crevice to snap an ankle.
"Stay out of the open! Use the rocks to climb!" Lieutenant Raivo shouted.
By now, the partisans had lost nearly half their strength. The original twenty-man unit was down to eleven, three of whom were significantly wounded. They stumbled into the boulder field, using the rocks as natural bunkers.
Bang!
Walter lay behind a massive rock shaped like a camel's hump, his barrel resting directly on the cold stone. His vision pierced through the swirling snowflakes, locking onto a Soviet soldier attempting to leap across a gap between the stones.
Under the gaze of Walter's Eye of Death, the Soviet's movements became sluggish and riddled with openings. The bullet tore through the air, accurately flipping the man's steel helmet.
"Seven," Walter counted softly, cycling the bolt.
Simo was at another high point nearby. His submachine gun spat fire with deadly rhythm, every short burst suppressing small squads of advancing Soviets. Under the overlapping fire of these two "Gods of Death," Soviet casualties were far heavier than those of the partisans. Of the fifty-plus men Wolf had brought, nearly twenty bodies now lined the path of the pursuit.
———————
Want to read ahead of schedule? Head over here ——— pa-tre-on.c-om/AlexandrusTL [remove the hyphen for normal access]