Early March 1940, Outskirts of Vyborg.
Vyborg, the pearl of the Karelian Isthmus, had been trembling for an entire week under the weight of Semyon Timoshenko's heavy artillery groups. In the skies, the Soviet Air Force maintained a relentless saturation bombardment; the black smoke billowing over the city was so thick it looked like congealed ink.
Walter Ilves and Simo Häyhä's 1st Division had already constructed their final fortifications along the rear defense line in the southern suburbs of Vyborg. To the Finnish soldiers, this was expected to be another frontal meat grinder, much like the Summa sector. They anticipated the Soviet army would fill the trenches leading into the city inch by inch, treading over mountains of their own dead.
However, over the next few days, an eerie silence fell over the front. Aside from the rhythmic, mechanical thundering of long-range heavy artillery, the sea of khaki-clad Soviet infantry that usually blanketed the hills had vanished.
"What is Timoshenko doing? Is he waiting for medals from Moscow to arrive at the front?"
The soldiers in the trenches spoke in low whispers, their nerves stretched to the breaking point. This unsettling stillness was shattered in the early hours of March 4th. An urgent telegram was delivered directly to Colonel Martola's desk, and within moments, the entire command system of the Vyborg defense line was thrown into unprecedented upheaval.
"They aren't coming by land anymore."
Colonel Martola pointed at the map, his face as pale as a sheet of paper. "The Russians... they've taken to the ice."
Realizing the cost of a frontal assault on Vyborg was too high, Timoshenko had ordered the Soviet 28th Rifle Corps and various tank units to exploit the extreme cold of minus thirty degrees. They were crossing directly over the frozen surface of Vyborg Bay.
It was a mad gamble. Thousands of Soviet infantrymen and T-26 tanks painted in white camouflage were bypassing the formidable Vyborg fortifications, striking straight for the western shore of the bay. If the western shore fell, Vyborg would be completely encircled, and the door to the Finnish capital, Helsinki, would be kicked wide open.
Colonel Martola stood atop the hood of a rickety truck, facing hundreds of soldiers who had just been pulled back from the front lines.
"Soldiers! The situation has changed!" Martola pointed toward the deathly still expanse of sea to the west. "The Russians have abandoned the frontal assault on Vyborg. They've driven their tanks onto the bay! They are marching across half a meter of ice, intending to bypass our lines, land on the western shore, and cut off our entire retreat from the Isthmus!"
A low murmur of agitation broke out among the ranks. To these land-bound soldiers, the sea was supposed to be a secure barrier. Now, the ocean had become a highway for Soviet armor.
"The Marshal has appointed Major General Lennart Oesch to take command of the western shore, but he has no active units under him. Right now, that area is held by reservists from the rear, mostly Civil Guard old-timers. They've even handed rifles to cooks and clerks and shoved them into bunkers."
"They have never seen a steel torrent coming at them across the sea. They need men who can hold the line. They need men who can teach them how to kill the enemy on that icy wasteland!"
The Colonel suddenly drew his sidearm and pointed westward. "Entire regiment, turn about! Target: The western shore of Vyborg Bay!"
…
The 1st Division, numbering approximately 6,000 men including Walter and Simo, finally reached the flanking heights of the western shore before dawn.
The scene here was even grimmer than Colonel Martola had described. The defensive positions on the western shore were a patchwork of jagged reefs and hastily piled ice blocks. Huddled there was indeed a ragtag force of faces either too old or far too young.
Walter walked to a high vantage point. The frigid sea wind, laced with the salt of the brine and a bone-deep chill, instantly pierced his lungs.
Eye of Death, activate.
In that instant, the gray, hazy world in Walter's vision bled away its colors, transforming into a deep, silent, cold blue. And there, over ten kilometers away on that terrifyingly flat white expanse of ice, tens of thousands of dark red pinpoints of light were converging into a scorching torrent, spreading out at high speed toward their position.
It was the Soviet 28th Rifle Corps and their white-camouflaged tank groups.
…
March 4th, 8:00 AM.
The sun rose, but it brought no warmth. On the mirror-smooth ice of Vyborg Bay, the silhouettes of the first row of Soviet tanks finally became visible to the naked eye. Dozens of T-26 tanks and armored cars were deployed in a wide skirmish line. Behind the armor followed a dense, endless mass of Soviet infantry.
They were no longer bogged down in waist-deep snow; instead, they sprinted across the level ice at a speed of ten kilometers per hour.
"Coastal artillery! Open fire!" a soldier on the heights screamed out in desperation.
BOOM—THUD!
The giant guns on the distant islands let out a desperate roar. Heavy shells slammed into the ice. The once-level, cold blue surface was instantly torn open with massive black wounds. Seawater geysered upward, swallowing several armored cars that couldn't swerve in time.
However, the extreme cold of minus thirty-eight degrees proved to be the Soviets' most resilient road-builder. The blasted water holes covered over with thick slush within minutes, then solidified rapidly due to the low temperature. The following Soviet tanks ruthlessly ground over the spots where their comrades had just vanished. The ice groaned and cracked with an ear-piercing screech under the immense pressure, yet it refused to collapse entirely.
As the Soviet vanguard pushed within three kilometers, the Finnish field artillery deployed behind the beachhead finally unleashed its fury. Dozens of 76mm and 105mm field guns roared in unison.
Unlike the point-to-point destruction of the coastal guns, the field artillery laid down a dense barrage. Shells exploded horizontally across the ice; countless fine shrapnel fragments and flying ice crystals formed a barrier of death.
"The artillery is clearing out the infantry," Walter observed through his four-power scope.
The Soviet infantry behind the tanks were being slaughtered. With no cover and no room to hide, the flat ice allowed the shrapnel's lethality to reach its maximum potential. Walter watched as clusters of dark red heat signatures flickered out. Blood spread rapidly across the pristine white ice before being buried again by the wind and snow.
"They've reached one thousand meters." Walter felt the extremely faint tremors beneath his feet and raised his rifle.
His right hand slowly drew back the bolt of his M39, smoothly chambering a gleaming brass round.
Simo remained silent. He was tucked into the crevice between two reefs, a white canvas sheet spread beneath him. His scopeless M39 rifle pointed forward at an angle, the white cloth strips wrapped around the barrel fluttering slightly in the wind.
"Eight hundred meters," Walter whispered the count. "I'll take the commander waving his arms on the left. You clear the machine gun crew on the right."
"Understood," Simo's reply was short and sharp.
CRACK!
Walter's "Spitz" roared first. The heavy barrel significantly dampened the recoil. The bullet traced a near-flat arc through the air, precisely punching through the chest of a Soviet Captain standing atop a tank waving a pistol. The officer's body snapped backward, sliding several meters across the mirror-like ice.
Then, less than half a second later.
CRACK!
Simo's rifle spoke as well. Beside a light machine gun being frantically unloaded from a sled in the distance, the gunner's head snapped to the side as if struck by a sledgehammer before he could even pull the trigger.
This kind of precision sniping held a terrifying psychological weight on the silent frozen sea. Some Soviet soldiers began to panic; they realized the ice was too empty, so empty there was nothing to shield their bodies. The tanks, originally intended as shields, had become magnets, drawing in the invisible Reapers on the heights.
"They're slowing down," Walter observed coldly.
The lead tanks, having lost their close infantry support, saw their drivers become hesitant. They began rotating their turrets, firing blindly at suspected sniper nests they couldn't actually pinpoint.
BOOM! BOOM!
Several tank shells slammed into the rock piles along the shore, sending shards of stone and ice flying everywhere. Walter didn't even blink.
"Seven hundred meters. Do you see the commissar in the blue hat?"
The commissar was ducking behind the side of a T-26, waving his pistol and forcing the soldiers who were trying to go prone to keep moving forward.
"He's hiding in the shadow of the turret," Simo said softly. "I don't have the angle."
"Leave him to me."
CRACK!
One shot, one kill.
Behind them, the Finnish soldiers who had been hesitant began to follow suit, imitating Walter and Simo, lining up their sights on the distant horizon.
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