The resistance beneath the wheels vanished in an instant. Simo did not let off the gas, his eyes locked onto the snow-covered path illuminated by the headlights. The truck, dragging a tattered red flag and a splintered wooden pole, roared toward the far side of the plateau with a piercing metallic screech.
Behind them, the Soviet forces fell into a deathly silence.
In the seconds following their commissar's transformation into a pulp of flesh and bone, hundreds of Red Army soldiers stood frozen. Not a single soul thought to raise their weapon. It was only when the truck plunged down the slope at the edge of the plateau, its taillights vanishing into the shadows, that the first roar erupted from the hilltop.
"Fire! Kill those Finns!"
Rat-tat-tat-tat—!
A dozen PPD-40 submachine guns spat tongues of flame simultaneously, chasing the truck's silhouette through the night sky. Bullets clattered against the tailgate and the roof of the cab, sending wood splinters and metal shards flying. The rear window shattered instantly, allowing the freezing wind and the stench of gunpowder to flood the interior.
Simo crouched low, steering with one hand while violently throwing the gear lever with the other. The truck bucked wildly over the uneven slope before veering into the deep shadows of the forest below the heights.
Walter felt the weight in his arms slump.
The Cook had already let go of his collar. Those calloused hands fell limp against a uniform soaked in blood, yet his eyes remained fixed on the world outside the window. In that fading gaze, the red glow atop the heights was receding.
"The flag... it fell," the Cook murmured.
With one final, violent jolt, the Cook's head slumped powerlessly to the side. The biting cold of the cabin quickly stripped away his remaining warmth.
As the truck surged deeper into the woods, the dense treeline began to swallow the stray bullets whistling from behind. Simo switched off the high beams, navigating the forest trail by the faint glimmer of moonlight. The roar of the engine echoed through the silent sea of trees like a wordless elegy.
"He's gone," Walter said softly.
Simo didn't respond, but his knuckles whitened as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Behind them, Hill L faded back into the darkness, marked only by scattered, flickering fires. The Soviet Union's "Red Army Day" tribute had culminated in a grotesque funeral.
The truck sped on.
There were still four hours left until six o'clock, the time Walter had promised.
…
The roar of the engine was jarringly out of place in the midnight wilderness. Simo gripped the wheel as the mud-caked ZIS-5 truck hurtled down the bumpy forest road.
"Stop! Simo, stop now!" Walter suddenly grabbed Simo's shoulder.
A few hundred meters ahead, several searing tracer rounds cut through the dark. A dense burst of machine-gun fire followed immediately, sparks flying as bullets hammered the truck's hood.
It was a Finnish forward outpost's Maxim machine gun. On the high-strung Isthmus line, any Soviet equipment charging toward friendly positions would be met with immediate, devastating force.
"Friendly! Don't fire!" Walter shoved open the mangled door and leaped into the snow, frantically waving his white camouflage cloak.
Simo cut the engine. The two men raised their hands and screamed in Finnish with every ounce of strength they had before the machine gun could roar again.
After a long, tense silence, a few soldiers, armed with Suomi submachine guns and wearing expressions of extreme vigilance, slowly emerged from behind their cover.
Fearing that continuing in a Soviet vehicle would only invite more "friendly fire," the pair abandoned the truck. Simo hoisted the unconscious clerk onto his back while Walter carried the Cook's cold body over his shoulder. The last surviving soldier followed behind, trudging through the deep snow.
Under the suspicious, bewildered stares of the Finnish sentries, they forced themselves through the final two kilometers to the regimental headquarters.
When they finally reached the entrance, Colonel Martola was standing outside the bunker smoking. His gaze swept over Walter's soot-stained face before coming to rest on the body behind him.
"Hill L is gone," Walter's voice was hoarse. "No one else made it out."
Colonel Martola remained silent for a moment, then simply patted Walter on the shoulder. On this defensive line, which had been plowed over countless times by heavy artillery, casualties were a constant.
"I understand. Go to the rear and get some hot soup."
The Cook was buried on a slope behind the headquarters. Walter couldn't find a proper plank of wood, so he broke apart an ammunition crate to fashion a simple grave marker. The surviving clerk and the other soldier were sent further inland.
Over the next three days, Walter and Simo were deployed to various breaches as snipers. Their M39 rifles were fired so frequently that the barrels grew hot to the touch every day. But no matter how many Soviet soldiers they took down, the khaki-colored tide from the rear remained relentless.
Late on the night of February 25th, Walter huddled in a partially collapsed dugout. By the dim light of a stable lantern, he wrote a letter home. It contained only one sentence: "The front line cannot hold; leave Vyborg and head west."
By February 27th, the casualty figures in the Soviet 7th Army's reports had jumped to a magnitude that made staff officers' hands tremble, but they had finally bought the breakthrough they craved.
It came in the form of a steel beast newly deployed to the battlefield: the KV-1 heavy tank. These monsters braved the Finnish shellfire, brutally smashing through fortifications. Even when their tracks were blown apart by satchel charges, they remained like islands of fire-spitting steel, forcibly grinding down the final gates to Vyborg.
The middle defensive line, once a cohesive front, was now shattered.
"Full withdrawal!" Colonel Martola's voice was a rasping shadow of its former self when he issued the order.
This was the final decision of the Finnish High Command. Abandon the middle line; all remaining forces were to retreat to the final position on the outskirts of Vyborg, the Rear Line.
The road of retreat was no safer than the battlefield. The Soviet Union had achieved total air superiority. Bombers circled overhead like vultures, their payloads sending retreat wagons and straggling soldiers flying.
Walter stood on a high ridge, looking back toward the south. The horizon was a bruised shade of orange. Turning his head, he could already see the high towers of Vyborg's St. Olaf's Castle.
The ancient border city was shrouded in a deathly, apocalyptic silence. The wail of steam whistles at the railway station lasted through the night as trains packed with refugees raced toward Helsinki.
Two Knights of the Mannerheim Cross, blended into the flood of mud-caked, numb-eyed defeated soldiers, retreated silently toward Vyborg.
The "Steel Divisions" of tanks and artillery were like a rising tide, sweeping rapidly and resolutely over every inch of the Isthmus. This was Finland's last barrier.
If Vyborg fell, the war would lose all suspense.
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