Chapter 6: Reorganization

The campfire licked at a sizzling wild boar leg, grease dripping onto the embers to trigger bursts of bright flame and a mouth-watering aroma. It was the most decadent meal they had enjoyed since the onset of winter.

Juha gripped a seared rib, eating until his face shone with grease, yet the expression he wore was far from relaxed. He chewed a few times, then stopped abruptly as if something had caught in his throat, staring blankly into the dancing flames.

"Warsaw is gone."

Juha blurted it out, his voice muffled and heavy. "I heard from that loudmouth in the communications squad. It didn't matter that the Poles charged tanks on horseback; it was useless. The Germans ate from the west, the Russians ate from the east, and in less than a month, a whole country just... vanished."

Pekka, who was busy gnawing on a bone, froze at those words.

"That’s Poland... they have plains, nowhere to hide," Pekka whispered, as if trying to convince himself. "Besides, aren't our negotiators still in Moscow? They’ll work something out. Maybe we’ll have to cede a few islands, but it’s better than a war."

Walter Ilves sat to one side, using a sharp pocketknife to methodically slice the meat into thin strips. The firelight played across his face, casting long shadows that made him look brooding.

"Pekka, do you think Stalin is running a charity?"

Walter let out a cold laugh. He used the tip of his knife to flick a glowing ember, watching it fade rapidly in the biting wind.

"The partition of Poland was just a signal. It’s like a village bully; if he robs the neighbor to the east and goes unpunished, he’ll be knocking on the neighbor to the west's door the very next day."

He patted the rifle beside him.

"If we don't bow our heads in Moscow, the talks will collapse. If we do bow, it’s just the story of the boiling frog, next year they’ll demand even more. No matter the path, the destination is the same."

Juha tossed his bone into the fire in frustration. "This won't work, that won't work... then what have we been doing here for months? Waiting to die?"

"We’re here to make sure they lose a few teeth."

"Our job isn't to worry about how the big shots in Moscow argue." Simo Häyhä looked up, his gaze sweeping over his three young companions. "What you need to worry about is whether or not you can cycle your bolts fast enough when the moment comes."

The atmosphere grew heavy. Walter looked at Simo, nodding inwardly. In this time of panic and rumors, this brand of stoic pragmatism was the only thing capable of steadying a man's heart.

…

A few days later, the airy tension of pre-war anxiety was shattered by a cold, hard command. The Ministry of Defense issued the mobilization order: all reservists were transferred to active duty, and the formal reorganization of the troops began.

On the Vyborg parade grounds, the freezing wind whipped up dead leaves, stinging exposed skin. Hundreds of soldiers stood in formation, the chaotic air of civilian life finally buried beneath rows of uniform greatcoats.

Standing at the front of the assembly was the commander of the 6th Company, Captain Aarne Juutilainen.

He was a man who looked surgically precise. He wore his officer’s uniform with a posture so stiff it seemed a steel rod had been driven through his spine. His face was lean, his features as jagged as granite, and his deep-set eyes held no warmth. He inspected the soldiers as if checking a batch of factory-fresh machine parts.

Captain Juutilainen did not deliver a stirring oration. He simply kept his hands behind his back, pacing before the ranks with steps as rhythmic as a clock.

"From this day forward, you are no longer farmers, loggers, or students holding guns," the Captain’s voice was not loud, but it possessed a metallic quality that cut through the wind. "You are soldiers of the 6th Company, 34th Infantry Regiment, Finnish Defence Forces. I do not ask you to die. I demand that you make the enemy die."

He stopped and took a list from his adjutant. "I will now announce the organizational assignments."

Names were called, and squads were carved out one by one.

"Second Platoon, First Squad." Juutilainen’s gloved finger slid down the list. "Squad Leader: Corporal Simo Häyhä."

Simo stepped forward and snapped a salute.

"Walter Ilves, Private."

"Juha Terine, Private."

"Pekka Saarinen, Private."

Walter and the other two stepped out in order, lining up behind Simo. Aside from the four "old partners," four more poor souls were assigned to the squad.

Two were loggers from the northern Salla region, brothers named Matti and Toivo. They were built like black bears and were men of few words, standing like two solid walls. They only offered a glimmer of approval when they saw Juha, their eyes suggesting: This fat one could probably carry two logs at once.

The remaining two were local shop clerks: Antti, a bespectacled man who looked quite refined, and Eero, a small, jittery fellow whose eyes darted about and who spoke with a slight stutter.

These eight men, led by Corporal Simo, formed a standard Finnish infantry squad.

Captain Juutilainen walked over to the First Squad. He nodded with satisfaction at the bear-like logger brothers, then let his gaze drift over Juha’s bulk, which looked ready to burst out of the uniform, without comment. Finally, his eyes landed on Walter.

"I hear your marksmanship is decent?" Juutilainen’s voice was icy.

"Reporting, sir. It’s just luck." Walter looked straight ahead, his answer perfectly neutral.

"In war, luck is a form of skill." Juutilainen stared into Walter’s eyes, seemingly trying to pierce the young man’s mask. "But don't use your cleverness against your own. If I catch you slacking in combat, I’ll execute you myself."

"Understood, sir."

Juutilainen turned lastly to Simo. Faced with a corporal a full head shorter than himself, the infamously cold Captain’s expression softened ever so slightly.

"Corporal Simo."

"Sir."

"These seven heads are your responsibility." Juutilainen pointed to the group behind him. "You’re the veteran, the hunter. How you turn these chicks into wolves is your business. I only care about results."

"Yes, sir."

When the unit was dismissed and they returned to the barracks, the atmosphere had shifted. If they had previously been companions merely passing the time, the "First Squad" designation written on that paper was now an invisible chain linking their eight lives together.

Simo tossed his pack onto the squad leader’s bunk and turned to face the eight men. The logger brothers were sharpening axes, Juha was fighting Pekka for a bunk, Antti was cleaning his glasses, and the stuttering Eero was shivering in the corner.

"Listen up."

Simo’s voice wasn't raised, but the room fell silent instantly.

"I am Simo Häyhä. I am your squad leader. I don’t like shouting, and I don’t like physical punishment." He paused, tucking a bit of tobacco into his cheek. "But I have one rule. I don’t leave anyone behind, and you don’t fall behind on me. In the woods, if you wander off, I can’t save you. If you fire without orders, I’ll kick you into a snowbank to cool off."

He pointed to Walter. "If I’m not around, you listen to him."

Juha and Pekka naturally had no objections. The logger brothers offered a simple, honest nod. Only Antti, the man with glasses, gave Walter a surprised second look.

Walter leaned against the window, watching the darkening sky. A faint, subtle smile touched his lips.

The Captain was a hard-ass, the Squad Leader was a legend, and the teammates, while an eccentric bunch, had character. For the desperate war that lay ahead, this roster didn't seem bad at all.

It’s November... Walter calculated the days in his mind. Less than a month to go.