Chapter 8: Preparations for War

By mid-November 1939, news from Helsinki arrived like the final falling leaf, finally snapping the tension in everyone's nerves.

The negotiations had collapsed. Stalin’s appetite was simply too large, too large for a bone like Finland to satisfy.

"It’s over."

By the company radio, Captain Aarne Juutilainen switched off the broadcast. His deep-set eyes swept over the silent soldiers standing before him. "The diplomats have closed their mouths. Now, it’s our rifles’ turn to speak."

An immediate transfer order followed. The 6th Company of the 34th Infantry Regiment struck camp, pushing eastward from their assembly point near Vyborg.

Their objective: the Taipale sector, situated on the banks of Lake Ladoga at the eastern end of the Karelian Isthmus. This was the easternmost anchor of the Mannerheim Line, a strategic bottleneck where the Soviet Red Army was most likely to launch a massive river-crossing assault.

…

Once again, the train wound through the pine forests. But this time, the carriages were devoid of card games and youthful rowdiness. Even the smell of cheap tobacco felt heavy.

Outside the window, the occasional snowflakes, as if suddenly receiving God’s mobilization order, transformed into a swirling gale of "goose-feather" snow. The temperature plummeted overnight; the world shifted from a dull brownish-grey to a blinding, lethal white.

With the rhythmic clatter of the tracks, the 6th Company finally arrived at the Taipale sector. When the doors slid open and the biting wind, laced with ice crystals, poured into the carriage, everyone’s heart sank.

It wasn't just the cold, it was the isolation. There were no grand scenes of vast armies or endless banners. Only a few exhausted, anxious soldiers stood on the platform to receive them.

"Hey, Walter," Pekka Saarinen whispered as he hopped off the train, adjusting his marching pack and looking around. "Where are the main forces? Are we just the vanguard?"

Walter pulled his collar up to mask half his face, his gaze scanning the empty platform and the sparse outposts in the distance.

"Pekka, use your head," Walter said coldly. "This is the main force."

"Wh... what?" Pekka’s face fell instantly. "Just us? How long is this defensive line?"

"This is the Taipale river section. The front we have to defend is at least several kilometers wide," Antti added, his face pale as he adjusted his glasses. "According to the infantry manual, this requires at least a full regiment. But looking at this... we’d be lucky to scrape together a battalion."

Reality was crueler than the frost. The expansion plans of the Finnish Defence Forces were lagging far behind; many men hadn't even received a full set of military uniforms.

…

In the days that followed, "preparation" felt more like a "crash course."

Though Simo Häyhä had been tasked with training the squad, he quickly realized that turning civilians who had just put down their plows and pens into elite warriors in a matter of days was a fool's errand. Even the opportunities for live-fire practice were pitifully few.

"Conserve your ammo!"

On the range, Captain Juutilainen’s roar drowned out the wind and snow. "Five rounds per man! Only five! If I catch anyone wasting bullets to shoot birds, I’ll send him up to fly with them!"

The shortage of ammunition was an open secret. Given the circumstances, Simo abandoned fancy tactical maneuvers.

"Listen, I don't expect you to hit a coin from two hundred meters," Simo said, standing in the freezing wind as he looked at his shivering subordinates.

Matti and Toivo were sturdy but clumsy; Eero’s hands still shook when he held his rifle; even Antti’s fingers were so stiff from the cold that he fumbled while stripping a bolt. They were "qualified," but only just. They knew how to flip a safety, how to cycle a bolt, and how to point the business end away from themselves. That was it.

"I’m setting my requirements to the bare minimum," Simo said, patting the snow beside him. "First: don't point your muzzle at your comrade’s backside. Second: when the shells start falling, don't run around, lie down and keep your mouth open. Third: unless you can shove your bayonet into a Russian’s gut, do not leave the trench."

"That’s it?" Juha Terine asked, looking dazed. "No... tactical flanking maneuvers?"

"Juha," Walter chimed in, his tone dry as he wiped his scope. "With the current troop ratios, any 'flanking' outside of cover is just called a death sentence."

During that week, the 6th Company was in a literal race against time. The severe manpower shortage became glaringly obvious as they dug fortifications. Sections meant for an entire platoon were being dug by their dozen men. The permafrost was as hard as pig iron; a pickaxe blow left nothing but a white scratch.

"We’ll never finish this," Toivo, the quietest of the group, grumbled. His once-sharp pickaxe was already blunted.

"We dig until we're done," Simo replied simply, swinging his shovel. "The deeper you dig, the longer you live."

Walter stood at the edge of the trench and activated the Eye of Death. In his vision, the line looked incredibly fragile. The dark, brooding forests in the distance would be the Soviet staging grounds. Here, there was only a thin, intermittent white scar of a trench. The soldiers were spread so thin it was nerve-wracking; in some sections, firing points were separated by dozens of meters of empty space.

It was like using a thin sheet of window paper to block a hurricane.

"Walter." Antti approached, clutching his small notebook, his expression grim. "I’ve done the math. If the Soviets attack with a standard infantry division, our troop ratio in this sector is roughly... 1 to 10. And that’s a conservative estimate, not counting tanks or artillery."

"Only 1 to 10?" Walter’s lips curled into a sarcastic arc as he looked across the river. "Antti, you’re underestimating Stalin’s resolve. He’s determined to take this place at any cost."

"Then... can we hold?" Antti’s voice was dry.

Walter turned to look at Simo, who was helping Eero tighten his puttees, and then at Juha and the logger brothers wrestling with the frozen earth. These people were poorly equipped, minimally trained, and pathetically few.

"We hold because we have to," Walter said softly. "Because behind us is Vyborg. Behind us is home."

On the night of November 29, the snow finally stopped. The temperature plummeted to -25°C. A deathly silence hung over the Taipale River line, the kind of silence that made your ears ring and your heart race.

Simo distributed all the ammunition. No hoarding, no reserves. Everyone knew that once the fighting started, there might not be another chance to visit the logistics depot.

Walter sat at his sentry post, pressing the last bullet into his magazine. He glanced to his side: Pekka was dozing over his rifle, his snot bubble expanding and contracting with his breath; Juha was sharpening his axe; Eero was curled in a ball, muttering prayers.

This was the Finnish line. Fragile, thin, looking as though a gust of wind could blow it away. Yet, looking at these ordinary men who were far from being "elites," Walter felt a strange sense of calm.

"They're here," Walter whispered suddenly.

"What?" Pekka jolted awake, wiping his mouth.

"The wind has changed."

Walter peered through his scope at the pitch-black eastern sky. Though the thunder of artillery hadn't yet begun, his heightened senses seemed to catch a faint, microscopic vibration. It was the sound of hundreds of heavy guns adjusting their elevation, the low growl of tank engines starting in the extreme cold.

Early morning, November 30, 1939.

On this morning so cold it could freeze a soul, hundreds of thousands of Soviet troops, with a tide of steel enough to crush everything in its path, were about to slam into this thin line of flesh, blood, and ice.