The pace of the unit's march was agonizingly slow.
Every step through the waist-deep drifts consumed a massive amount of physical energy, a luxury that soldiers who had been without rations for two days simply could not afford. The men moved like a procession of the walking dead, their legs mechanical and heavy as they dragged themselves through the frozen wastes. There was no goal, no direction, only the infinite, oppressive white underfoot.
Simo walked at the head of the column, but even this veteran hunter's silhouette now showed a slight, weary hunch. Following behind, Walter Ilves watched Simo's heavy footfalls and understood that the old soldier carried more than just gear; he carried the lives of these twelve men on his back.
Gurgle...
The sound of a stomach growling cut through the silence of the forest. Like a contagion, the sound rippled down the line, one after another. Hunger was no longer just a sensation; it was a physical agony, like a dull blade twisting in their guts.
Suddenly, a light breeze drifted through the trees.
Walter jerked to a halt. His perpetually half-lidded eyes snapped wide as he caught a scent that made his very soul tremble.
It was the aroma of boiled millet mixed with pork fat.
"Get down!"
Simo reacted almost simultaneously, his voice a sharp, low hiss. The men scrambled for cover, vanishing into the brush and behind the thick trunks of spruce trees.
"I smell it," Simo whispered, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Hot porridge."
This meant the Soviets were nearby, and they were eating.
"Juha, take the wounded and those who can't walk. Hide in a leeward spot. If you hear shots, stay put unless we come for you."
Simo's order was absolute. Though Juha looked like he wanted to argue, he glanced at his own condition and nodded. "Be careful."
Simo signaled to Walter, Juhani, and five other soldiers who were in relatively better shape and still capable of steadying a rifle.
"Follow me. Move quiet, and keep your damn stomachs under control. Don't let them growl."
The seven of them crept toward the scent. After five hundred meters, they reached a relatively open clearing in the woods and found the source of the intoxicating aroma.
It was a Soviet KP-39 field kitchen.
The contraption looked like a massive iron vat mounted on two large wheels, with several square insulated boxes hanging off the sides for warmth. A large chimney rose from the center, belching out thin plumes of blue smoke. A machine like this could provide hot meals for hundreds of men, the only solace for Soviet soldiers in the bitter winter.
Steam billowed from the giant iron pot. To the starving Finns, that scent of grease and carbohydrates was more alluring than any perfume in the world. However, this heavy kitchen wasn't being towed by a truck; it was hitched to a scrawny, grey donkey. The animal was listlessly chewing on a fodder bag hanging from its neck, not even bothering to look up as they approached.
It was mealtime, and the clearing was swarming with over a hundred Soviet officers and men. Their security could only be described as non-existent. Perhaps they felt safe enough in the rear, or perhaps the hunger for food had clouded their judgment, but most of the soldiers had leaned their rifles haphazardly against trees or tossed them in the snow.
They clutched aluminum mess tins, huddling around the kitchen like ducks at a fair, or squatting in small groups as they noisily slurped down hot porridge. There was even some shoving and shouting in the line due to the "more men than porridge" situation; several cooks were waving long-handled ladles to maintain order. It was a chaotic scene.
The only sentries were two soldiers standing on the periphery, sharing a smoke with their rifles slung behind their backs. They were deep in conversation, utterly oblivious to the sets of predatory, green-tinted eyes watching them from the bushes just dozens of meters away.
Gulp.
Walter heard Juhani swallow hard beside him. Every Finnish soldier's eyes were glowing with a primal light as they watched the steaming food in the Soviets' hands.
The group retreated to a safe distance to hold an urgent council.
"Moving now is too risky," Simo said, sketching a crude diagram in the snow. "They're lax, but there's still over a hundred of them. Once the first shot fires, we'll be surrounded like filling in a dumpling."
"Then what? We wait for them to finish?" Juhani rubbed his hands together frantically. "By the time they're done, they'll have licked the bottom of the pot clean!"
"No," Simo shook his head. "We wait for dark. When they're full, warm, and starting to get drowsy."
"A night raid?" Walter asked.
"Exactly. We're going to steal the whole pot, donkey and all."
Simo's voice held a streak of madness. "The Ivans will find a place to sleep once they're full. They'll leave the donkey and the kitchen in the middle of the camp. If we move fast enough..."
He looked at Walter. "Walter, can you drive? Even a donkey cart?"
Walter blinked. In his past life, he had raced cars, ridden motorcycles, and even flown planes. But a donkey...
"I can try. As long as the beast is willing to run."
"Good."
Simo finalized the plan. "Tonight, the rest of us will cause a distraction on the outskirts of the camp. We'll use grenades and gunfire to draw the Russians away. You'll use the chaos to rush in, jump on that field kitchen, and drive the donkey into the woods."
"Where to?"
"Back toward where Juha and the others are hiding. Once we're in the thick forest, they won't be able to pursue easily. The cart is clunky, but as long as it's moving on the snow, they won't catch up immediately."
The group retreated to the hollow where the wounded were hidden and laid out the plan.
"Steal the pot?" Even in his weakened state, Juha's dull eyes lit up with a predatory spark. "Perfect! That's brilliant! Steal their pot and let the Ivans eat the north wind!"
But his brow soon furrowed. "Walter goes alone? That's a suicide mission."
Simo crouched down, refining the sand table with a twig.
"It is too dangerous," the veteran mused. "If the donkey bolts or an axle gets stuck in the snow, Walter can't handle it alone. And if someone jumps on the cart, he won't have a hand free to fight back."
He looked around at his exhausted but desperate comrades.
"Juhani, you go with Walter," Simo commanded. "You've got the strength to push the cart if needed, and you know Russian. If you get challenged, you might be able to bluff your way through a sentence or two."
"Count me in." Juhani tapped his pipe and gripped his rifle stock with massive, calloused hands. "If it means a square meal, I'd carry the damn pot on my back."
"One more..." Simo's gaze landed on a young recruit in the corner.
The lad's name was Aalto. He was green, but he hadn't fallen behind during the march and his eyes were still clear.
"Aalto, you're going too. Your job is to cover Walter. If anyone tries to climb onto that cart, you kick them off. Remember, don't get distracted by the fight. Your only mission is to protect that pot."
"Yes, Squad Leader!" Aalto nodded nervously.
"The rest of you, with me." Simo cycled his bolt, his gaze turning cold. "We don't need to go toe-to-toe with the Russians. Our job is chaos, the bigger, the better. Grenades, Molotovs, even just firing into the air. Anything to make them think they're being surrounded."
"Juha, stay with the wounded." Walter patted Juha on the shoulder. "If we pull this off, I'll bring the cart right here. Then, we all eat something hot together."
"You'd better come back," Juha gritted his teeth. "I'm still waiting on that meat."
"Count on it."
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