Though fierce, the flames could only stem the iron tide for a fleeting moment. The burning husks of T-26s and armored cars now served as the perfect cover. The following Soviet echelons recovered swiftly from the chaos, reassembling into dense assault formations under the roars of political officers and the threat of drawn pistols.
"They're coming up again!" Antti cried out in despair.
This time, the Soviets were no longer impatient. They seemed to realize that while these Finnish remnants lacked heavy firepower, they were incredibly hard nuts to crack. Several surviving T-28 medium tanks adjusted their formation; they did not charge blindly but halted halfway up the slope. Using the terrain for cover, they used their 76mm main guns to systematically pick off every suspicious firing point on the heights with surgical precision.
Boom!
A massive explosion erupted right beside Walter. It hit the heavy machine gun nest where the brothers Matti and Toivo had been stationed. The long-silenced Maxim, along with its former masters, was reduced to nothing but a few charred fragments.
Juha went to raise his rifle to return fire, but a burst of machine gun fire swept across his position.
"Agh!"
Juha shrieked and fell backward. A bullet had punched clean through his left arm, instantly soaking his sleeve in crimson. His rifle clattered to the ground.
"Juha!"
Walter lunged forward, dragging him back to the bottom of the trench. He used a scrap of cloth so filthy its original color was unrecognizable to bind the wound tightly.
"Hold on! Don't move!"
"My hand... my hand is ruined..." Juha panted, cold sweat beading on his pale face.
Walter looked around, his heart sinking into an abyss. The First Squad, and indeed the entire defensive line, existed in name only. Matti and Toivo were dead, Pekka was dead, Juha was maimed, and Eero, the boy missing an ear, was huddled in some unknown corner, perhaps already blown to bits, or perhaps simply paralyzed by terror.
The only ones left capable of fighting were he, Simo, and Antti, whose hands were shaking too hard to even hold a rifle steady. Meanwhile, the Soviet infantry had crawled to within thirty meters of the trench.
"Grenades! Throw every grenade we have!"
Simo roared, pulling out his last two sticks and hurling them.
Boom! Boom!
The explosions tore two gaps into the Soviet ranks, but the openings were instantly filled by the sea of men surging from behind.
"It's no use... it's no use..." Antti slumped to the ground, his glasses cracked down the middle. He watched the approaching khaki figures with hollow eyes. "We're all going to die here..."
The roar of tank engines at the base of the heights grew louder. A T-26 had already climbed to within twenty meters of the trench. Its black, yawning muzzle was practically pressed against the Finns' foreheads.
"Molotovs! Are there any Molotovs left?!" Simo spun around and shouted, his voice as raspy as a growl.
No one answered.
It was over. The thought flashed through everyone's mind. Without anti-tank weapons, they were mere lambs to the slaughter before a tank at point-blank range.
The T-26 came to a halt, its turret making a minute adjustment. Walter stared at the slowly rotating barrel, close enough to smell the nauseating stench of diesel. There was no divine intervention, no miracle. On this frozen height, there was nothing but death.
"Walter! Prepare to charge!"
Simo suddenly bellowed, drawing a hunting knife from his back and gripping it in a reverse hold. The veteran's eyes held no fear, only a grim resolve for a final stand.
"Since we can't hold, we go down! Get mixed in with them! Make it so their tanks don't dare fire!"
It was a suicidal tactic, but it was the only way to live, or at least to die with more dignity. Walter hesitated for a split second before realizing Simo's intent.
"Good idea."
He fixed the bayonet to his Mosin-Nagant, his eyes taking on a manic glint.
"Everyone! Fix bayonets!" Simo's voice was soft but unwavering.
"Kill!!!"
With Simo's roar, the few dozen surviving Finnish soldiers from their section leaped from the thin trench like maddened beasts, crashing headlong into the dense Soviet tide. It was no longer a battle; it was a primal, bloody melee.
Walter was at the forefront, but he soon discovered that a single bayonet was pathetically weak against the Soviet human-wave tactics. A towering Soviet soldier roared, thrusting his bayonet toward Walter's chest. Walter barely managed to twist aside, his own blade slicing through the man's greatcoat, but before he could follow up, another bayonet lunged from the side.
Squelch!
The blade sliced across Walter's left arm, and blood surged out.
"Die!" The ambushing soldier grinned, preparing for another thrust.
At that critical heartbeat, a flash of cold steel whipped past, precisely carving open the soldier's throat. It was Simo. The diminutive old hunter moved through the chaos with staggering combat prowess. He drifted through the crowd, the Finnish hunting knife that had followed him for years becoming a reaper's tool. Wherever the blade passed, a spray of blood followed.
"Don't daze! Keep moving!"
Simo grabbed Walter by the collar, hauling him out of a pincer attack by two Soviets, before pivoting to drive his knife deep into the kidney of another lunging enemy.
Walter gasped for air, the terror and exhilaration of the edge of death blurring his vision. He moved mechanically—stab, parry, stab again.
But he was no superman.
"Watch the grenade!" someone screamed.
Walter looked back instinctively. A grenade, trailing a wisp of blue smoke, landed in a snow pit less than five meters away. In that moment, time seemed to stand still. He wanted to hit the deck, wanted to dodge, but his battered body could no longer keep pace with his brain's commands.
Boom!
A titanic explosion roared in his ears. An irresistible shockwave lifted him off his feet and slammed him violently onto the permafrost.
Ringing, a deafening ringing. The sound of the world was stripped away, replaced by a piercing, high-pitched hum. Everything began to spin, flickering between light and shadow. He saw the sky rotating; he saw the snowflakes turn red.
In the final moment before his consciousness flickered out, he caught a blurry glimpse of two figures stumbling toward him. One was Juha, face covered in blood while clutching his wounded arm. The other was Simo, covered in filth, still holding that notched hunting knife.
"Walter! Hold on!"
It sounded like someone was shouting his name, but the sound was distorted. Then, he felt someone grab his collar, dragging him across the snow. That rough, grating friction was his last sensation of this world.
Darkness rushed in like a tide, swallowing him whole.
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