February 23, 1940.
As the train, laden with ammunition and a handful of replacements, pulled out of Mikkeli station, Walter sat in the corner of a frigid carriage, clutching a newspaper he had grabbed from the platform.
For the Soviets across the Isthmus, this day was a sacred milestone: Red Army Day.
It was also known as the Day of the Defender of the Fatherland.
The irony was not lost on him, as these "defenders" were currently trampling upon a sovereign nation's soil, using their artillery in an attempt to systematically erase a neighbor's living space.
In Moscow, the rhythmic roar of leather boots striking the pavement echoed across Red Square. Stalin stood atop the podium of Lenin's Tomb, basking in the cheers of tens of thousands. The Soviet High Command desperately needed an epic victory to present as a tribute for the holiday, and the only altar for such a sacrifice was the Karelian Isthmus.
Walter lowered the paper and gazed out at the snow-covered plains blurring past the window.
According to the latest intelligence, to mark the anniversary, Timoshenko had ordered an unprecedented general offensive across the Isthmus front. The Red Army no longer counted the cost of casualties; they pushed hundreds of thousands of soldiers toward the Finnish lines like an unstoppable tide. Every inch of earth was undergoing a baptism of heavy fire—direct-fire artillery, tanks clearing the path, and engineers blasting through obstacles. This unadorned aesthetic of violence was slowly grinding down Finland's national strength.
Meanwhile, in distant London and Paris, British and French politicians remained ensconced in warm meeting rooms, locked in fierce debate. They discussed the dispatch of an expeditionary force and the logistics of entering Finland through Norway and Sweden.
However, on this very day, Sweden shattered Finland's final hope. Out of fear of Germany, the Swedish government reaffirmed its neutrality and strictly prohibited any Allied troops from crossing its borders.
The Finns finally understood that in this frozen gambit, they had been abandoned by the world from the start.
Reinforcements were never coming.
…
The further east the train traveled, the more violent the vibrations in the air became. It was no longer the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks, but the very groaning of the earth.
The fighting on the Karelian Isthmus had devolved from trench warfare into a desperate holding action. The main positions of the Mannerheim Line, once anchored by reinforced concrete bunkers, had been reduced to piles of shattered stone under the point-blank, direct fire of Soviet heavy guns. The main Finnish forces had been forced to abandon the primary line, retreating to hastily dug intermediate positions.
"Look at the wounded," Walter said, gesturing toward the window.
The train passed a temporary transit point where the platforms were crowded with soldiers pulled from the line. Their eyes were hollow and numb, the whites of their pupils mapped with fine webs of burst capillaries. These men had been fighting for two weeks straight without sleep or a hot meal. This total exhaustion of body and spirit was stretching the spirit of Sisu to the snapping point.
"They can't hold much longer," Simo said, shouldering his new rifle.
The train screeched to a halt with the piercing scream of metal on metal. They were fifteen kilometers from their previous main positions at Summa, yet the air remained thick with the acrid stench of sulfur and scorched permafrost.
The Summa Line, the Shield of Finland, once composed of dozens of concrete fortifications, had utterly collapsed. The works once dubbed the "Millionaire Bunkers" were now nothing more than jagged heaps of rubble on the tundra. The battlefield had shifted to the makeshift trenches of the Intermediate Line.
Walter and Simo leaped from the carriage. The ground beneath their boots trembled violently; to celebrate Red Army Day, the Soviet 7th Army had committed hundreds of heavy guns to an incessant, saturating bombardment.
"Lieutenant! Over here!"
A liaison officer, his face blackened by cordite smoke until he looked like a coal miner, waved them over. He noted Walter and Simo's crisp second lieutenant uniforms and the M39 rifles gleaming coldly in the sun, and a flicker of hope crossed his eyes.
…
Navigating through communication trenches that had been blasted to half their original depth, Walter finally saw the reality of this so-called "Intermediate Line." There was no reinforced concrete here, no underground drainage, only shallow ditches Finnish soldiers had forcibly hacked into the frozen earth and deep snow with entrenching shovels. More often than not, the men simply huddled in craters left by Soviet shells.
"There are no intact units left in this sector. Men are fighting the Russians hand-to-hand in snow pits!" the liaison explained. "Timoshenko's infantry are like madmen. To give Moscow their holiday gift, they're charging straight into our machine guns!"
Regimental headquarters was located in the cellar of a farmhouse that had lost half its roof. When the adjutant led Walter and Simo inside, Colonel Martola didn't even look up.
"Field Marshal Mannerheim described you in his cables as miracle workers capable of turning the tide, but I have no use for vanity here," Martola's voice was hoarse. "Simo Häyhä, Walter Ilves. You did well at Lake Ladoga, but this is the Isthmus."
"There are no forests here for your guerrilla games, only the direct fire of Russian cannons. Here, luck matters more than skill."
The Colonel finally straightened up and gave a cold order to his adjutant: "Take them to the observation post two kilometers to the rear. The bunkers there are thick, and the field of vision is wide. Since the Marshal says they have good eyes, let them watch the movements of the Russian artillery batteries."
As Martola spoke, a massive explosion in the distance shook the cellar, rattling dust from the overhead logs and sending fine ice crystals through the cracks.
Simo didn't move; he simply lowered his gaze, his fingers lightly tracing the coarse burlap wrap on his rifle's handguard. Walter, however, took a step forward, his combat boots hitting the muddy floor with a dull thud.
"Colonel, observation posts are for people who can only watch but cannot act. If we wanted safety, we would have stayed in Mikkeli."
Martola looked up, a flash of irritation at being challenged crossing his face. "This is an order, Lieutenant. Finland needs living heroes right now, not corpses."
Walter's tone remained steady, refusing to yield an inch. "We aren't here to represent 'honor.' Send us to the point of greatest pressure. Wherever the line is about to break, that is where we go."
The silent Simo finally spoke, his voice raspy yet carrying an undeniable weight. "Colonel, our brothers at the front are taking shells in snow holes while we watch from two kilometers back. That isn't protection. That's an insult."
Colonel Martola stared intently at the two young officers. He saw the spirit of Sisu refined to its ultimate state, as cold as ice, as hard as steel.
"Fine." The Colonel took a deep breath and jabbed a finger heavily onto a red circle on the map labeled Hill L. "Since you wish to seek your own deaths, I shall oblige."
"Hill L is the primary target for Timoshenko's heavy batteries and direct-fire guns. The company originally stationed there has been whittled down to fewer than forty men. Their commander fell yesterday."
"I was planning to scrap together twenty reservists and a few recovered wounded to form a temporary platoon to reinforce Hill L." The Colonel looked at Walter, then at Simo. "But since you two Knights have volunteered, I am placing these last twenty men in your hands."
The Colonel slammed his hand onto the table. "From this moment on, you are no longer lone wolves. Second Lieutenant Ilves, you are in command; Second Lieutenant Simo, you are second-in-command. These twenty men include cooks, clerks, and machine gunners whose ears have been blown deaf. Take them and hold Hill L."
"Don't give me any speeches about Sisu. I have only one requirement: if the hill is destined to fall, you make sure you crawl back here alive."
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