Chapter 5: Better Rations

By mid-October, the forests surrounding Vyborg were dusted with a layer of frost. While the heavy clouds of impending war weighed on everyone’s spirits, the most urgent crisis for the grunts wasn't Soviet tanks, it was the despair-inducing culinary skills of the company cook.

Every day brought the same relentless oatmeal, so thin you could see your reflection in it, paired with rye bread hard enough to crack walnuts.

"I feel like my intestines are lined with a layer of cement." Juha struck his mess tin dejectedly, creating a rhythmic clink-clink-clink. "If I don't get some grease in me soon, I won't even have the strength to swing my axe when the Russians show up."

Walter Ilves sat nearby, elegantly whittling a piece of bark with his refined hunting knife. Hearing this, he simply offered a faint smile. After spending this much time together, he’d grown well-acquainted with these men. Especially Juha; he had a bit of a big mouth, but he lacked any real malice, he was just the type to bully the weak and fear the strong.

"Don't talk about it..." Pekka moaned, clutching his stomach.

Simo, who had been silent as usual, suddenly stood up. He grabbed his rifle from the corner and pulled a roll of thick hemp rope from under his bed.

"Then we’ll go find some grease ourselves," Simo said flatly. "Field survival exercise. Who's in?"

The eyes of the young men lit up instantly like lightbulbs.

…

Half an hour later, the four-man squad had slipped five kilometers deep into the dense forest beyond the camp. Simo led the way, his footsteps as light as a cat's, not even snapping a dry twig. Walter followed closely behind, Mosin-Nagant at the ready. Juha carried a heavy axe, while Pekka hauled the large, empty hemp sack, looking around with wide-eyed excitement.

"Shh…"

Simo stopped abruptly, raising a finger. Everyone froze.

Simo crouched down to inspect a patch of unremarkable mud. He touched the soil to gauge its moisture, then turned back. A rare, mischievous glint appeared on his honest face.

"Big haul," Simo mouthed silently.

"A bear?" Pekka’s face went white, his legs turning to jelly.

"Not a bear. A piggy bank with tusks," Walter whispered the translation. "Wild boar."

Juha’s mouth nearly watered; he could already smell the roasting meat. "I want a hind leg!"

"Quiet." Simo pointed toward a dense thicket ahead. "It’s sleeping. Walter, find a vantage point. Juha, if it charges, use that bulk of yours to block it. Pekka, you’re responsible for..."

"Responsible for what?" Pekka asked excitedly.

"Responsible for not pissing yourself," Simo said, before vanishing like a ghost toward the flank.

Walter found a fallen spruce for cover and propped up his rifle. Through the scope, he indeed saw a dark, heaving mass deep in the bushes, accompanied by a snoring sound like a tractor engine. This wasn't just a boar; it was a small tank with fur. At least two hundred kilograms.

"Steady..." Walter held his breath, finger hovering over the trigger.

However, accidents always come unannounced. Pekka, too nervous and excited as he attempted the flanking maneuver, stepped squarely into a hole.

"Ah!"

That single cry in the silent woods was comparable to an air-raid siren. The snoring in the thicket stopped instantly. A second later, the dark mass erupted. A massive male boar with protruding tusks and bristling hair charged out. Its bloodshot, beady eyes didn't look at Walter, the primary threat, but locked onto the fool who made the noise: Pekka.

"Mama!"

Pekka let out a pitch-shifted shriek. Survival instinct triggered a burst of incredible potential; instead of turning to run, he leaped into the air and scrambled up a bare birch tree like a startled monkey, reaching three meters high in a blur.

The boar slammed into the trunk.

THUD!

The entire tree shook violently. At the top, Pekka clung to the branches, swinging back and forth like a wind chime, shouting tearfully, "It’s ramming the tree! It wants to shake me down and eat me! Save me, Simo!"

"You idiot, boars don't eat people!" Juha roared, trying to draw the aggro. "Hey! Pig-face! Over here!"

Juha waved his axe, striking what he thought was a heroic pose. The boar was provoked. It spun around, puffing white vapor, pawing the ground with its hind hooves before launching itself like a cannonball at Juha.

"Holy—!"

Juha’s bravado collapsed instantly. Facing a two-hundred-kilogram meat-powered juggernaut, a head-on collision was suicide. The big man turned and bolted, choosing the highly intelligent tactic of running around a massive ancient pine.

A slapstick scene unfolded in the forest: Pekka hung from his tree wailing for his parents, while Juha played a deadly game of "hide and seek" around the pine with the boar. The two moved so fast they were almost a blur. Though the boar was fast in a straight line, its turning radius was wide; it couldn't manage to gore Juha’s backside, squealing in frustration.

"Walter! Shoot! How long are you going to just watch?!" Juha screamed in despair while sprinting. "I’m getting dizzy!"

Dozens of meters away, Walter was indeed "watching the play." He lay behind the spruce, in no hurry to fire.

Eye of Death, activate.

The world slowed down. In Walter’s vision, the fat on Juha’s face wobbled with every step, each bead of flying sweat clearly visible. The spray of saliva from the boar’s mouth traced a crystalline arc through the air. On the tree, Pekka’s mouth was wide open, a snot bubble slowly expanding, nearing its breaking point.

Walter actually wanted to watch a bit longer, as seeing Juha run for his life was fair play, considering the big guy's snoring usually kept the whole barracks awake.

"That's enough."

Just as Juha’s foot slipped and the boar was about to close the gap, Simo’s voice drifted from nowhere. "Stop playing, Walter."

It seemed Simo had also caught on to Walter’s dark sense of humor.

Walter took a deep breath. In his slow-motion vision, the red crosshairs snapped like a magnet to the spot behind the boar’s ear, the weakest point of its skull. Though the beast was moving at high speed, to Walter, it looked like it was performing morning calisthenics.

He compensated for the lead.

"Goodbye, tonight's dinner."

BANG!

The gunshot startled a flock of birds. The charging boar looked as if it had been shoved hard by an invisible giant hand. Its legs gave out instantly, and its massive bulk skidded forward on the mulch and mud, carving a deep trench. Finally, the enormous head came to a halt right in front of Juha’s boots, less than five centimeters from his toes.

Juha froze in mid-stride, face pale, chest heaving. The world went quiet for a few seconds.

"Is... is it dead?" Pekka poked his head out from the tree, the snot bubble finally popping with a soft snap.

Walter worked the bolt, ejected the shell, and blew on the warm brass before strolling over.

"Juha, your footwork was quite... flamboyant. That sharp turn? I almost wanted to give you a round of applause."

Juha collapsed onto his backside, wiping cold sweat as he glared at Walter. "You did that on purpose! You had at least half a dozen chances to shoot! You wanted to see me get tossed by this beast, didn't you?"

"How could you say that?" Walter looked innocent. "I was just waiting for a clean kill to preserve the hide. After all, such good boar skin would make a very warm vest."

At that moment, Simo stepped out from behind a tree. He glanced at the fallen boar and nodded with satisfaction.

"Good shooting. The timing was... a bit late, but it provided excellent entertainment." Simo allowed himself a rare joke before kicking Juha’s rump. "Stop lounging. This thing is at least two hundred kilos. Since you enjoyed running so much, the task of lugging the pig back falls to you."

"What?!" Juha wailed.

"You too, Pekka. Get down," Simo said, looking up the tree. "Don't think you’re getting out of this. Go scout the path ahead."

The sun began to set. Four silhouettes trudged along the forest path. Juha and Pekka hauled the boar between them, their tongues practically hanging out from exhaustion. Walter walked beside them, carrying a rifle and humming a light tune.

"Roast meat tonight."

"Long live Simo!"

Those were the final days of October 1939. The forest echoed with the carefree laughter of young men. It was the last bit of mindless joy they would know before the coming of the great winter.