Walter came to a steady halt five meters away from Kondrashov, his skis letting out a short, sharp rasp against the crust.
Kondrashov struggled to turn his head. His general's fur cap, adorned with a red star, sat askew, revealing his graying temples. He looked up at the man his soldiers called the "Butcher of the Snowy Night"; his eyes held no anger, no plea for mercy, only a hollow numbness, the look of a man utterly emptied.
Walter looked down at him from his height. The first thing his gaze locked onto was the general's star on Kondrashov's greatcoat collar, glinting faintly in the dawn light.
"Heh. A big fish indeed."
Walter's voice sounded muffled behind his thermal face mask.
Kondrashov's lips moved, seemingly wanting to say something to maintain the final dignity of an officer, but Walter had no intention of giving him the chance to speak. Much like a fishmonger at a market giving a thrashing, half-dead fish a hard knock with a mallet before processing it, Walter took a sudden step forward.
His Mosin-Nagant swung through the air in a cold arc. The heavy wooden stock let out a dull whistle as it tore through the air, slamming hard into Kondrashov's forehead.
With a blunt thud, the division commander collapsed into the snow without so much as a groan, knocked completely unconscious.
Walter crouched down nimbly. He searched the man, retrieving the Tokarev pistol from Kondrashov's waist, an exquisite ivory-handled dagger, and several official documents tucked into the inner pocket of the greatcoat, soft and damp with sweat.
"Heavy as a sow," Walter cursed.
He reached out, grabbed Kondrashov by his expensive sheepskin collar, and began to trek across the uneven snow, dragging the man like a dead dog. He had stowed his skis behind his back; every step he took sank deep into the snow, draining his physical energy rapidly.
When he passed the bodies of the two NCOs and the adjutant who had covered the retreat, Walter paused. Their corpses were not yet cold, radiating a faint purple glow in his thermal vision. Walter hadn't brought any rope, so he unceremoniously unbuckled the leather belts from the loyal fallen soldiers.
As if tying up a crab destined for a New Year's pot, he twisted Kondrashov's hands and feet together behind his back, cinching them tight with the belts. Finally, he ripped a piece of soiled lining and stuffed it into the general's mouth.
By the time they returned to the edge of the swamp, the biting cold of the snow had shocked Kondrashov awake. He struggled violently, only to find himself bound hand and foot, unable to move. The pain of the leather belts biting into his flesh made his eyes widen.
Walter sat nearby, pulling a piece of rock-hard black bread from his rucksack. He sliced off a piece with his dagger and chewed expressionlessly.
This was the death trap they had just crossed. A few meters away, the abyss of the mire, concealed by snow, remained agape. Beside it, the frozen, bluish arm of a Soviet guard protruded from the sludge, fingertips pointing upward as if still pleading with the sky for help.
Kondrashov stared fixedly at the bog that had swallowed his last hope. A massive sense of humiliation and guilt exploded in his chest. He, a commander of twenty thousand men, was now bound like common cargo at the feet of his enemy.
He did not want to endure the shame of a Finnish POW camp, and he dared not imagine how the Supreme Commander back in Moscow would deal with a defeated general who had lost both his division colors and twenty thousand soldiers.
"Mmph... mmph!"
Kondrashov let out a low growl like a cornered beast. His body began to writhe in the snow. Like a bloated maggot, he inched forward, centimeter by centimeter, toward the half-frozen, slushy mire. He wanted to roll into it, to let the icy mud and sewage completely submerge his mouth and nose.
Since he could not escape, he would die where his subordinates had died.
Walter chewed his bread, watching the general's "crawling art" with a cold eye. Just as the tip of Kondrashov's nose was less than half a body length from the black sludge, a large foot clad in a deerskin boot slammed down on his rear collar. The force was so great it drove half of the general's face directly into the snow.
Walter leaned down and hauled Kondrashov back like a wet chick.
"Give it a rest, Comrade Division Commander."
Walter brushed the snow dust off his hands, thinking to himself: Are you trying to pull a "martyr at the river" act? No water, so you'll settle for a swamp? Not exactly a dignified way to go.
"You're my big prize. Until I hand you over to the higher-ups, even if God Himself wants to take you, He'll have to ask my Mosin-Nagant for permission first."
Walter roughly flipped Kondrashov over to face the sky. His suicide attempt thwarted, Kondrashov's eyes were filled with the ashen gray of total despair. He closed his eyes in agony, allowing two lines of murky tears to slide down his grime-streaked face, where they promptly froze into ice crystals at the corners of his eyes.
The morning light finally dispelled the fog completely. Walter stood up and glanced into the distance. Out there, the annihilation of the Northern Column was likely nearing its end. And he had already secured the most precious trophy on this battlefield.
…
As a vital logistical hub for the Soviet 56th Rifle Corps, Uoma was currently in a state of extreme, oppressive battle readiness.
Since this was the designated rendezvous point for the 18th Division's planned breakout, a large number of Soviet troops were stationed behind machine guns at the edge of the forest's barbed wire, watching anxiously.
Click-clack, click-clack.
Heavy, stumbling footsteps suddenly echoed from beyond the picket line.
"Who goes there? Halt!"
A Soviet sentry jerked his bolt back, his finger white on the trigger. In the wind and snow, a staggering figure slowly emerged. He no longer looked like a living human being. His greatcoat was charred black, the seams packed with peat and ice shards, and his head and face were covered in white frost.
The figure slowly lifted a face marred by chilblains and bloodstains. The tattered Red Army collar tab on his chest, though covered in ash, was still recognizable.
"I am... 18th Rifle Division... 316th Regiment... Private..."
The soldier's voice was halting and broken, but it hit like a heavy bomb, causing everyone present to gasp.
"The 18th Division? Where are the others? Where is Division Commander Kondrashov?"
The sentry rushed forward and grabbed him by the collar, his eyes full of shock and disbelief. The private didn't answer. He was merely a shell that had lost its soul, allowing the sentry to drag him along.
Fifteen minutes later.
Inside the Uoma High Command, a bunker reinforced with thick logs, Corps Commander Cherepanov spun around, staring intently at the shivering soldier sitting on the bench.
Cherepanov hadn't closed his eyes for two days and nights while waiting to link up with the 18th Division. Telegrams from Moscow arrived every hour inquiring about the progress; the pressure was enough to drive him mad.
"You say you're from the 18th?" Cherepanov's voice was low and stern. "Look at me! Tell me, where is Kondrashov?"
"How far have you made it? How long until the following units enter the rendezvous perimeter?"
The private slowly raised his head.
"Comrade Corps Commander," he whispered.
"Speak! Where is the main force?" Cherepanov leaned in urgently.
"There is no main force, Comrade Corps Commander."
The private paused, and the last spark of light in the depths of his ashen eyes went out.
"The 18th Rifle Division... is wiped out. It no longer exists."
———————
Want to read ahead of schedule? Head over here ——— pa-tre-on.c-om/AlexandrusTL [remove the hyphen for normal access]