Inside the classroom, the dim, yellow light of a kerosene lamp cast elongated shadows across the maps.
The instructor stood before the blackboard, a worn wooden pointer striking heavily against the highway line on the northern shore of Lake Ladoga.
"'Motti,' in our local dialect, refers to a cubic meter of firewood, neatly stacked and ready for sale," the instructor's voice was low and resonant. "To us, a Russian division or larger is like a towering tree, dozens of meters tall. In the open plains, they are immovable."
"But as long as we use the forest to saw this great tree into one-meter 'motti' segments, they become nothing more than rotting timber, stationary and waiting to be burned."
Walter stared at the map, having already grasped the essence of this tactic. It meant exploiting the Soviet troops' unfamiliarity with the forest and their dependence on roads. First, they would perform a "head-and-tail" amputation to block the front and rear exits, then utilize the Finnish units' superior snow mobility to slice and encircle them from the flanks countless times.
The severed Soviet units would be trapped in isolated "island" strongholds, cut off from one another. They had tanks, yet could not maneuver freely; they had numbers, yet their firepower was rendered useless in the sub-zero extremes.
"The core of the Motti tactic is twofold: isolation and attrition," the Captain said, exhaling a plume of white vapor. "We are in no hurry to charge. We only need to let them exhaust their last liter of diesel and eat their last scrap of horsemeat in the frozen wilderness."
"And you, these newly commissioned NCOs, are the loggers holding the saws."
The words had barely dissipated when a Second Lieutenant burst in, signaling the end of the theory lesson.
"All rise!"
At the command, dozens of NCO candidates who had been tidying their notes snapped their spines straight.
"Training is cut short. Emergency orders!" The Lieutenant slammed the orders onto the lectern, his face grim under the lamp. "On the northern shore of Lake Ladoga, the 18th and 168th Rifle Divisions have fallen into our Motti net."
"But the situation has changed. They didn't retreat eastward as expected; instead, they chose to dig in and hold. They are currently relying on air-dropped supplies from the Soviet Air Force."
"The front needs sharp blades who have tasted blood. You are to return immediately to break them one by one, before those Russians starve to death."
In less than an hour, the school became hollow and cold. Walter and Simo didn't even have time to return to the barracks to pack before the whistle for departure blew.
Halfway to the assembly point, they made one last detour to the field hospital.
Juha was still lying in the bed by the window, his left arm wrapped in thick bandages, laboring with his right hand to peel a potato that was frozen as hard as a rock. Aalto sat by the bedside; though his face remained as white as paper, his eyes finally held a spark of life.
"Leaving so soon?"
When Juha heard Walter's purpose, the short knife in his hand paused. He pulled his lips back into a strained, awkward smile.
Walter stepped forward and patted Juha's thick shoulder.
"We're heading to the north shore of Ladoga. Rest up and heal well. When we get back, that hand of yours better be able to hold a shot glass steady."
"Bullshit. This hand is for holding a gun," Juha barked with a laugh, but then his eyes dimmed. He lowered his voice. "Walter, Simo... come back alive. There aren't many left of our squad."
Beside him, young Aalto managed to stand up, awkwardly tugging at the hem of his jacket. Lacking Juha's bravado, he simply pulled out two bundles wrapped in old newspaper from his coat and pressed them into Walter and Simo's hands.
"It's rye hardtack. I saved it. It won't spoil." Aalto straightened his back and gave them both a solemn, sincere salute. "Good luck, sirs."
Walter gripped the cold yet heavy bread and nodded. He knew this wasn't just food; it was the final tether of care from two brothers-in-arms.
…
The logging camp north of Pitkäranta had been converted into a temporary assembly point for the Finnish IV Corps.
People were everywhere, amidst a sea of trucks and sleds. The NCOs fresh out of the crash course were shouldering heavy packs, navigating through slush and crushed snow to find their units. The mix of whistles, shouting, and the roar of engines made for a restless atmosphere.
The check-in station was a drafty wooden shack. Walter and Simo queued for a long time before finally reaching a clerk covered in stubble.
"Name, rank," the clerk said without looking up, his hands flipping incessantly through the register.
"Simo Häyhä, Sergeant."
"Walter Ilves, Corporal."
The clerk was about to write when his eyes caught the Cross of Liberty with Swords pinned to their chests. He froze, his pencil hovering in mid-air, as he looked up to study the two men. In this chaotic assembly point, soldiers wearing medals of that grade were a rare sight.
Walter asked directly, "Where are we assigned?"
The clerk scrambled to check the dispatch orders, flipping through pages rapidly. "5th Infantry Division, 2nd Regiment, 3rd Battalion, 4th Company. Sergeant Simo, you are the Platoon Sergeant for the 1st Platoon. Corporal Walter, you're assigned to 1st Squad, 1st Platoon, as Squad Leader."
Walter and Simo exchanged a glance. Before reporting, they had requested the officers in charge to keep them in the same unit. Their wish had finally been granted.
"Take your papers. Report to Sled Team Three to the east. They're leaving for Lemetti immediately." The clerk stamped the documents efficiently.
Walter took the thin sheet of paper and stepped out of the office. The sky was oppressively overcast, and the bitter wind whipped snow into their collars. Nearby, trucks were being loaded with crates of "Molotov Cocktails," the gasoline bottles clinking against one another.
"Sergeant," Walter looked at Simo and pointed toward the pitch-black woods in the distance. "Back to the trees we go."
Simo adjusted the rifle strap on his back, his lips twitching slightly in what passed for a smile. "Squad Leader, there's plenty of 'firewood' in those woods this time. We'll have to work hard to saw them down."
They both knew that the northern shore of Lake Ladoga, where the IV Corps operated, had become a massive meat grinder. The Soviet 18th Division had been sliced into immobilized motti segments, and they were waiting for "loggers" with saws to finish the job.
Two white silhouettes walked side-by-side into the snowy mist, disappearing into the cacophony of the marching columns.
A new hunting ground had arrived.
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