Chapter 33: The Lingering Shadow

Walter supported Simo, the two of them trudging through the snow with uneven, heavy strides.

"Do you think they made it far?" Simo asked, his voice thick with profound exhaustion.

"If Old Juhani listened for once, they should be a good distance away by now."

However, as they crested a small ridge, they saw a huddle of figures tucked behind a leeward rock: Juha, Old Juhani, and Aalto, who was slumped across the donkey's back. They hadn't gone far at all; they were right here, waiting.

"Why are you still here?" Walter shouted, a flash of irritation in his voice. "I told you to get moving!"

"Move where, exactly?" Juha looked up, a grimy grin stretching across his large face. "If you two didn't come back, where were we 'walking wounded' supposed to go? Might as well wait here for the verdict."

"If you'd died, we figured we'd save ourselves the effort and just lie down right here."

"That foul mouth of yours..." Simo shook his head, but a helpless, weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

This was the bond of brothers-in-arms. They spoke the bleakest words, yet their bodies remained loyally rooted to the spot.

But the joy of reunion was short-lived. The reality of their predicament was as pervasive as the damnable cold.

"The situation is grim."

Simo inspected everyone's injuries. His own leg wound wasn't bad, mostly a flesh wound, and the cold had actually helped staunch the bleeding. But Juha was in trouble; his already crippled left arm had been struck again. Though the bone wasn't broken, the wound was beginning to inflame, and the entire arm was swollen.

The worst off was Aalto. The young recruit remained in a semi-conscious state. Though the gunshot wound in his thigh had been roughly bandaged, the massive blood loss meant he could slip into shock at any moment.

"He needs a doctor, and he needs heat," Simo said, his face darkening as he felt Aalto's burning forehead. "Otherwise, he won't last two days."

"Heat?" Juha let out a dry laugh. "Forget heat; I'm about ready to gnaw on tree bark. That cursed field kitchen flipped, and we don't even have a potato skin left."

An awkward silence followed.

Grumble…

It was unclear whose stomach spoke first, but like a chain reaction, everyone's midsection began to protest.

Walter and Old Juhani locked eyes, their gazes simultaneously drifting toward the stubborn donkey currently napping on the ground. Sensing a predatory shift in the air, the donkey's ears twitched violently. It opened its eyes and stared warily at the two humans, snorting a plume of white vapor and baring its teeth in a "try me and I'll bite" snarl.

"I'm thinking..." Old Juhani swallowed hard, whispering, "Donkey meat is actually quite nourishing, especially in this weather."

"I agree," Walter said, his hand straying toward the hunting knife at his belt. "He's a bit lean, but meat is meat."

As if it understood human speech, the donkey surged to its feet and bucked a hoof at Old Juhani, nearly striking him where it counts.

"Ai-yo! The beast is possessed!" Old Juhani jumped back, terrified.

"Forget it, forget it," Juha waved a hand dismissively, his voice weak. "He's our only transport. If we butcher him, who carries Aalto? You expect me to be a one-armed hero?"

"How about... I head back?" Juha pointed toward the path they came from. "The field kitchen flipped, but the supplies must still be there. I might be able to scrounge up a few potatoes."

"Are you insane?" Simo shot him a glare. "The Soviets are absolutely still in the area. Going back is suicide. You won't be eating potatoes; you'll be eating lead."

"Then what? We starve?"

"No." Simo stood up, brushing the snow from his gear. "The forest is full of food, if you know where to look."

"Like where?"

"Like the river." Simo pointed toward a small, partially frozen stream nearby. "The fish are all hiding under the ice right now. If we break it open, they'll swarm the hole just for a bit of oxygen."

…

Half an hour later, out on the ice.

Simo, Walter, and Old Juhani were belly-down on the frozen surface, guarding a freshly carved hole. Juha and Aalto remained resting on the bank, while the donkey was tethered to a tree, still watching them with a suspicious eye, seemingly afraid the "hungry wolves" would change their minds and come back for a snack.

"Here we go," Simo whispered, thrusting a makeshift harpoon downward.

With a splash, a small fish no larger than a palm was pulled up, flopping desperately on the ice.

"Too small. Won't even fill a tooth gap," Old Juhani said, disappointed.

"It's better than nothing." Walter grabbed the fish and tucked it into his coat. "Again."

Like men performing a sacred ritual, the three of them lay in the freezing wind for two full hours. Their final haul was five finger-sized minnows and two slightly larger perch. This was a day's rations for five grown men.

"How are we doing this? Sashimi?" Juha looked at the frozen, stiff fish, his lip twitching.

"Soup," Simo said. "Boil them bone and all. At least we'll have something hot."

With no salt and no seasoning, the broth was thick with a fishy stench, yet the men drank it with relish. Even if only for a meager spark of warmth, it was worth the struggle.

…

By evening, twilight draped the forest once more.

Miles away, at the site of the ambush where the fierce firefight had occurred, the faint scent of cordite still lingered. The three Soviet soldiers who had reached a tacit ceasefire with Simo were currently huddled behind a leeward rock, warming themselves by a small fire.

They hadn't gone back to report. They didn't dare. They had lost their position and let the enemy escape; returning meant a firing squad. They planned to hide for a few days until the heat died down, then try to blend into another unit.

"Those two Finns were pure lunatics," one soldier grumbled, tossing a handful of wood onto the fire.

"At least we're alive," another said, biting into a piece of rock-hard black bread. "As long as the NKVD doesn't catch us..."

Before he could finish, the sound of rhythmic, heavy footsteps echoed from the depths of the forest. The three men scrambled to their feet, raising their rifles, their expressions strained.

"Who's there?!"

"Drop your weapons!" a low command in Russian barked from the darkness.

Immediately, a large contingent of Soviet soldiers emerged from the shadows. Dark muzzles locked onto the three startled men instantly.

It was the reinforcements Wolf had summoned. Though the blizzard had delayed them, he had followed like a tireless hound, tracking that faint scent.

Captain Wolf stepped forward from the rear of the column, snow dusting his slovenly greatcoat and ice clinging to his beard. He didn't look at the three soldiers; he walked straight to the small fire.

"C-Comrade Captain!" the lead soldier stammered, saluting frantically. "We... we did our best! The enemy fire was too heavy, and they had reinforcements..."

"Reinforcements?" Wolf let out a cold laugh, his gaze sweeping over the three unscathed, eating men. "You don't have so much as a scratch on you. This is your 'best'?"

"We…" the soldier began to explain.

"Silence."

Wolf turned his back, sparing them not a single glance more. He simply waved a hand to the soldiers behind him.

"Summary execution."

"No! Captain! We didn't desert! We only—"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots, crisp and efficient. The three soldiers who had just been celebrating their survival slumped into the snow.