Mikkeli, Headquarters of the Finnish Defense Forces.
Field Marshal Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim stood before a map of the Karelian Isthmus so heavily marked with red and blue arrows that its original colors were nearly invisible. The crackling pine logs in the fireplace did little to dispel the gloom etched into his features.
The defensive lines on the Isthmus were collapsing at a terrifying speed.
Since Semyon Timoshenko had taken command of the Northwestern Front, the Soviet offensive style had shifted from that of a clumsy barbarian to one of irrational, overwhelming violence. As a commander born of the artillery, Timoshenko did not believe in surprises; he believed only in the diameter of a gun's bore.
Under his command, the Soviets had deployed a staggering 100 guns per kilometer in the breakthrough sectors of the Karelian Isthmus. To counter Finland's reinforced concrete bunkers, Timoshenko ordered heavy artillery, including the massive 203mm B-4 howitzers, to be pushed to the very front lines. These behemoths no longer fired in high arcs; they were aimed point-blank at distances of a few hundred, or even a few dozen, meters.
Each shell that struck could turn meters of reinforced concrete into powder, burying the defenders within. Simultaneously, Timoshenko employed an "onion-peeling" strategy: clearing outer minefields and wire on day one, leveling the exterior bunkers with concentrated fire on day two, and sending infantry to seize the trenches on day three. While this methodical approach cost the Soviets dearly in casualties, it stripped away the room for Finland's flexible mobile defense.
Every inch of soil was being churned over by Soviet heavy iron.
On February 15th, Mannerheim had been forced to order the full retreat of the II Corps.
"Field Marshal, an urgent coded dispatch has arrived from the 9th Infantry Division on the northern shore of Lake Ladoga."
An adjutant hurried in, his face wearing a look of near-dreamlike ecstasy.
Mannerheim didn't turn around. His voice was hoarse. "Did the 18th Division break through the encirclement at Lemetti?"
"No, Field Marshal. The 18th Division... is finished," the adjutant's voice trembled. "The Northern Column has been wiped out. Major General Kondrashov was captured alive by a corporal named Walter. Meanwhile, the Southern Column suffered a devastating blow, and Colonel Kondratiev, commander of the 34th Tank Brigade, is also our prisoner."
Mannerheim spun around, a sharp light flashing in his deep-set eyes. "Kondratiev was taken alive as well?"
"Yes, Field Marshal. In his despair, the tank brigade commander tried to use his service pistol to commit suicide, but Sergeant Simo Häyhä shot him through the wrist from dozens of meters away. The attempt failed."
"A Major General and a Colonel..." Mannerheim set down his cup and paced to the window, looking out at the distant snow-covered plains.
He had thought that annihilating an entire infantry division supported by a tank brigade would be a feat enough. But capturing both commanding officers alive was unprecedented since the start of the Winter War. At a moment when the Isthmus defenses were crumbling and national morale had plummeted to freezing point, this news was like firewood in a blizzard.
Mannerheim remained silent for a moment, his gaze gradually becoming sharp and resolute.
"Tell the units to send Corporal Walter and Sergeant Simo here immediately. Finland needs heroes right now."
…
Inside a spacious officers' mess reinforced with logs.
Heavy canvas covered all the windows to prevent firelight from attracting Soviet night bombers. Inside, the hearth blazed hot, the resinous pine popping in the heat, blending with the aroma of pea soup and the sharp scent of strong spirits. It provided a rare touch of human warmth in a world long dominated by smoke and permafrost.
At the center of the wooden table covered in coarse cloth, the most prominent item wasn't a bottle of liquor, but the blood-stained divisional colors of the Soviet 18th Rifle Division, seized from a BA-10 armored car. This red trophy lay draped over the corner of the table like a discarded rag, a backdrop to the Finnish soldiers' revelry.
"Come, a toast to our Butcher of the Snowy Night and the White Death!"
Colonel Siilasvuo, commander of the 9th Infantry Division, stood up and raised his aluminum cup. His eyes held undisguised admiration. This commander, who had defeated Chuikov and achieved a great victory at Suomussalmi, looked at Walter and Simo as if they were priceless works of art.
"Capturing a Major General and a tank brigade commander!" Siilasvuo laughed loudly, the alcohol bringing a flush to his weather-beaten face. "The Russian 56th Rifle Corps must be crying their eyes out by now. I bet even that commander in Moscow is breaking glasses in a rage."
Walter sat on a bench, taking a sip of his drink. Beside him, Simo remained his usual humble self, nodding politely to the officers, his eyes as clear as if he hadn't just fired dozens of rounds into the Southern Column's flank.
"Originally, I planned to recommend you for honors and keep you in the 9th Division to lead a sniper company," Siilasvuo said, his tone suddenly becoming solemn. "But the news traveled too fast. Headquarters couldn't sit still. The Field Marshal himself requested you. You two must depart for Mikkeli shortly."
"A personal summons from the Field Marshal?" Lieutenant Koskela exclaimed from the side, nearly dropping his black bread.
The company commander flashed a rare smile and patted Walter on the shoulder. "Kid, I knew the 1st Squad couldn't hold onto you. When you see the Field Marshal, tell him the bones on the Isthmus are tough, but the soldiers on the northern shore of Lake Ladoga aren't lagging behind one bit."
"Squad Leader! You can't forget about us!"
A piercing shout came from the stretchers nearby. Vatanen, the "King of Artillery," who was wrapped in a thick layer of gauze around his buttocks and forced to lie prone on a specialized wooden frame, waved a spoon.
"Sergeant Walter—oh wait, after you see the Field Marshal, you'll probably be Warrant Officer Walter or Second Lieutenant Walter!" Vatanen winked at the green recruits who had just come off the battlefield. "See that? That's the pride of the 1st Squad! Someday when I'm healed and back home, I'm putting up a huge sign at the village entrance: Vatanen, King of Lemetti, fought side-by-side with the Butcher of the Snowy Night. The scar on my ass is the witness!"
"Give it a rest, Vatanen," the veteran Ojala said, squinting at him while chewing on salted fish. "That scar only proves the Russians are good at backstabbing. But Walter, Simo... with you two gone, our platoon's combat strength is going to take a massive hit."
Walter turned to the recruits, Kalle and Eero. These two "chicks," who had once been so terrified in the snow pits they wanted to bury the Soviets alive, were now looking at him with a mix of awe and restraint.
"You can pick up a lost rifle, but if you lose your life, everything is gone," Walter walked over and whispered his advice. "Train hard under Second Lieutenant Koskela. He'll teach you how to stay alive."
The time for celebration was brief. The roar of a jeep's engine echoed from outside.
"It's time, heroes." Colonel Siilasvuo personally brought over their rucksacks. "The Isthmus is like a red-hot iron plate right now. Timoshenko is using his giant guns to shatter our bunkers piece by piece. The Field Marshal needs you, not just for your marksmanship, but because Finland needs to prove to the world that we haven't fallen yet."
Walter took his pack, stealing one last glance at the steaming stove in the bunker and at Vatanen, who was still making faces from his stretcher.
He stepped out of the mess hall side-by-side with Simo.
The extreme cold outside caused their body temperatures to plummet instantly. In the distance, the fires of the Lemetti encirclement had died out. Walter tightened the straps of his rucksack and looked at the idling jeep, its exhaust pipe belching thick white smoke.
Colonel Siilasvuo stood in the doorway, the firelight outlining a somber silhouette behind him. He looked at the two young warriors, his voice deep and powerful: "Go. Mikkeli is waiting. As for our 'honored guests,' I will personally arrange an elite company for their escort."
Following the Colonel's gaze, two trucks covered tightly with canvas sat in the snow nearby. They were specifically for transporting Major General Kondrashov and Colonel Kondratiev. To prevent any rescue attempts, the two high-ranking Soviet officers would be moved in separate vehicles, each guarded by machine guns.
As for the divisional flag, the final honor of the 18th Division, it had been carefully placed in a specialized wooden box. It would be escorted overnight by a separate group of military police to Field Marshal Mannerheim's desk, serving as the physical proof of Walter and Simo's extraordinary feat.
"Let's go, Walter," Simo said, opening the jeep door.
Walter climbed in. With a roar of the engine, the jeep carved two deep ruts into the thick snow, speeding away toward the west.
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