Chapter 30: Human Shield

Walter Ilves walked at the very head of the column. His nerves were frayed tight; that prickly sensation of being watched had not vanished, but rather intensified as the veil of night fell.

"Something's wrong."

Walter came to a sudden halt, raising a clenched fist to signal the squad to stop.

The woods ahead were too quiet. This deathly silence felt as if a massive predator were holding its breath, coiled to spring upon its prey.

"What is it?" Simo stepped up from behind, whispering.

"Intuition." Walter narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the gloom of the timberland. "Up ahead... it's too still."

At that moment, Walter's pupils constricted sharply.

On the periphery of his vision, the snow behind a massive tree shuddered ever so slightly. That wasn't the wind; it was a physical touch.

"Cover! Ambush!"

Walter bellowed, his body instinctively diving to the side.

In almost the same instant, gunfire erupted.

Dada-dada-dada—!

Several PPD-38 submachine guns and DP light machine guns opened fire simultaneously. A dense curtain of lead instantly blanketed the squad's position.

In that heartbeat, the slaughter began.

The wounded, already battered and slow to move, had no time to react. Some were leaning on crutches; others were still on makeshift litters.

Thud-thud-thud!

Bullets tore easily through their thin cotton coats and weakened bodies.

"Agh!"

The screams flared for a split second before being cut short. A soldier with a broken leg had just raised his head when a burst of fire shredded his face; another wounded man, delirious with fever, didn't even understand what was happening before machine gun fire tore open his chest.

There was no return fire. No resistance. This was a one-sided execution.

Blood sprayed across the pristine snow in countless jagged, crimson lines, instantly staining the forest that should have remained peaceful.

"Grenade!" someone screamed.

Several grenades trailing wisps of blue smoke arched out from the depths of the woods, landing with lethal precision next to the field kitchen.

Boom! Boom!

The massive explosions overturned the heavy iron cart. The lid was blown clear, and the leftover potatoes and soup spilled across the ground, freezing instantly.

The stubborn donkey was driven mad by the blast. It let out a piercing bray and, completely ignoring Old Juhani who held its lead, bolted into the depths of the forest.

"Don't run! Come back!"

Old Juhani gripped the reins with all his might, but the panicked animal possessed terrifying strength. It jerked him off his feet, dragging him into the dark woods like a ragdoll.

"Old Juhani!" Juha yelled, moving to give chase, but he was driven back by a wall of machine-gun fire.

"Forget him! Stay alive!" Simo tackled Juha behind a tree, roaring over the din. "Aalto! Where are you?!"

"Over here! My leg... I'm hit in the leg!" Aalto was crouched behind a boulder, clutching a bleeding thigh, his face ashen.

In mere seconds, the already crippled squad had taken a catastrophic blow. Aside from Walter, Simo, Juha, and the wounded Aalto, the rest of the wounded had been virtually wiped out. Those brothers who had been clinging to life were finally, mercifully, released from their suffering.

"Damn it! The fire is too heavy!"

Walter lay prone behind a massive pine. Bullets shredded the bark, showering his face with splinters. He tried to lean out to return fire, but even a glimpse of his head invited a precise burst of suppressed fire.

This was no ordinary Soviet patrol. Their marksmanship was uncanny, their tactical coordination flawless, and their fire distribution expertly handled; two light machine guns providing crossfire suppression while submachine gunners flanked from the sides.

These were elites.

"Simo! We need suppression!" Walter shouted.

"I'm low on ammo!" Simo's voice came from the other side. "But I've still got this!"

Simo pulled his last two grenades, bundled together, and yanked the igniter. "Taste this!"

The veteran lunged out from cover, swung his arm in a wide arc, and hurled the bundle toward the Soviet machine-gun nest.

BOOM—!

A massive explosion tore through the front of the Soviet position. Flames surged, and the resulting cloud of snow and dirt temporarily blinded the enemy. The roar of the machine guns faltered.

"Now's the chance!"

Walter took a deep breath, forcing himself into a state of calm. He activated the Eye of Death.

The world slowed once more, turning into a sepia-toned, slow-motion silent film. He saw the Soviet soldiers in white camouflage moving like ghosts, leapfrogging between trees as they tightened the noose.

Behind those soldiers, about twenty meters back, lay a massive fallen log. Half-squatting in the shadow of the deadwood were two figures.

One wore a dark brown greatcoat. Though caked in mud, the officer's uniform remained distinct against the snow. He wasn't holding a weapon; instead, his hands were shoved into his pockets as he watched the slaughter with a cold, detached expression, as if observing a trivial play.

Squatting beside him was a young signalman with a radio pack on his back.

Found you.

Walter's heart gave a violent throb. Instinct told him that the squatting officer was the commander of these elites, the architect of this ambush. If he took him down, the Soviets would break.

But the angle was treacherous. The log blocked most of the target, and the signalman stood directly between him and the officer, forming a natural barrier.

Only one shot.

Walter whispered to himself. He needed to wait for the opening.

Just then, the officer seemed to realize the resistance was stronger than expected. He turned slightly, seemingly to issue a new command to the signalman or to get a clearer view of the front line. The signalman shifted a half-step to the side in coordination.

In that heartbeat, a large portion of the officer's body was exposed to Walter's muzzle.

"Now!"

Walter lunged out from behind the tree, completely ignoring the bullets flying his way. In the vision of the Eye of Death, the trajectories of the incoming rounds were clear, but he didn't dodge. He funneled every ounce of his mental focus into the front sight.

No hesitation. No tremor.

Bang!

The Mosin-Nagant M28/30 let out a crisp, angry roar. The bullet tore through the air, carrying a whistle of death straight for the officer.

However, in that exact microsecond…

Captain Wolf, as if he had eyes in the back of his head or possessed the raw instinct of a seasoned predator, reacted. He didn't think; he didn't even look back at the source of the shot. He remained in his crouch, but his left hand shot out like lightning, grabbing the collar of the unsuspecting signalman beside him.

He yanked with violent force.

The young signalman didn't even have time to register what was happening before he was hauled in front of Wolf, directly into the path of the bullet.

Thwack!

The dull sound of lead hitting flesh.

The bullet Walter had intended as a killing blow drilled squarely into the back of the signalman's head and exited through his brow, trailing a mist of blood that sprayed across Wolf's face.

The signalman's eyes bulged as his body went limp, collapsing heavily onto Wolf. Warm blood trickled down Wolf's cheek, the nauseating metallic scent instantly filling his nostrils.

Wolf's pupils contracted violently.

No matter how cold-blooded or battle-hardened he was, when that bullet grazed his scalp and his comrade's brains splattered onto his face, the terror of brushing against the Reaper made his heart skip a beat. Instinctively, he recoiled, throwing himself prone into the snow with frantic desperation, pressing his body to the earth and using the still-twitching corpse as a shield.

The poker-faced mask he usually wore finally cracked. There was terror, but even more so, a primal, insulted rage.

"Damn it! Damned Finnish bastards!"

Wolf wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, his voice pitching high with fury. "Close... so damn close!"

He looked up, his grey eyes burning with an inferno of rage. He was no longer the elegant observer; he was a wounded beast.

"Fire! Keep firing! Level that tree!" he shrieked hysterically, even drawing his sidearm and firing blindly toward the front. "Forget the ammunition! Grind them to dust with the machine guns! I want to see their corpses!"

Under his orders, the Soviet fire intensified twofold. The two light machine guns ceased their burst fire and began a relentless spray, bullets chewing into the tree where Walter was hidden like a hailstorm. Bark disintegrated and wood chips flew; Walter was pinned down, unable to even lift his head.

"Walter! Retreat! Get out of there!"

The situation on Simo's end was equally dire. Several Soviet submachine gunners had flanked them, and grenades were raining down one after another.

"Juha! Help me carry Aalto! We're leaving!" Simo roared.

"You bastards! Taste this!" Juha pulled a grenade, yanked the pin with his teeth, and hurled it with a wide swing.

Due to his injuries and the chaos, the throw lacked precision. The grenade didn't land in the thickest cluster of Soviets; instead, it clipped a tree trunk and bounced into a nearby snowbank.

BOOM!

A massive blast followed.

While it claimed no lives, the explosion threw up a colossal shroud of snow and frozen earth, creating a natural white smokescreen. It momentarily robbed the frantic Soviets of their line of sight.

"Now! Move!"

Taking advantage of the brief confusion, Walter rolled backward. Careless of form, he scrambled and crawled into the shadows of the forest. Behind them came the enraged shouts of the Soviets and an even denser hail of gunfire, bullets chasing their heels like raindrops.