Chapter 62: The Breakout

"The Squad Leader is back!"

When Walter pushed open the heavy double-layered wooden doors of the dugout, Vatanen, sprawled on the wooden bunk, didn't even turn his head. He knew exactly who it was just from the blast of freezing air that followed.

He remained in that utterly undignified position, arms pillowed under his chest, backside hoisted high, the white bandages wrapped around his rear glowing like an oversized orb under the dim light of the kerosene lamp.

"How was it, Squad Leader? How many unlucky Ruskies did you put on hell's payroll tonight?"

Vatanen chuckled. Though the wound on his posterior still throbbed with every heartbeat, his mouth had clearly recovered to peak performance.

Walter unslung the Mosin-Nagant from his back, cycled the bolt, and ejected a spent casing.

"Seven," Walter replied succinctly.

"Hear that? You hear that?" Vatanen slapped the wooden frame of the bunk, shouting to the recruits huddled around the stove. "Seven bullets, seven souls. You greenskins are lucky you were assigned to the First Squad. In any other platoon, you'd be frozen stiff as logs under a tree by now."

Kalle, one of the recruits, scrambled to his feet. He held an aluminum field kettle with a chipped rim, filled with freshly boiled water and even a few luxurious tea leaves added for flavor.

"Have some water, Squad Leader." Kalle's gaze was filled with a fervor bordering on blind worship.

The way these recruits looked at Walter now was no longer how one looked at an officer; it was how one looked at an idol.

"Squad Leader, the whole company is talking," Ojala said from the side, cleaning his bayonet with a low laugh. "They say the Russians in the pocket have given you a nickname. Simo is the White Death, and you... they call you the Butcher of the Snowy Night."

"They say whenever the snow stops, the Death takes their souls. But whenever the snow falls, the Butcher comes to skin them alive."

"Butcher of the Snowy Night..." Lindholm gave a cold, dry chuckle. "That's a fierce title. Sounds a hell of a lot more intimidating than those Russian bastards who only know how to shoot at backsides."

Walter took the kettle and took a sip, the scalding liquid sliding down his esophagus into his stomach.

"A big reputation isn't always a good thing," Walter said calmly, watching the flickering fire. "How is Simo doing?"

"He took the recruits to guard the snowbanks to the south," Lindholm replied. "Word is the Lieutenant has already reported your tallies from the last few days. Regimental HQ is looking to commend you."

A faint cheer rippled through the dugout. On this desperate, frozen earth, the birth of a hero was a potent medicine for morale.

Walter merely ran his fingers along the cold barrel of his rifle. He knew that medals were for the living; for the dead, the snow was the only home.

…

West Lemetti, the core encirclement of the Soviet 18th Rifle Division.

The headquarters here was no spacious barracks; the Soviets had likewise dug a semi-subterranean log bunker. The heavy timbers were frozen solid into blocks of ice, and the moss once stuffed into the crevices had long since fallen out. Inside, a single kerosene stove emitted pungent black smoke, providing heat that was negligible at best.

Major General Kondrashov, the divisional commander, sat on a rickety wooden stool. The edges of his general's greatcoat were frayed beyond recognition, and his eyes were sunken deep into bruised, dark sockets.

A casualty report, freshly delivered, sat on the table. He looked up at his Chief of Staff, whose eyes were bloodshot and who was currently shivering by the stove.

"Comrade Commander, this is no longer just a question of personnel losses." The Chief of Staff's voice trembled. "Colonel Iovlev's death... he was killed by an anti-tank gun in plain view of everyone."

"Furthermore, ghost stories about the White Death and the Butcher of the Snowy Night are spreading among the rank and file. Some say the Butcher is a Finnish phantom who can see through the drifts and smell a man's soul."

Kondrashov slammed his hand onto the table. "That is Finnish psychological warfare! There is no Butcher! It is merely a Finnish soldier proficient in night operations!"

"But, Commander..." The Chief of Staff swallowed hard and handed over another report. "Just this afternoon, Major Belov of the 316th Regiment committed suicide in his bunker with his service pistol."

Kondrashov's hand twitched. A soldier's suicide was a sign of low morale, but the suicide of a field-grade officer was a sign of a mental collapse.

For over two months, the entire 18th Division had been like a massive beast trapped in a pit, bleeding out. The Finnish artillery was not dense, but those ethereal snipers and assassinations were like tiny scalpels, precisely severing every nerve of the army.

"Colonel Iovlev was meant to lead the vanguard in the original breakout plan." Kondrashov closed his eyes, the image of the lean, capable Colonel flashing through his mind, now nothing more than a heap of shredded meat. "Now, the 97th Regiment is leaderless, and morale has sunk to the bottom of Lake Ladoga."

"Commander, we cannot wait any longer." The Chief of Staff stood up abruptly. "More than half of the air-dropped supplies fall into Finnish mouths. What's left isn't enough to maintain basic body temperatures."

"If we stay here any longer, the 18th Division will be nothing but twenty thousand ice sculptures huddled together."

Kondrashov braced himself against the table as he stood, his head swimming from prolonged malnutrition.

"You are right. We cannot wait. Better to go to Uoma than to be slaughtered here like pigs." Kondrashov pointed to a spot on the map roughly ten kilometers to the east.

"That is our nearest stronghold. If we can punch through to there, we can survive."

"But Commander, the road is lined with Finnish fortifications. The snow is too deep; the tanks won't be able to move."

"We will not take the road." Kondrashov's eyes turned resolute. "Destroy all the heavy tanks, artillery, and trucks we cannot take with us."

"Notify all regiments. Tomorrow night, we split into two columns. We're going through the woods and the marshes."

He paused, looking at his Chief of Staff, his tone turning cold and devoid of warmth. "Tell the men, either push through and drink hot soup in Uoma, or stay here and wait for the Death and the Butcher to send them to hell."

"Understood, Comrade Commander."

As the order trickled down, the previously deathly silent camps of Lemetti began to vibrate with a frantic, desperate agitation. Soldiers began silently strapping on their last grenades, and officers burned confidential documents by the fires. The light reflected off their bruised, purple faces like the final flare of a dying man's strength.