September 1, 1939.
Mornings in Vyborg always carried the brine of the sea and the damp scent of rotting timber. The sky was grey, like a rag that couldn't be washed clean, and a persistent drizzle tapped against the roof of the 34th Infantry Regiment's crude wooden barracks with a monotonous, hypnotic rhythm.
Walter Ilves woke up early.
To be precise, he had barely slept at all. As a transmigrator, the clock in his mind had been on a perpetual countdown. Before the morning assembly whistle could blow, the loudspeakers in the mess hall crackled to life.
Usually, this time was reserved for the Finnish national anthem or dry agricultural news. Today, however, the broadcast was marred by static and the suppressed panic of the announcer.
"...According to emergency reports from Reuters and the Finnish Broadcasting Company, at 04:45 this morning, German forces crossed the border and launched a full-scale offensive against Poland. The Danzig region has come under heavy bombardment, and air-raid sirens have sounded in Warsaw..."
In the mess hall, several hundred Finnish men, midway through their thin bowls of oatmeal, seemed frozen by a collective spell. The sound of spoons hitting aluminum tins stopped dead.
"The war started?"
Juha held a piece of rye bread as hard as stone, his mouth agape as crumbs fell into his soup. "The Germans actually did it? Didn't the British and French give them an ultimatum?"
"An ultimatum is just a scrap of paper," Walter said coldly from the end of a long table. He looked down at his reflection in the bowl, his expression unreadable.
World War II has begun, Walter thought to himself.
The recruits around him exchanged glances. For these farmers and loggers from the deep forests of Karelia, "World War" was a distant term, far less real than this year's potato harvest or rumors about a widow in the neighboring village.
"What's that got to do with us?" Pekka, a young recruit, blinked with naive innocence. "The Germans hitting Poland is something happening down south. We're in the north, with the Baltic Sea in between. Besides, don't the Germans hate the Bolsheviks? If they fight harder, the Soviets won't dare touch us, right?"
Walter sighed and said nothing. He couldn't explain to them that eight days ago in Moscow, Hitler's envoy Ribbentrop and Stalin's henchman Molotov had already carved up Eastern Europe on a map with thick lead pencils.
Poland was the appetizer. Finland was the dessert saved for Stalin.
A rough hand placed a peeled egg in front of Walter. It was Simo Häyhä.
The thirty-four-year-old veteran remained as unshakable as ever. He didn't join the recruits' debate; he simply chewed his food methodically, as if it weren't unpalatable army rations but fuel required to keep a machine running.
"Eat," Simo said, his voice mild and steady. "No matter how much the world goes to hell, rifles must be cleaned and food must be eaten. If your stomach is empty, your hands will shake."
Walter looked at Simo, a complex mix of emotions rising within him.
"Simo, if I said we're next... would you believe me?" Walter whispered.
Simo stopped chewing and lifted his eyelids. In those grey-blue eyes, there was no fear, only a near-callous lucidity.
"I see it," Simo said, pointing out the window at the soldiers drilling in a hodgepodge of civilian clothes because they hadn't been issued uniforms.
"The government doesn't issue clothes or rifles because they think if they hide their heads like quails, the eagle won't see them. But when a wolf wants to eat a sheep, it never needs a reason."
He swallowed the last of his bread and patted Walter's shoulder.
"Come on. The 'World War' is something for the newspapers. Our war is in the woods. Today I'll teach you something real. Don't waste those eyes of yours."
…
The forest behind the camp was a typical Nordic coniferous wood. The ground was covered in thick moss and early autumn leaves; the terrain was rugged, scattered with exposed granite and tangled roots.
Simo gave a sharp whistle.
Several grey-white Finnish hounds with pointed ears darted out. They didn't show any particular affection; instead, they stopped several meters away, eyeing the two strangers warily with low growls vibrating in their throats.
"These are borrowed Finnish Spitzes, some mixed with Husky blood. To be honest, it's my first time meeting them too."
Simo knelt, extending a hand palm-down, slowly approaching the largest male. "They don't take well to strangers and they're stubborn. Especially this lead dog. I call him 'Blacknose.'"
Walter watched Simo's hand with tension; the dog's fangs were already bared.
But something miraculous happened. Simo didn't try to pet it forcefully. Instead, he made a soft, bird-like chirping sound. His gaze became incredibly gentle, as if he weren't looking at a beast but at a lifelong friend.
Blacknose's ears twitched. The hostility visibly drained away. It sniffed Simo's fingers tentatively, then submissively bowed its head, allowing Simo's rough hand to stroke its neck.
"Animals don't look at rank; they look at your heart," Simo said, turning to Walter with a pure smile, the kind he only reserved for nature. "As long as you don't have the intent to kill in your heart, it knows you're a good man."
He tossed a few leashes made of old leather belts to Walter. "Your turn. Give it a try?"
Walter took the ropes. The dogs immediately surrounded him, sniffing his scent with clear suspicion and disdain.
"What do I do? Yell 'Mush'?" Walter gripped the ropes awkwardly, feeling that this was harder than operating a precision rifle.
"Don't treat them like livestock, Walter." Simo shook his head, pulling out a piece of dried meat and tearing it into small chunks. "And don't try to copy my way; that's innate. You have to earn their respect with strength."
"Strength?"
"Right. Dogs, especially hunting dogs, only listen to the strong. If you show them you're faster, tougher, and more accurate than they are, they'll follow you as the alpha."
Walter took a deep breath, attempting to mimic Simo's earlier movement by slowly extending his hand.
But Blacknose wasn't buying it. The dog stepped back, bared its teeth, and let out a warning growl.
The atmosphere turned awkward. Walter's hand froze in mid-air. The confidence he had as an extreme athlete in his past life was met with a cold shoulder from a mutt.
"I don't think he likes me very much," Walter said with a wry smile.
"He's just testing you," Simo said, crossing his arms to watch the show. "Don't be a coward, but don't force it either. Just get on your skis and let them run. That's when they're most comfortable. Once you keep up with their rhythm, they'll start to accept you."
"Fine." Walter wrapped the leashes around his waist and stepped onto his worn skis.
"Then move! Let them take you for a ride!" Simo shouted.
"Blacknose! Go!" Walter yelled, though his voice lacked conviction.
Blacknose looked back at him with an expression that seemed to say, Who are you to tell me what to do?
However, out of trained instinct, or perhaps for Simo's sake, the dog finally moved, leading the pack. But it wasn't a coordinated start; it was a disastrous explosion of energy. The dogs bolted in different directions, and the ropes tangled instantly. Walter felt his waist jerk tight, and before he could find his balance, he was dragged forward by a massive, chaotic force.
"Whoa, whoa! Slow down!" Walter was like a runaway kite, stumbling across the muddy terrain.
"Don't yell! Use your waist! Your waist!" Simo shouted from behind, his voice laced with laughter. "Don't let the ropes go slack! If they go slack, you lose all control!"
Walter fought to adjust his center of gravity amidst the jolting, trying to find his balance. But the dogs wouldn't listen. Blacknose deliberately dove through tangled roots and potholes, seemingly intent on giving this novice a lesson.
Damned dogs! Walter cursed inwardly, but the competitive streak from his past life flared up. He stopped trying to wrestle the ropes and activated the Eye of Death.
In his slowed-down vision, he finally perceived the patterns of the pack's movement. The dog on the left wants to go right, the one on the right wants to go left. Blacknose is accelerating.
Walter gritted his teeth, leaning his body back sharply to dig the edges of his skis into the soil, creating friction to force the pack to slow. The sudden resistance caught Blacknose by surprise, and the dog glanced back.
Now!
Walter took the opportunity to adjust the lines and roared, "Left!" He threw his weight hard to the left side.
This time, Blacknose finally cooperated slightly, leading the pack into a left turn. Though the turn was messy, as Walter nearly collided with a birch tree, he managed to stay upright.
The man and the hounds zig-zagged through the forest trails, sometimes moving with terrifying speed, other times stopping to untangle the ropes. By the time they halted at the edge of the clearing, Walter was as exhausted as a dog himself, gasping for air with mud splattered across his face.
The hounds were equally spent, lying on the ground with tongues lolling. Blacknose walked up to Walter. This time, there were no teeth, just a wet nose bumping against the back of Walter's hand, followed by a disdainful snort of air.
"Seems he still thinks you're a rookie," Simo said, sliding over leisurely. "But at least he admits you're a rookie who knows how to take a hit."
Walter wiped the mud from his face, looking at the defiant pack with a helpless laugh.
"Take it slow. One day, I'll make these gits listen," Walter muttered.
Simo patted his shoulder. "That day will come. Until then, remember to keep plenty of dried meat on you. It works better than orders."