The cold wind howled at the mouth of the canyon, whipping up swirling white eddies of snow.
Juha stumbled into the periphery of the Soviet patrol's vision, clad in a tattered, blood-stained greatcoat stripped from a corpse, its fabric stiff with frozen mud. His injured left arm was crudely slung across his chest with a filthy bandage, while his right hand leaned heavily on a jagged, broken tree branch.
With every step, Juha paused to gasp for air, his body swaying precariously as if the next gust of wind might bowl him over. To heighten the realism of his performance, he had intentionally cocked his battered field cap at an angle, exposing a forehead smeared with soot and grime, while letting out a series of incoherent, low moans.
"Help... water... is anyone there..."
His voice carried far across the desolate woodland, imbued with a heart-wrenching frailty.
In the distance, the squad of resting Soviet soldiers was instantly alerted. Several men who had been huddled together smoking and chatting leapt up as if struck by an electric shock, their dark muzzles snapping toward the intruder.
The Soviet sergeant in the lead, a man with a coarse, fleshy face, didn't rush to order fire. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, warily sizing up this sudden "uninvited guest." To him, this appeared to be nothing more than a straggler, a Finnish deserter with one foot already in the grave.
Such sights hadn't been rare in recent days. Many Finnish remnants, scattered after their units were broken, succumbed to hunger and the biting cold, often freezing to death by the roadside before the Soviets could even move to capture them.
"Don't shoot! Take him alive!" the sergeant commanded in a low hiss.
A living prisoner, especially one who seemed utterly incapable of resistance, meant more than just a notch on their record for this bored rear-guard patrol; it meant a source of entertainment and a fountain of intelligence regarding the surrounding area.
Juha seemed "unaware" that he was being targeted. He kept his head low, stumbling through the snow like a headless fly. He tripped over tree roots several times, tumbling headlong into the drifts; each time he pushed himself up, he was wracked by violent coughs, spitting out blood-flecked phlegm.
This clumsy yet agonizingly authentic performance finally dissolved the last of the Soviets' suspicions.
"Go! Surround him!" the sergeant barked, waving his hand.
Seven or eight Soviet soldiers immediately leveled their rifles and closed in on Juha in a semi-circle. Their movements weren't hurried; they moved with the playful cruelty of a cat cornering a mouse.
Juha suddenly snapped his head up, his grime-streaked face contorted in a mask of sheer terror. He let out a shriek, dropped his makeshift crutch, and bolted.
"Don't let him get away! Halt!"
The once-ordered formation broke as the soldiers accelerated. Some, in their haste, even tossed their heavy ration bags onto the snow. Only two older, more seasoned soldiers refrained from joining the chase, their eyes scanning the deathly silent forest with suspicion, wary of a potential trap.
Juha "fled for his life," soon reaching the small creek that cut across the canyon floor. In the summer, this creek was a rushing torrent. In winter, though its surface froze, the ice was never as thick as one might expect due to the wind tunnel effect of the canyon and the rapid current beneath.
During his reconnaissance, Simo had keenly noted that the ice here possessed an unnatural deep-blue hue, its surface webbed with fine hairline fractures, the result of the constant erosion from the undercurrent.
As Juha stepped onto the ice, his feet immediately lost purchase. He "accidentally" slipped again, sliding across the frozen surface like a bowling ball for several meters, only coming to a halt at the very center of the creek. He lay flat on the ice, heaving great gulps of air, and stole a glance back.
The Soviet soldiers had already reached the bank. Seeing the Finn sprawled in the center of the ice, seemingly spent, the pursuers didn't hesitate for a second.
"Get him! Don't let him reach the other side!"
Seven or eight fully armed Soviet soldiers, weighted down by thick winter gear, stepped onto the ice simultaneously. Their heavy combat boots struck the frozen surface with sharp, rhythmic creaks. But amidst the cacophony of the chase and their own shouting, no one noticed the anomaly. They only wanted to seize the wretch, finish this gods-forsaken patrol, and get back to the warmth of a fire.
Just as they reached the midsection of the river, less than ten meters from Juha…
"Now!"
Simo, perched behind a rock on a high slope dozens of meters away, gave a low shout.
"Fire!"
At the command, the Finnish soldiers lying in wait within the treeline on both flanks pulled their triggers in unison. Walter, Simo, and the few wounded men who could still steady a rifle concentrated their fire onto a single point.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The reports echoed through the narrow canyon, shaking loose blankets of snow from the treetops. This time, their target wasn't the men, but the thin white sheet of ice holding them up.
A hail of bullets hammered the ice beneath the Soviets' feet. The rounds carried immense kinetic energy, brutally splintering the already fractured surface.
Crr-ack!!!
A massive, dull snapping sound instantly drowned out the gunfire. The ice, already groaning and dipping under the weight of eight armed men, finally gave way. Great fissures spread like a spiderweb, shattering the solid sheet into countless jagged floes.
"Agh—!"
Cries of desperation and disbelief rang out. The Soviet soldier reaching out to grab Juha felt the ground vanish. Before he could comprehend what was happening, the bone-chilling water closed over his head.
Then came the second, the third...
Like dumplings dropped into a pot, eight Soviet soldiers plunged one after another into the seemingly calm but deceptively deep stream.
In thirty-below temperatures, a deep, fast-moving creek was a death sentence for men clad in heavy wool greatcoats and laden with combat gear. Once the cotton and wool soaked through, they became like lead weights, dragging the men instantly toward the bottom. The extreme cold caused immediate muscular spasms, rendering even the simplest swimming motions impossible.
Men thrashed futilely in the water, emitting muffled gurgles, the sound of the dying as icy water flooded their lungs. Some tried to grab their comrades, only to drag each other down like stones.
"Help... help me..."
A young Soviet soldier managed to catch the edge of a floating ice cake. His face turned a deep, bruised purple as he clawed at the slick surface, his fingernails peeling back and bleeding. He fought to heave his torso out of the water, but the current acted like a thousand invisible hands, violently tearing at his legs. Before he could cry out again, a chunk of drift ice, driven by the current, slammed into the back of his head.
Plop.
He slipped back into the depths, leaving behind only a trail of bubbles that quickly vanished.
Only the sergeant in the lead reacted with any speed. The moment he fell, he didn't panic-grab; instead, he clung desperately to a large piece of floating ice. But his wool gloves, now sodden, became impossibly slick, and his body was rapidly losing all sensation. His eyes were wide with terror as he watched his comrades struggle and sink, seeing his own fate reflected in their drowning gasps.
"Don't... don't want to die..."
His lips trembled, his voice so weak it couldn't even pierce the sound of the wind.
On the bank, the two surviving sentries stood paralyzed by the sudden catastrophe. They watched helplessly as their entire squad was swallowed by the unassuming creek in a matter of seconds.
"Ambush! Over there!"
One of the sentries finally snapped out of his shock. He dropped behind a rock and fired a wild shot toward Walter's position, trying to mask his mounting terror with aggression.
But it was far too late. The frozen creek had already become the grave of the patrol.
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