Chapter 27: Burning Motorcycles

"Quick! Eat up!"

Walter Ilves leaped off the cart and pried open the heavy iron lid of the field kitchen.

A waft of food aroma hit him, though it lacked the billowing steam he had hoped for. The jolting journey, combined with the minus thirty-degree Celsius cold, meant that despite the kitchen's insulation, the porridge had inevitably chilled. A thick skin of oil had congealed on the surface, covering a layer of thickened, semi-solid millet porridge.

To soldiers who had been without rations for two days, however, it was a peerless delicacy.

"Don't complain about the cold; this stuff sticks to your ribs," Juha said. Grabbing a random mess tin with his one good hand, he used a spoon to pry up a chunk of millet porridge that had frozen somewhat stiff, shoving it into his mouth and chewing vigorously.

As the icy food slid down his esophagus, he suppressed a violent shiver, but a satisfied smile spread across his face.

"So good... if only we could heat it up..."

"Forget it. Lighting a fire is just sending a signal to the Russians."

Though Simo was equally famished, he prioritized doling out the porridge to the immobile wounded first. "Warm it in your mouth before you swallow. Don't let the cold ruin your stomach."

The men huddled around the freezing donkey cart, silently swallowing the hard-won food. Despite the cold meal, morale was unexpectedly high.

"You should've seen that fat cook's face, he looked like his own father had died!" Aalto described the scene vividly while licking the bottom of his bowl. "He slammed that big ladle down so hard it bent!"

"Serves them right! Let them taste what it's like to go hungry!" Old Juhani rubbed his calf where the donkey had bitten him, his beard quivering with laughter. "The donkey has a foul temper, but it's a natural at hauling tail."

In that moment, the oppressive despair that had lingered for so long seemed to dissipate. They hadn't just survived; they had humiliated the Soviets. This psychological victory was more heart-warming than any meal.

However, the brief joy did not last. While they were still savoring the lingering taste, a sound that did not belong in the forest shattered the silence.

Whirrr—vroom—

The roar of engines grew, piercingly sharp in the quiet night.

"Motorcycles."

Simo's expression shifted instantly. He set down his mess tin and tilted his head to listen. "Three... no, four. And the sound of trucks."

"Damn it! Are these Russians part bloodhound?" Walter cursed, standing up to look back the way they had come.

In the faint light reflecting off the snow, he saw distant beams of light dancing through the trees.

"They're following the tracks!"

The damnable snow might hide footprints, but those two deep ruts from the donkey cart were like a beacon, leading the Soviet forces straight to them.

"Move! Get up! Stop eating!" Juha tossed his tin aside, grabbed his rifle, and struggled to his feet. "Let's give 'em hell!"

"Give 'em hell with what? You don't have the strength," Simo held him down, making a swift decision. "Juha, take the wounded, the field kitchen, and the donkey, and keep retreating west. There's a boulder field that way; ruts don't leave marks as easily there. Once you're in, they'll lose the trail."

"What about you?"

"We're staying behind to wipe your tracks." Simo cycled his bolt and glanced at Walter. "Walter, Aalto, Old Juhani, and whoever else can still run, with me."

"Get moving! Don't let this pot of porridge go to waste!" Simo growled, delivering a sharp kick to the donkey's rear. Though the beast wanted to rest after its meal, the kick forced it to start trudging forward.

"Go! Everyone follow me! Don't fall behind!" Juha drove the cart, leading the wounded as they stumbled away into the distance.

Once their silhouettes vanished into the woods, Simo turned to the remaining men.

"Listen, this isn't about killing; it's about buying time. Aalto, take two men to the ridge on the left. Old Juhani, hit the thicket on the right. Remember, don't get greedy. One shot, then move."

Simo laid out the tactics rapidly. "Walter and I will lure them in."

"Understood."

The group dispersed immediately. Soon, the roar of engines grew deafening. Bright headlights sliced through the darkness like sabers.

Leading the charge were four PMZ-A-750 sidecar motorcycles. On a highway, these machines were swift predators, but on this rugged, snow-choked forest trail, they resembled clumsy boars. The machine gunners in the sidecars gripped their handrails for dear life, tossed about by the bumps while squinting to find a target.

"Idiots, daring to go that fast in this terrain," Walter muttered, peering over a massive fallen pine.

"Because they're desperate," Simo whispered beside him, his tone flat. "That cook who lost his pot probably gave them an earful. Pride over life, it's a Russian tradition."

The four motorcycles sped ahead, opening a gap between themselves and the truck convoy behind. This separation was exactly the opening Simo was waiting for.

"Let them get close," Simo whispered. "The first one is mine; the second is yours."

Walter took a deep breath, his sights locking onto the driver of the second motorcycle. Under the influence of the Eye of Death, the bouncing target became uncannily clear.

One hundred meters. Eighty. Fifty.

"Fire!"

Bang!

Two shots rang out almost as one. Simo's bullet seemed to have eyes of its own, drilling into the neck of the first driver. The man slumped, and the motorcycle instantly lost control, slamming into a massive roadside boulder. The machine gunner in the sidecar was launched like a projectile by the inertia, hitting the snow hard and remaining motionless.

Walter's side was even more violent. His bullet punched through the driver's chest; the motorcycle swerved violently at high speed and flipped, the heavy chassis sliding a dozen meters across the snow, sending white powder flying.

"Ambush! Over there!"

The remaining two motorcycles braked hard, their sidecar machine guns opening up a frantic barrage toward the source of the shots.

Dada-dada-da—!

The dense fire shredded branches, causing snow to fall like rain.

"Retreat!"

Simo didn't linger. Having fired his shot, he slid backward into the shadows, with Walter right behind him. The Soviet machine guns were fierce, but in this vision-obscuring forest, they were merely tickling the trees.

"Don't let them get away! Pursue!"

The remaining two motorcycles were clearly enraged. Assuming they were dealing with a few disorganized stragglers, they ignored the threat. The drivers gunned their engines, and the motorcycles roared forward, attempting to use their speed to crush the "rats" who could only hide and snipe.

This was exactly what Simo wanted. He had already assigned Aalto and Old Juhani their "special tasks."

"Aalto! Now!" Simo shouted.

Hidden on the high slope to the left, Aalto heard the signal. He swallowed hard, gripping a thin tripwire. This wire was connected to two grenades buried in the snow, an improvised booby trap.

As the third motorcycle crested a snow-covered mound, Aalto yanked the wire.

Boom!

A massive crack echoed. The explosion went off right under the motorcycle's chassis. It wasn't a spectacular "launch into the sky" moment, but for a speeding bike, it was enough. The front wheel was blown off, and the nose dived, flipping the vehicle end-over-end. The fuel tank ruptured on impact and immediately ignited.

Whoosh—!

An orange fireball erupted, instantly turning the motorcycle into a pyre. The two Soviets on board became screaming torches, rolling frantically in the snow.

"Damn it! Mines!"

The driver of the final motorcycle was terrified by the sudden blast and slammed on the brakes. He wrestled with the handlebars, trying to pull a U-turn and flee.

But it was too late to run.

"Old Juhani! Your turn!"

From the thicket on the right, Old Juhani had somehow crept into close range. He wasn't holding a rifle; instead, he clutched a "bundle charge"—several grenades lashed together. The old man wasn't just quick on his feet; his throwing arm was legendary.

"Go to hell, Russians!"

Old Juhani roared, pulled the igniter, and swung his arm in a wide arc, hurling the heavy bundle at the last motorcycle.

It was a perfect "slam dunk." The bundle landed squarely in the sidecar, right in the lap of the terrified machine gunner. The look on the gunner's face as he stared at the smoking object in his lap was beyond description. He didn't even have time to throw it out.

BOOM!!!

A deafening explosion followed. The motorcycle was smashed into fragments as if by an invisible giant hand. Parts, human remains, and burning rubber rained down in all directions. The massive shockwave made even Walter's ears ring from a distance.

"Hell yes!" Aalto cheered from the slope.

In less than ten minutes, the Soviet motorized vanguard, their pride and joy, had been annihilated. Four motorcycles: two crashed, two vaporized. A dozen Soviet soldiers were either corpses or wounded men wailing in the snow.

"Don't celebrate yet." Simo's face remained grim.

In the distance, the roar of trucks drew closer. Those were trucks filled with infantry; once they deployed, this small stretch of woods would be leveled.

"We only have a few rifles. Going head-to-head with trucks is suicide, and there will likely be Russian reinforcements behind them."

"What then? More roadblocks?" Aalto asked.

"No time," Simo shook his head. "And roadblocks only stall them for a moment. It would just make them more alert, or force them to search the woods on foot. We wouldn't escape then."

"Withdraw! Full retreat!" Simo decided on the spot. "Before they catch up, we split up. Groups of two, move toward the boulder field! Remember, no straight lines, and hide your tracks! Make them think we're still lying in wait ahead."

"Walter, you're with me. Move!"