After the decoration ceremony concluded, the streets of Mikkeli remained blanketed in heavy snow, but the shrill, excited cries of newsboys had already spread through every alleyway.
On the front pages, the photograph of Walter and Simo standing beside Field Marshal Mannerheim served as the nation's final shot of adrenaline. Yet, away from the clamor, Walter and Simo were granted three days of precious leave.
Since Mikkeli was not too far from his hometown of Vyborg, Walter returned to the familiar surgeon's home before reporting to the Isthmus defense line.
Pushing open the door, the house was filled with the scent of burning pine resin mixed with the familiar medicinal aroma of clove oil.
"Walter?"
Walter's mother was sitting by the hearth mending clothes. When she saw the upright figure in the second lieutenant's uniform at the door, her needle and thread slipped to the floor.
In the study, his father, the elder Dr. Ilves, heard the commotion and hurried out from behind his newspaper.
…
At the dinner table, the elder Dr. Ilves and his wife sat opposite their son.
Spread across the table were smoked ham and creamed potatoes, rare luxuries in wartime, provided by the military as special rations for the families of heroes.
The First Class Mannerheim Cross, glittering with a golden light that could drive any Finnish soldier to madness, lay casually on the coarse linen tablecloth where Walter had placed it.
"Your mother and I saw it in the papers," the elder Dr. Ilves said, looking at the medal representing Finland's highest honor with a complex expression.
As a surgeon, he knew all too well the wounds, the blood, and the narrow escapes from death that such a medal represented.
"Capturing a Major General alive..." The father lowered his fork, his voice trembling slightly. "Walter, I am proud of you, but I am more afraid... afraid that next time, I'll see your name on the casualty list."
Walter's mother merely lowered her head to wipe away tears, continuously piling meat onto her son's plate. In their eyes, he was neither the Butcher of the Snowy Night nor a Knight of the Mannerheim Cross; he was simply a child forced to take up a gun.
Looking at the new streaks of white in his parents' hair, the cold, iron-like resolve Walter had forged on the battlefield thawed slightly at the edges.
"I leave for the Isthmus the day after tomorrow, early morning," Walter said calmly, setting down his utensils.
…
Before leaving, Walter did not take the heavy medal with him.
Instead, he tucked it into a drawer in his father's study, sliding the weight of the honor beneath a thick manuscript of Human Anatomy.
"Take it with you, Walter. It is your glory," his mother urged.
Walter shook his head and fastened the collar button of his tunic.
In the Finnish national psyche, this reserved, grim, and nearly stubborn spirit is known as Sisu. It is not a sudden burst of heroism, but a form of endurance pressed into the very marrow of one's bones. It means lurking in deep snow at minus forty degrees for ten hours without a word; it means steadily racking the bolt in the face of tanks that outnumber you tenfold; and it means that after receiving the highest honor, one can turn around, lock it in a drawer, and vanish once more as a ghost in the forest.
True Sisu is silent.
Just as Walter and Simo believed: the truly lethal wolf never barks, and a true hero never relies on a piece of shiny metal to define the strength of his spine.
…
After leaving home, Walter did not immediately board the train to the front. Instead, he and Simo headed to a secret warehouse on the outskirts of Mikkeli.
It was an armory reserved by General Headquarters for the Knights of the Mannerheim Cross.
"Second Lieutenant Ilves, Second Lieutenant Simo, the Marshal instructed that you have priority pick of anything here."
An ordnance officer saluted politely and pushed open the heavy warehouse doors.
To face the impending bloodbath on the Karelian Isthmus, Walter and Simo had to upgrade their gear. Walter's primary target was a Mosin-Nagant M39, an improvement over the M28/30 produced by the SAKO factory. Although this rifle was standardized in 1939, historically, only ten had been manufactured by the end of the Winter War.
"Oh, you have an excellent eye," the officer said, his tone bordering on fanatical. "This is our masterpiece. We call it the Ukko-Pekka, the Pekka."
Walter picked up the rifle. The moment it touched his hands, the steady, solid sense of power made his eyes light up.
The rifle earned its nickname, the "Spitz," because the two semi-circular guards on either side of the front sight resembled the upright ears of a Finnish Spitz dog. Compared to the rugged Soviet Mosin-Nagants, this M39 was a work of art.
"Heavy barrel..." Walter murmured, feeling the steel, which was significantly thicker than a standard rifle's.
This meant that even under high-intensity continuous fire, the barrel would not undergo the subtle heat deformation that sacrifices accuracy. It ensured absolute precision. He cycled the bolt expertly; the action had been finely polished, and the tolerances were incredibly tight.
"Lieutenant, this rifle features a new semi-pistol grip. The ergonomics are much closer to a target rifle," the officer continued. "And the trigger is a two-stage design with an extremely crisp break."
"There is one more thing you must remember, Lieutenant." The officer's expression turned solemn as he took some ammunition from the counter. "This is our Finnish-produced 7.62×53mmR."
Walter raised an eyebrow, signaling him to continue.
"The rifling of this Pekka is specifically designed for this 53mm round with very tight tolerances. If you run out of ammo on the battlefield, the Soviet 7.62×54mmR, though only a millimeter longer, can be forced into the chamber and fired. However, the bullet won't fit as snugly in the bore."
The officer pointed to a distant target. "Using Soviet ammo, this rifle's accuracy at three hundred meters will drop by at least one grade. So, unless it's a matter of life and death, do not use the Russians' bullets."
Walter nodded. He understood how lethal such details could be in extreme environments.
"Pair it with this for me."
Walter pointed to a German Zeiss 4x optical sight in a nearby box. Simo, however, still refused to use a scope. He took an identical M39 and wrapped the handguard in his signature coarse white cloth.
"I'll also need this."
Walter selected a brand-new Suomi KP/-31 submachine gun and requested five additional 71-round high-capacity drum magazines. For protection, he swapped his gear for a set of reinforced cold-weather clothing imported from Germany, topped with a specialized waterproof white canvas cloak, lightweight material that effectively minimized body heat loss.
Finally, the ordnance officer handed over a small bottle.
"This is a specialized gun oil mixed with thinned kerosene," the officer whispered. "At minus forty degrees, standard oil turns into glue. This will ensure your Pekka keeps roaring in the ice and snow."
…
As they stepped out of the armory, the thunder of artillery from the eastern Isthmus defense line had already merged into a single, continuous roar. Timoshenko was using countless cannons to ruthlessly flay the flesh from Finland's bones.
Walter and Simo boarded the train to the front side-by-side.
In the photograph published in the newspapers, they were decorated heroes. But in this moment, they carried their elite armaments into the fray to meet the Soviet fire that sought to grind everything into dust.
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