Chapter 3: The Veteran and the Recruit

Autumn in Vyborg arrived quietly, amidst laughter and the gradual tightening of the geopolitical knot.

In the days that followed, the mobilization camps surrounding Vyborg transformed into one massive construction site. For most recruits, life consisted of endless drill practice, digging air-raid shelters, and listening to officers' lectures. They were attempting, within a few short weeks, to turn this ragtag collection of loggers, farmers, and students into disciplined soldiers.

To Walter, however, these conventional drills meant little in the face of the massive Soviet onslaught that was coming. What truly benefited him were the hours spent with Simo during their downtime.

As a seasoned veteran, Simo Häyhä was a man of few words, but his teachings were surgical. He had realized that while Walter possessed terrifying accuracy, top-tier equipment, and a freakish natural talent for coordination and reflexes, he was still remarkably green when it came to the nuances of wilderness survival and stealth.

On a gentle slope behind the camp, a thin layer of early snow had settled. To an ordinary man, this was merely slippery mud; to a skier, it was enough.

Simo, wearing his worn birch-wood skis, carved a graceful "S" into the snow before coming to a steady halt in front of Walter.

"Your sense of balance is frightening, Walter," Simo remarked, watching him with genuine surprise.

Just moments ago, Walter, wearing ill-fitting military skis, had come barreling down from the crest of the slope. He hadn't been cautious like the other recruits; instead, he had chosen the most treacherous line, one riddled with exposed roots and jagged rocks.

During the high-speed descent, Walter’s body seemed boneless, twisting and adjusting to the undulations of the terrain with uncanny fluidity. Every jump was precise; every landing was light as a feather.

"I used to play around with it," Walter said dismissively, patting the frost from his trouser legs. He certainly couldn't mention that he had once practiced high-speed descents ahead of active avalanches in the Alps.

"You play well," Simo nodded, a glint of approval appearing in his perpetually squinted eyes. "But it isn't enough."

"Not enough?" Walter was puzzled.

Simo pointed back toward the path Walter had just taken. "Look at your tracks."

Walter looked back. Along his thrilling route, the snow had been gouged out, soil had been overturned, and several branches had been snapped clean off. It was a trail that radiated power and the aesthetic of speed, but on a battlefield, it was a glaring "death signpost."

"Too obvious," Simo shook his head.

Simo strapped his skis back on to demonstrate. He didn't seek speed; instead, he lowered his center of gravity until he seemed to be gliding flush with the earth. He wove between the trees, skillfully utilizing the shadows of trunks and the terrain to mask his silhouette. His skis didn't kick up massive plumes of powder; they sliced through the snow silently, like a hot knife through butter.

When Simo stopped at the bottom of the slope and looked back, there were only two shallow ruts, already half-erased by the wind and falling snow.

"In the woods, speed isn't your priority. Stealth is." Simo walked over and tapped Walter’s shoulder with his ski pole. "You shouldn't think of yourself as skiing. You have to flow across this tundra. Make the trees your shield, not your obstacles."

Walter nodded thoughtfully. He was accustomed to chasing extreme speed and thrills, forgetting that on the battlefield, staying alive is the only victory condition.

Over the next few days, Walter abandoned his wild skiing style and, like a schoolboy, began relearning how to "disappear" into the snow under Simo’s tutelage.

"Camouflage isn't just about wearing white clothes." In a snowbank sheltered from the wind, Simo grabbed a handful of snow and stuffed it into his mouth. "Watch me."

He exhaled. There was no white mist.

"Hot breath in the cold is as visible as a chimney," Simo said, swallowing the snow. It was bone-chillingly cold, yet his expression didn't flicker, as if he were swallowing a piece of warm bread. "Keep snow in your mouth to lower the temperature of your oral cavity. It reduces the vapor you exhale. It’s miserable, but it buys you a few more moments of life, especially when you need to lie in ambush for a long time."

Walter tried it, cramming a handful of snow into his mouth. The piercing cold instantly numbed his gums, and a freezing chill slid down his esophagus into his stomach, making him shudder involuntarily.

"And this." Simo pointed to the snow in front of them. "Before you fire, pack the snow under your muzzle tight, or pour some water on it to freeze it solid."

"Why?"

"The muzzle blast from the bullet will kick up loose snow. That cloud of white will give away your position instantly. Pack it down, and the snow stays put."

As he explained, Simo used his mittened palm to pound the snow in front of the muzzle until it was hard as rock.

These were lessons one couldn't find in textbooks, wisdom earned through countless hunts, and likely, blood. Walter looked at Simo’s hands, covered in chilblains and callouses, and felt a surge of respect. He realized that while he possessed the Eye of Death, Simo was the true master of survival in this sub-zero hell.

"Simo, why are you teaching me all this?" Walter spat out the melted snow, gasping for air.

Simo didn't answer immediately. He silently fished a pinecone from his pocket and weighed it in his hand.

"Because you have a good pair of eyes, Walter. Don't waste them." With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the pinecone high into the air. "Hit it."

Walter raised his rifle almost by instinct.

Hum…

The Eye of Death activated.

The world instantly turned a sepia-grey. The tumbling pinecone froze in mid-air. The angle of its opening scales was clear, and every ridge on those scales looked as if it were fixed onto his retina by a magnifying glass. Walter could no longer feel the cold or hear the wind; his crosshairs locked onto the target.

Predict trajectory. Correct for windage.

Everything was completed in a heartbeat.

BANG!

Fire spat from the muzzle. In Simo’s vision, the pinecone hadn't even reached its zenith before it was precisely pulverized by a bullet, erupting into a cloud of wooden splinters that drifted down like sawdust.

"So fast," Simo’s pupils contracted slightly. Even as a veteran hunter of twenty years, he had never seen a reaction shot so rapid and precise. It wasn't just good marksmanship; it was... instinct.

Walter lowered his rifle and let out a long breath, rubbing his aching temples. The veteran patted the recruit's shoulder; the weight of that rough hand was steady and powerful.

"It seems I have nothing left to teach you about how to pull a trigger. You have your own way." Simo looked out at the boundless sea of forest in the distance, his voice turning low. "But I can teach you the rest. How to turn yourself into a piece of dead wood. How to keep from freezing to death in a snowbank. How to know where the enemy is before you ever see them."

Walter felt a stir in his chest as he looked at Simo. "For example?"

"For example, never fully trust your eyes. Trust your nose and your ears, too." Simo turned and walked back toward the camp, his silhouette short but as solid as a moving mountain. "Come on, Walter. Before the Soviets strike, we still have a lot of lessons to catch up on. If you don't want to waste those eyes of yours, you’d better carve my words into your bones."

Walter watched Simo's back and tightened his grip on his rifle. The wind whipped up fallen leaves, stinging his face.

"Understood, Simo."