Chapter 29: The Invisible Noose

Simo and Walter finally caught up with Juha and the others as they retreated with the wounded and their "spoils."

"Is everyone alright?" Simo wiped the ice crystals from his face, his breathing somewhat ragged.

"We're fine, though this donkey's temper is something else," Juha pointed to the stubborn beast currently gnawing on tree bark and gave a wry smile. "But this pot is a godsend. There's actually a storage compartment inside; we scavenged half a bag of potatoes and a few slabs of salt pork."

At the mention of food, the eyes of the gaunt, malnourished wounded soldiers lit up.

"Don't celebrate just yet," Simo interrupted their fantasies. His gaze swept over every face, finally settling on Walter. "Our situation isn't much better than it was a moment ago. The motorcycle vanguard is gone, but the Russians are certainly still looking for us. Furthermore, we don't know where we are."

It was a cold, hard reality. After days of dodging and weaving through the woods, they had long since veered off their original route. Without a radio or a guide, they were utterly lost.

"Get the map out." Simo pulled the map he had scavenged from the ill-fated Soviet patrol from his coat.

The group huddled around, squinting in the dim light reflected off the snow to discern the scrawled Cyrillic notations and contour lines.

"This is our approximate position," Old Juhani said, pointing to a blank, unmarked expanse on the map. "East is Lake Ladoga, that's a dead end. South is Soviet-controlled territory. To the west..."

His finger traced a curved, dashed line before stopping at a city named Pitkäranta.

"Pitkäranta," Old Juhani squinted as he recalled. "That's the nearest Finnish city. I went there before the war; it has a large railway station and a timber mill."

"How far?" Walter asked.

"Roughly forty or fifty kilometers. In normal times, a three-day trek. But now..." Old Juhani glanced at the donkey and the wounded who could barely walk. "At least five days. And we don't know if it's still in our hands."

Forty or fifty kilometers. Five days. In ordinary times, these were just numbers, but in this extreme weather and behind enemy lines, they represented the distance between life and death.

"Let's gamble on it," Simo said, stowing the map with a look of resolve. "It's better than waiting here to die. Pitkäranta is a transportation hub; if our boys are still holding out, there will be heavy reinforcements. Once we reach it, we're safe."

"Then it's settled," Juha spat, gritting his teeth. "Westward. Even if the Russians have taken the city, we'll just dive back into the woods."

The squad reorganized. Walter volunteered for the most dangerous role as the point man. With his rifle slung, he led the way, remaining hyper-vigilant for any movement. Old Juhani became the dedicated driver, leading the ill-tempered donkey, the supply-laden field kitchen, and the wounded in the middle. Simo brought up the rear, meticulously using branches and snow to cover the deep ruts left by the cart and the group's footprints. Though it felt somewhat redundant in the heavy snow, he never left anything to chance.

The next two days were a blend of agony and fortune for the squad. The blizzard was exceptionally fierce, with visibility dropping below fifty meters. While the weather made marching a grueling test of physical endurance, it also served as their best shroud.

For two full days, they encountered no Soviet patrols, not even a ghost. The forest seemed to have become a dead zone; aside from the wind, there was only their heavy breathing and the rhythmic creaking of the donkey cart. This deathly silence caused the men's nerves to gradually relax.

"Seems like there really aren't any Russians around," Juha leaned against the cart, using his good hand to scoop up a handful of snow to shove into his mouth.

"Don't get sloppy," Simo cautioned, though the deep furrow in his brow softened slightly. He was exhausted as well; several days of high-intensity marching and constant mental strain were taking a toll even on a man of his iron constitution.

By evening, the blizzard seemed to intensify.

"Let's stop and rest," Simo sighed, glancing at the swaying wounded soldiers behind him. "In this weather, visibility is low; even scouts won't see far. We can light a fire."

"A fire? Truly?" a young wounded soldier asked in surprise. His toes had gone numb long ago.

"Just a small one to boil the potatoes," Simo nodded.

This brief command was like music to their ears. Soon, a small bonfire was crackling. Though the light was weak, the warmth it provided was real. The captured field kitchen finally served its proper purpose. Walter tossed the rock-hard potatoes into the pot without even washing them, added snow water, and sprinkled in some coarse salt scavenged from a Soviet rucksack.

Half an hour later, the rich aroma of potatoes permeated the air. Though they were simple boiled potatoes with the skins still on, to men who had starved for days, it was a banquet.

"It smells incredible..."

Juha held a piping hot potato. Ignoring the heat, he took a massive bite of skin and flesh. The hot, soft texture slid down his throat and hit his stomach, sending a jolt through his body that nearly brought him to tears.

"Eat slowly, don't choke," Walter handed him a flask of hot water. "That donkey earned its keep; it hasn't brayed once these last two days."

"That's because it's exhausted," Old Juhani fed the beast a handful of hay and patted its rump. "The creature actually has a bit of a soul; it knows we're running for our lives."

The men sat around the fire, eating potatoes and chatting in low voices. That long-lost sense of ease made them feel dazed, as if the damnable war had ended and they were merely on a winter camping trip.

"When we hit Pitkäranta, I'm going to sleep for three days and three nights," Aalto muttered through a mouthful of potato. "And I'm taking a hot bath to boil every last one of these lice to death."

Simo leaned against a rock, listening to their idle chatter with a faint smile. He didn't speak, but he quietly added a few more branches to the fire to let the flames burn a bit brighter.

After finishing their meal, the men did not linger in the warmth. They quickly extinguished the fire and buried the ashes under the snow.

"Get some sleep," Simo organized the sentry rotation. "We move at first light. If we're lucky, we'll see the chimneys of Pitkäranta the day after tomorrow."

That night, they slept exceptionally well. Perhaps it was the hot food, or perhaps it was the illusory sense of security; even the usually hyper-vigilant Walter fell into a deep slumber.

The next morning, the blizzard eased slightly. The squad broke camp early and resumed their westward journey. The donkey cart left two deep ruts in the snow. Although Simo habitually performed some concealment before leaving, it was nearly impossible to completely erase the tracks of a heavily laden cart in such soft, deep powder.

They did not know that less than half a day after their departure, their quiet campsite would play host to unwanted guests.

…

"Halt."

A low, raspy voice rang out through the trees.

A squad of soldiers clad in white snow camouflage, moving with the agility of leopards, stopped instantly. They fanned out with practiced caution, occupying the surrounding vantage points.

Captain Wolf stepped forward from the rear of the unit. Snow clung to his somewhat slovenly greatcoat, and ice had formed in his beard, but his grey eyes remained as sharp as blades. He didn't look at the scenery; instead, he walked straight toward a slightly raised, blackened mound in the snow.

Wolf crouched down, extending a gloved hand to gently brush away the surface powder. Beneath lay a pile of black ash and a few discarded potato skins. He pulled off a glove and pressed his palm against the ashes.

Cold. No residual heat.

But he didn't look disappointed. Instead, a faint, chilling smirk curled the corner of his mouth.

"They lit a fire here."

Wolf stood up and slapped the ash from his hands. "And they boiled food. The potato skins are still soft, which means they haven't been frozen for long."

He turned around, his gaze piercing the forest to the west, the direction Walter and the others had taken.

"Comrade Captain," a tracking specialist ran up to report. "We found ruts. They tried to hide them, but it's a heavy vehicle; the wheels sank deep. Looks like a two-wheeled cart or... a donkey cart."

"A donkey cart?" Wolf cocked an eyebrow. "Then the intelligence was correct. These Finns actually stole our field kitchen."

He wiped his hand on his coat and pulled his glove back on.

"That is their weakness."

Wolf's voice was soft, yet it carried a bone-chilling confidence.

"They're hauling a field kitchen with a donkey. They can't maintain any real speed."

He looked at the ashes on the ground, then up at the sky.

"This fire was extinguished last night or early this morning. That means they are less than half a day's march ahead of us."

"Pursue."

Wolf issued the command.

"Full speed. They won't get away."

At his gesture, the dozen or so elite Soviet soldiers quickly adjusted their formation and headed west, following the faint ruts in the snow. The wind began to howl again, kicking up snow as if playing an overture to the coming slaughter.

Five kilometers away, as he struggled through the drifts, Walter suddenly sneezed. He rubbed his nose and glanced back at the endless sea of trees, that familiar sense of unease bubbling up in his chest once more.

"What is it?" Juha noticed his odd behavior.

"Nothing," Walter shook his head, tightening his grip on his rifle. "Just the cold wind, probably. Let's go. We need to hurry."

Walter had no idea that the invisible noose was slowly, surely, beginning to tighten.