The next three days were a lingering nightmare for the small squad known as the "Lost Unit." The Karelian forest had transformed into a vast, white labyrinth.
Relying on his hunter's intuition and fragmented memories of the terrain, Simo attempted to lead them westward, searching for the main Finnish defensive line. But reality dealt them a stinging blow.
"Roadblock ahead as well."
Simo slid down from a spruce tree, his face grim. "The small trail leading toward Vyborg is sealed off. The Russians have set up two machine gun nests."
"Damn it, are they trying to turn this forest into an airtight iron pot?" Juha leaned against a trunk, his wounded left arm freshly bandaged. Though it wasn't infected, the lack of proper medicine meant the piercing agony kept him on the constant edge of a violent outburst.
It wasn't just the blocked roads. Even more lethal were the bitter cold and starvation. The temperature had plummeted to -30°C. The last of the squad's dry rations had been split yesterday; now, everyone survived on nothing but gulps of melted snow.
Soldiers already burdened by wounds began to run fevers. Wrapped in tattered greatcoats, they huddled together, shivering and delirious.
"Mama... I want hot soup..." one young soldier muttered, burying his face in the snow as his consciousness slipped away.
Walter Ilves watched this, rubbing his own aching forehead. The concussion from the grenade left him with bouts of nausea, and while the bayonet wound on his arm had stopped bleeding, the extreme cold made every movement feel like a blade serrating his flesh.
"We can't go on like this."
Simo Häyhä's voice broke the dead silence. He crouched in the snow, scratching a few lines into the permafrost with his bayonet.
"Every road is blocked. We're like fish in a net; the more we struggle, the tighter it pulls."
"So what then? We just wait to die?" Juha wheezed.
"No." Simo looked up, a wolfish glint flashing in his grey-blue eyes. "Since we can't walk out, we stop trying to leave."
"Stop leaving?" Walter blinked, stunned.
"We lack food, ammo, and medicine. We don't have them, but the Russians certainly do." Simo pointed deeper into the woods. "With an army this size, they have to eat. Tens of thousands of mouths, thousands of tanks, think of the logistical pressure."
"You mean... we're going to raid them?"
"Yes. Raid them," Simo said, his voice turning icy. "Better to become wolves than to scurry around like rats waiting to be stepped on. We find their supply lines and ambush their convoys. Only by seizing their supplies can we survive this winter."
"But we don't even know where they are," someone whispered tentatively.
"Then we find them!" Simo didn't give an inch. "Tire tracks don't hide in the woods. Where there are ruts, there are convoys. It's the only way out. Either freeze and starve, or fight for a seat at the table. Choose."
Silence. A deathly silence. Until Walter stood up.
"I'm in."
"Me too!" Juha stood up, gritting his teeth despite the cold sweat pouring down his face. "My hand isn't good for running anyway. If I'm going to die, I'm taking some of them with me, and hopefully, I'll find a bottle of vodka first!"
Soon, every man still capable of movement stood. On this hopeless snowfield, the instinct for survival had finally overruled all fear.
…
Walter and Simo moved like a pair of white ghosts through the trees, acting as the squad's scouts. Suddenly, Simo, leading the way, dropped to a halt and raised a fist. Walter braked his skis instantly, gliding silently to his side.
"What is it?"
"Look there." Simo pointed to a broken branch in the snow.
Walter leaned in; the break in the pine branch was fresh, and the dusting of snow over it was thin.
"Someone passed through. Not long ago," Simo whispered. "And in significant numbers."
"Where to?"
"That way." Simo pointed in a different direction. They crept forward with extreme caution.
Before long, through the thinning trees, they spotted a squad of Soviet soldiers resting. There were ten in total, gathered around a small hollow in the snow, smoking and chatting.
"Scouts?" Walter whispered.
Simo shook his head. "Unlikely. Scouts don't huddle up to rest, and... they aren't carrying heavy weapons."
Walter observed closely. Their gear was standard, mostly Mosin-Nagant rifles, and there was no one who looked like an officer.
"Ten men..." Walter murmured.
"Likely a standard patrol," Simo concluded. "Assigned to guard this sector of the woods."
Walter analyzed the situation: "No radio, no heavy support. If we take them out quickly, we can secure some supplies."
"A gift from the heavens," Simo said, a murderous intent flickering in his eyes. But his expression didn't relax; instead, he grew more wary. "No. We can't fire. At least not here."
Walter was confused. "Why? There aren't many of them, we could easily—"
"The problem isn't how many there are, it's where we are." Simo cut him off, gesturing to their surroundings. "We're too close to the main road. If the gunfire brings more patrols or a larger unit, we're finished."
Walter fell silent, realizing Simo was right. They needed food and ammo, not a battle that would broadcast their location to the entire Red Army.
"So what? We lure them away?"
"No. If we just lure them away, we don't get the supplies." A cold arc formed on Simo's lips as his gaze swept the trees. "We lure them here. To a place better suited for killing."
He pointed to a snow-laden spruce nearby, then to a frozen creek beside the hollow.
"The ground here is too flat, the visibility too high. But if we can bait them to the mouth of that canyon ahead... the snow is deeper there, the wind is harsher, and..." Simo pulled out his notched hunting knife and gave it a practiced twirl.
"And the ice there hasn't frozen solid yet."
Walter instantly grasped the plan, his own eyes lighting up with excitement. "That's devious."
"When dealing with the Russians, we don't worry about being 'gentlemanly,'" Simo chuckled softly. "However, we need a bait."
He looked at Walter.
"Not you. You move too fast, you look too much like a soldier. We need a prey that looks wounded, exhausted, and easy to catch."
The two shared a look and thought of the same person simultaneously.
"Juha."
Walter's lips curled upward. "That guy might only have one good hand, but he's got a loud mouth and his acting should be top-notch. If he goes to that canyon mouth and screams a bit, those Russians will think they've found a straggler ripe for the picking."
"Let's go." Simo sheathed his knife. "Time to set the stage. Let's prepare a special gift for our guests who've traveled so far."
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