Chapter 14: Hand-to-Hand Combat

Fifty meters. Thirty meters.

Soviet bayonets were now looming right before their eyes. In the swirl of falling snow, the distorted faces of the attackers, fueled by adrenaline, appeared exceptionally hideous.

"We can't hold! They're over the top!"

As the first Soviet soldier leaped into the trench with a howl, the fragile line of defense finally buckled under the weight of the red tsunami.

"Die!"

The Soviet soldier landed off-balance, but driven by raw aggression, he thrust his bayonet toward the nearest man, Walter.

Walter lurched to the side. The blade grazed his ribs, slicing through his padded cotton coat. He grabbed the enemy's rifle barrel with his free hand, trying to shove it away, but the man was a powerful brute.

"Filthy Finn!" the soldier spat. Realizing the bayonet hadn't found its mark, he let go with one hand and swung the heavy rifle butt in a brutal arc toward Walter's head.

Thwack!

A dull impact.

Walter's world went dark for a split second as an explosion of pain erupted from his forehead. A warm liquid trickled down his cheek, blood, instantly blurring the vision in his left eye. The pain didn't make him flinch; instead, it ignited a feral streak in his blood.

"You want me dead?"

Walter gritted his teeth, a beast-like low growl vibrating in his throat. He didn't stop to wipe the blood. Seizing the moment the soldier lost his balance from the swing, he lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the man's chest. Simultaneously, he swung his Mosin-Nagant horizontally.

The tough cowhide sling, normally used to shoulder the rifle, became a lethal noose.

Walter looped the strap around the Soviet soldier's neck and threw his entire weight backward. The veins in his arms bulged as he tightened the choke.

"Gah... urgh..."

The soldier thrashed wildly, hands clawing at the leather strap, but Walter held on like a mountain, refusing to let go despite the frantic kicks and blows.

Ten seconds. Thirty seconds.

In just half a minute, the struggle weakened. The man's eyes bulged, and finally, he slumped into the muck of the trench. Walter released his grip, gasping for air.

On the other side of the fray, Juha had gone completely berserk.

"Come on! You bastards!"

Juha's light machine gun had long since run dry. Now, he gripped his favorite felling axe.

Squelch!

A flash of cold steel, and a Soviet soldier who had just jumped down was split across the skull, collapsing without a sound. Then came a second. With a backhand swing, Juha's razor-sharp blade carved open the next man's throat.

But as he faced the third enemy, disaster struck. Juha swung with too much force; the axe buried itself deep into a Soviet sergeant's collarbone.

"Come out!" Juha roared, bracing his boot against the corpse's chest to pry the axe loose, but it remained wedged in the bone as if it had grown there.

At that moment, another Soviet soldier jumped down behind him, raising a PPD-38 submachine gun. The black muzzle was aimed squarely at Juha's defenseless back.

"Juha! Get down!"

Walter, having just finished his opponent, looked up to see the scene. There was no time to cycle the bolt of his rifle. He reached for the pistol at his waist, the Tokarev he had looted from the commissar.

Bang! Bang!

Two shots.

The Soviet soldier took the hits to the chest and fell backward, his finger spasming on the trigger. A burst of bullets chewed into the dirt at Juha's feet.

"Withdraw! We can't hold! Everyone out!"

Simo Häyhä's voice pierced through the chaos of the battlefield. He tossed his final grenade, blowing back two enemies trying to set up a machine gun, then grabbed Juha, who was still tugging at his axe.

"Forget the axe! Do you want your life or the steel? Move!"

The First Squad's position had turned into a meat grinder. More and more Soviets were pouring in, beginning to flank them from both sides.

"Fall back to Suvanto Heights! Leapfrog cover! Don't show them your backs!"

Simo directed the retreat while crouched, firing back through the turns of the trench. Each of his shots was surgically precise; he acted as a cool-headed executioner, picking off any pursuer brave enough to show their face.

"Agh!"

A scream rang out.

Pekka, while vaulting over an earth embankment, was hit in the thigh by a stray bullet. He collapsed into the snow, the white camouflage suit instantly turning crimson.

"My leg! My leg's broken!" Pekka thrashed in the snow.

"Eero! Help him!" Simo rushed over and tried to hoist Pekka up, but he was too small to easily drag the larger man.

"Take these!" Simo thrust his heavy anti-tank rifle and his own bolt-action rifle into Walter's arms. "You're the loader, take Juha, Matti, and Toivo and cover us! Hold those Russians back!"

"Understood!"

Walter took the heavy weapons without a word.

"Eero! Stop staring! Get over here and help!" Simo barked at the stunned recruit.

Eero snapped out of his trance, scrambling over to grab Pekka's other arm.

"Retreat! Fast!"

Simo and Eero hauled Pekka toward the treeline, the only path to the second line of defense. Walter, Juha, Matti, and Toivo stayed behind to hold the rear.

"Let's leave them a souvenir!"

Walter pulled the pins on his remaining grenades, held them for two seconds, and hurled them into the section of the trench the Soviets had already seized.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The flashes of the explosions momentarily blinded the pursuers.

"Run!"

Four shadows sprinted across the snow, pursued by a sky full of smoke and the angry roars of the enemy.

…

Walter and the others, breathless, caught up to Simo and Eero, who were attending to the wounded.

"Where are the others?" Simo asked, looking up to count heads while tying a tourniquet around Pekka's thigh.

"We're all here," Walter said, wiping blood from his forehead and gesturing behind him. Juha and the logger brothers, Matti and Toivo, were leaning against tree trunks like three exhausted bears, gasping for air.

Simo's eyes scanned each face, and his brow suddenly furrowed.

"Where is Antti?"

The air froze. Walter spun around, his eyes darting through the group of battered survivors. The polite, bespectacled Antti was gone.

"Dammit!" Juha slammed a fist against a tree, shaking loose a pile of snow. "I remember him being right behind me! The shelling was so heavy, I... I thought he was keeping up!"

"He probably fell behind, or..." Matti muttered, his eyes dimming. In a chaotic melee like the one they just left, that usually meant the end.

"We aren't leaving him," Simo stood up, his tone brookling no argument. "He's my man. If he's not dead, we don't leave him to the Russians."

"I'll go," Walter said without a second thought. He cycled the bolt of his rifle and turned back toward the fray.

"Wait!" Juha stood up. "Count me in!"

The two shared a look, their eyes reflecting a reckless resolve. Simo Häyhä looked at the two young men, their faces masks of blood and grime. His hand, which had reflexively moved to stop them, hovered in mid-air.

As a squad leader, logic told him going back was a death sentence. But as a brother-in-arms, he could not deny a bond forged in blood.

"Eero, watch Pekka," Simo barked at the trembling recruit in the corner.

Eero nodded shakily, watching as the silhouettes of Simo, Walter, and Juha gradually vanished into the wind and snow.