The Jeep jolted along the narrow, forest-lined road. It had been a grueling ten-hour journey from the Lemetti frontline to Mikkeli. Although a canvas roof had been fitted to the vehicle, the bitter cold, plunging past -30°C, still clawed its way through the gaps.
Walter Ilves leaned against the seat, eyes closed, feeling a bone-deep exhaustion that bordered on physical depletion. Beside him, Simo sat in silence, cradling his Mosin-Nagant. He hadn't uttered a single word for the entire ten hours.
The scenery outside began to shift. The scorched, blackened forests, plowed by relentless artillery, faded away, replaced by the serene wooden architecture lining the shores of Lake Saimaa. When the first rays of grey morning light touched the road signs of Mikkeli, Walter opened his eyes.
Mikkeli, the city currently housing the collective "brain" of the Finnish Army, felt exceptionally solemn. Along the streets, citizens cleared snow with shovels, occasionally looking up at the military vehicle with complex expressions, a mix of anxiety for the uncertain war and instinctive sympathy for the frontline soldiers.
At this moment, few knew that this unremarkable Jeep carried the heroes who had just captured a Soviet general. To the passersby, these two men, reeking of cordite, covered in stubble, their greatcoats splattered with mud and dried blood, were merely lucky survivors.
"We're here."
They had arrived at the Mikkeli Central Primary School. Since the outbreak of the war, this campus, once filled with children's laughter, had been transformed into the General Headquarters of Marshal Mannerheim. The perimeter was strung with dense barbed wire, guarded by military police in white capes with submachine guns slung over their shoulders.
Walter and Simo stepped out of the Jeep. Two MPs at the gate eyed them with scrutiny. To them, the pair looked wretched; Walter's uniform was riddled with scorch marks, and his reindeer-hide boots were worn beyond recognition.
"Identification," an MP said coldly, extending a hand.
Walter produced the order papers. As the MP scanned them, his expression froze. He snapped to attention, spine straight as a rod. Though he didn't know the specifics of their deeds, the words Summoned by the Marshal were enough to command absolute deference.
"Please follow me, Sirs."
…
They weren't taken to the Marshal immediately. A young adjutant took charge, leading them to a washroom at the rear of the headquarters.
"The Marshal will see you in one hour. Until then, you need to attend to your appearance." The adjutant's tone was polite, but his gaze lingered on their disheveled state for a moment before darting away.
Hot water.
As the scalding stream erupted from the showerhead, Walter let out a low groan. It was the first time in nearly a month he felt his body truly relax. Half an hour later, they stood before a barber. The crisp snip of scissors echoed as Walter's matted hair and weed-like beard were expertly shorn away.
Standing before the mirror, he saw a face both familiar and foreign. The handsome features remained, but the eyes... the eyes had changed entirely. Simo stood beside him, his once-rounded face now gaunt and hollow.
Guided by the adjutant, they donned fresh uniforms provided by the headquarters' logistics department. They were crisp, sharp Finnish Army service dress; the collars were stiff, and the brass buttons glinted in the light. Their rank tabs had been replaced. The NCO bars were gone, replaced by a single golden heraldic rose, the mark of a Second Lieutenant.
"From Corporal to Second Lieutenant... that is an almost unprecedented leap in the history of the Finnish Army," the adjutant remarked quietly. "But considering the prizes you brought back, no one in Finland will breathe a word of protest."
Before entering the Marshal's office, two MPs in white helmets conducted a rigorous security sweep. Even heroes had to follow protocol at GHQ. Walter held his arms out, submitting to the search. Once cleared, the adjutant tapped lightly on the heavy oak door.
"Marshal, they have arrived."
The door swung open, and the faint aroma of cigar smoke drifted out. Walter and Simo squared their shoulders and marched inside. The room was modest, dominated by a massive map of the Karelian Isthmus covered in red and blue markings, the lifeline of a nation holding its breath. Standing before the map was the man who shouldered the weight of all Finland: Field Marshal Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim.
He turned, a grey cape draped over his shoulders. His aged but piercing gaze settled on Walter and Simo.
"Sit, children," Mannerheim said, his voice deep and resonant.
The meeting was brief; the commander had no minutes to spare. He didn't ask for tactical minutiae; instead, he studied them.
"On the northern shores of Lake Ladoga, our soldiers have seized thousands of trophies—tanks, artillery, trucks. Enough to fill entire trains," Mannerheim said, stepping toward them, his tone turning solemn. "But until today, the number of high-ranking Soviet officers we had captured alive was zero."
"Those generals would rather save the last bullet for themselves in a bunker or abandon thousands of their men to flee than face failure." He paused, looking at Walter. "But you dragged a living Divisional Commander out of the marsh." He turned to Simo. "And you severed a Tank Brigade Commander's last hope of suicide."
Mannerheim took two exquisite wooden boxes from his adjutant. "This is the tribute of the Finnish nation to you."
The Marshal personally retrieved the highest honor a Finnish soldier could dream of: the Mannerheim Cross, 1st Class.
In that moment, Walter felt a weight unlike any before. He felt the Marshal's rough, steady hands pinning the medal to his chest.
"Second Lieutenant Walter Ilves," Mannerheim said, looking him in the eye. "From this day forward, you are the sword of this country and the shield of this people. The newspapers will write your story; the people will sing your name. But I want you to remember: behind these honors are the comrades who never made it out of the Lemetti woods."
Walter snapped a salute. "For the Fatherland, Marshal!"
Simo was decorated next. Though he looked awkward, the cross gleaming on his chest spoke for itself.
"In addition to this medal," Mannerheim stepped back, his voice echoing in the office, "the state awards you each a grant of 50,000 Finnish marks. It is enough to buy a sizable farm in the countryside and live out your lives in peace."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over them, his tone turning grand. "According to regulations, from this moment on, you are both officially titled Knights of the Mannerheim Cross. Your names shall endure alongside the history of Finland's founding."
50,000 marks. Walter did a quick mental calculation; in 1940, it was an astronomical sum. For a soldier of humble origins, it was enough to change his family's destiny for generations. Yet, in this February ground down by steel and blood, the concept of money felt distant and surreal.
"Sit, Knights," the Marshal said, his tone softening into that of a concerned elder. "Now, let us discuss the High Command's arrangements for you."
"The lines on the Karelian Isthmus are bleeding. Timoshenko is grinding down our fortifications bit by bit." He turned to Walter. "Your deeds will soon spread across the Nordics via the airwaves. Finland needs heroes, but it also needs living symbols."
"The High Command's consensus is to pull you both from the front. You will be stationed in Helsinki or at the NCO school here. You can go on speaking tours, train recruits, or serve as the face of the nation on the front pages. Finland can afford to lose a division, but we cannot afford the blow to morale that would come if a hero, a Knight of the Cross, fell in some nameless trench. For the national psyche, it would be devastating."
Silence fell over the office. Simo spoke first, rubbing his hands awkwardly.
"Marshal," Simo said softly, his voice quiet but unshakable. "I'm used to the woods. There, I know how to breathe; I know how to stay alive. On a podium in Helsinki, I'm afraid I'd suffocate. If I don't go back to the lines, the rifle in my hands will rust."
Mannerheim nodded slightly, as if expecting the answer. He looked to Walter.
"Marshal, I understand the value of propaganda," Walter said calmly. "But I also understand that Timoshenko's shells won't bypass our positions just because I am a Knight. My comrades are still struggling in the mire. You said I am the nation's sword. If I am a sword, I should be buried in the enemy's chest, not hung on a wall as a decoration."
Walter stood and gave Mannerheim a textbook-perfect salute. "If Finland truly needs an immortal myth, then let me go back to the snow. As long as I am still firing on the front lines, the people will know we haven't lost."
The Marshal smoked his cigar in silence, the smoke blurring his weathered face. Finally, he exhaled, a flash of complex emotion in his eyes—pride, mixed with a trace of sorrow for the fine young men about to re-enter hell.
"I understand." Mannerheim set his cigar down and placed a calloused hand firmly on each of their shoulders. "Then it shall be as you wish. The situation on the Isthmus is far worse than you imagine. Since you have refused the harbor, I shall send you into the heart of the storm."
Moments later, war correspondents with yellow armbands were ushered in. Flashbulbs popped, and white smoke filled the office. Walter and Simo stood on either side of Marshal Mannerheim, capturing a photograph destined for the history books.
In the photo, Mannerheim was solemn and deep, Walter was cold and sharp, and Simo stood as steady as a rock.
That afternoon, the photograph, along with the news of the captured 18th Rifle Division colors and the high-ranking prisoners, hit the front pages of every Finnish newspaper. On the radio, announcers proclaimed their deeds in stirring tones. In that desperate February, as the Mannerheim Line teetered on the brink, they became an unquenchable flame, burning across the length of Finland.
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