He rubbed his head and groaned. At some point during the chaos, his head had smashed into the steering wheel. How did I get here? Hale asked himself with his inner voice.
Fighting to stay conscious, the memory of the afternoon’s event came flooding back to him. After he had broken contact with the Russians that pursued him that morning, he had used his skis to try and keep pace with the Soviet column on the road as they resumed their northward journey. For two hours he pushed his body as hard as he could to try and keep up.
His arms and legs became leaden with fatigue as his breath came in increasingly ragged gasps. The cold air burned the walls of his lungs as he was forced to breathe deeply of the frigid air to keep the pace. With no other choice, given the physical limitations of his body, he was forced to slow down.
Despite the freezing temperature, beads of sweat ran down his back beneath his great coat. This heat is miserable, but if I open my coat to cool myself off, I’ll make myself sick, and then I won’t be able to fight. Finland needs every last one of us to hold the line against these damned invaders. They are so many, and we are so few. His eyes shifted to a steely gaze as he continued his thought. Despite their numbers, they will learn what it means to earn the ire of a Fin.
As the sound of the column drifted away to the north, the air was filled with complete silence. It was as if all of the forest denizens somehow knew of the invading army and tried to remain as quiet as possible, so as not to attract the invader’s attention. Hale decided to angel toward the road. Perhaps one of the bastards will break down, and I can use their truck to catch up with the column.
He held onto this hope for nearly two hours as he slowly made his way northward over the snow. As kilometer after kilometer slid by, he began to completely lose hope. Finally, his eyes caught a dark shadow up ahead on the roadway. He quickened his pace to close the distance to the strange shadow and discern what it was. Could it be? Hale thought.
He lost sight of the, whatever it was, as he dipped into a gully that lay across his path. As he emerged on the other side, the Gaz-MM, emblazoned with the Red Star of the Soviet Union slid into view. Hale dropped to the ground immediately so as not to attract any attention. Laying in the cold snow, he slowly removed his ski’s, strapped them to his back, and began to slowly crawl forward.
He crawled on hands and knees for several minutes until he was two hundred feet from the truck. As he got close enough to pick out individual figures around the truck, he saw that the hood was raised, and someone’s rump was sticking out of the opening as they worked under the hood, Just as I had hoped a breakdown. Hale thought.
Hale pulled his SK Nagant M/28-30 off of its resting place on his shoulder and slowly took aim at the posterior of the would-be mechanic. Satisfied he could make the shot; he moved his iron sight over another man slowly pacing around the stranded truck with a rifle in his hands. That would be the unlucky bastard who drew the short straw and therefore guard duty. There must be at least seven more men underneath the canopy out of sight.
Hale sat and waited. He watched as the guard continued his slow route around the truck. He could tell by the way the guard carried himself, that the man was bored and oblivious. Occasionally, he would catch a wisp of the mechanics voice, and the guard would scurry over to a tool box on the ground, rummage around in it for several moments, and pull out a tool. He would then hand it to the grasping hand of the mechanic sticking out from under the hood.
As Hale grew bored, he let his mind drift to a memory of a similar wait long ago. Hale took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The deer he was watching a few hundred feet away, cried out in pain. It had slipped on the edge of a gully and plunged down the side. As it came to rest on the bottom of the trench, it has somehow broken its leg. Now it lay on the ground, unable to stand up, and blinded by pain.
Hale’s Grandfather had taught him that opportunities should never be wasted. He remembered the old man telling him on one of his first hunts, ‘If you come across an animal that can’t move don’t kill it. Though an easy dinner is assured, you can use the beast to draw in a predator or a scavenger and double your good fortune.’
Hale had listened to his Grandfather’s words and taken the lesson to heart. Thinking about it didn’t make the wait any more interesting. He yawned as he fought to stay awake. As the minutes slowly ticked by and the ever present cold began to creep into his bones, he waited for the down on its luck deer to attract some interest from a hungry predator.
Hale’s eyes snapped open, How long had I been asleep? Anxious that he had lost his deer, he quickly located the poor animal, it was still alive. As the wait dragged on, snow began to fall. The snow shrouded the Sun in clouds, as the orb drew close to the western horizon.
The snow eventually petered out, and the clouds moved off to the south. The Sun came out and cast its rays about as it touched the western horizon. It was in this moment that Hale noticed the two eyes staring at the deer. They glowed yellow, reflecting the fading rays of sunlight. The rest of the animal was shrouded in shadows. A wolf. There is rarely just one wolf. Are the others near? Hale thought. Nervous, he checked the bolt on his rifle to make sure all was at the ready.
Hale slid the bolt back on his rifle and saw the bullet within. Letting out his breath slowly, he raised the rifle and took aim at the yellow eyes. Before he had the opportunity to complete his aiming process, the wolf sprang from the underbrush and dashed for the deer. Hale followed the movement of the wolf as the animal dashed across the frozen earth. Unwilling to take the difficult shot, he waited until the wolf reached the dear. Sharp teeth were exposed as the wolf opened its mouth and tore into the deer’s neck.
The deer cried out in agony as the skin on its neck was shredded by the sharp teeth of the vicious predator, and then fell forever silent. With the wolf relatively motionless, Hale completed aiming, took a deep breath and held it. Confident, he squeezed the trigger of his old Lee-Enfield rifle. The ancient firearm, a relic from the Boer War, roared as it flung the bullet in its chamber toward the wolf.
A moment later the bullet struck the wolf in the side of its head. The round penetrated the wolf’s skull and entered the animal’s brain. The unfortunate animal died instantly. Slain, the once mighty predator’s corpse collapsed onto the deer it had just killed. Blood from the two slain animals intermingled upon the snow-covered ground.
Hale quickly worked the bolt on his rifle and another round popped into the chamber. There was always more than one wolf. His grandfather’s words echoed in his head. He heard the undergrowth rustle to his right. Turning toward the noise he began raising his rifle just as a shadowy figure launched itself at Hale’s chest. Hale, desperate and unable to get a shot off, raised his rifle to block the incoming animal. The wolf, a large bitch, surprised by the rifle, bit down upon the wood and metal, instead of the soft flesh of Hale’s neck.
The momentum of the beast slamming into his chest, sent Hale falling backwards. As he landed on his back, the wolf opened its mouth to free its teeth from the rifle and lunged at Hale’s now unprotected neck. Hale could feel the warm breath of the animal upon his neck as it drew close. His nose registered the fetid odor emanating from the creature’s mouth as its sharp teeth drew within an inch of his neck.
It was at that moment that Hale, plunged his knife into the skull of the wolf. The thick bone refused to yield to his desperate thrust and slid downward along the side of the skull. Luckily, the blade sank into the wolf’s ear canal and plunged into the exposed flesh beyond killing the wolf. With his heart thundering in his chest from reliving such an intense memory, Hale’s awareness slipped back into reality. We ate well that night.
Hale reached up and placed the palm of his left hand, where underneath his great coat, sweater, shirt, and undershirt, the right paw of that first wolf kill lay. It was attached to a leather cord which hung from his neck. Touching the paw of his first predator kill gave him comfort, These woods are filled with so many predators. Hale thought nervously. He sat for a
nother hour, shivering in the ever present cold, as his heart rate slowly returned to normal.
Having lain on the frozen earth for too long, he began to shiver as his body fought to maintain its internal temperature. After what seemed like an eternity to Hale, the mechanic clambered from underneath the hood, climbed into the truck, and cranked the engine. The Gaz-MM, stubborn in its unwillingness to start in these temperatures, sputtered and coughed for at least thirty seconds before the mechanic gave it more gas and the engine roared to life. Good, they fixed it finally. Hale thought.
The mechanic hopped out of the cab of the Gaz-MM, gathered up his tools, and slammed the hood of the truck shut. With a loud thump, the hood caught the latch and closed. The guard, grateful that his duty was finally completed, took the toolbox from the mechanic, walked to the opening in the canopy covered rear, and passed the toolbox off to someone inside. He then slung his rifle onto his shoulder and pulled himself up into the back using the handholds built into the tailgate.
The mechanic, who was apparently also the driver, put the truck into gear and gave it some gas. As the vehicle slowly lurched forward, Hale raised up his rifle and took aim at the left rear tire. He took a deep breath and held it, as he lined up the shot. The truck continued to accelerate away from him. Satisfied he had the shot; he squeezed the trigger and his rifle roared to life.
A moment later, the rear left tire on the Soviet truck exploded in a burst of flying debris. The rubber of the disintegrating tire was flung in all directions as the truck skidded to a halt. Hale heard the driver exclaiming loudly, “Chert poberi!” As the truck slowed to a stop.
As soon as the truck stopped moving, the driver flung his door open and jumped out of the cab. As his booted feet struck the snow-covered surface of the road, he looked to his left and saw the source of his problem, the disintegrated tire. Letting out what must have been another loud curse, he put his hands on his hips. Whatever he said attracted the attention of one of the men underneath the canopy. The man, threw a leg over the tail gate and began to make his way down to the ground.
As the driver stood and waited, Hale raised his rifle up and took aim at the man’s head. He worked to line up the shot despite his shaking arms. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This helped him to relax and still his uncooperative appendages. He took another deep breath and held it. Satisfied the shot would hit, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked and slapped his shoulder with the force of the recoil.
A moment later, Hale’s 7.62mm bullet struck the man’s forehead. As the bullet smashed through the bone of his skull, it was deflected and bounced around inside the unfortunate’s head. Outwardly, the driver’s uncovered head, appeared to exploded like a melon smashed by a giant fist.
Before the driver’s body hit the ground, Hale worked the bolt on his rifle, took quick aim at the other soldier, and squeezed the trigger. The driver’s corpse gained a companion. A Soviet soldier inside the canopy covered rear deck of the truck, stuck his rifle out from behind the canopy and fired a shot. As soon as he pulled the trigger, another man jumped to the ground. Losing his balance as he leaped, the man’s fur covered cap came off his head as he struck the frozen ground. Thinking quickly, he rolled to absorb the impact.
Hale waited patiently for the man to sort himself out and stand up. As the man reached his feet, someone from within the canopy covered area, tossed him a rifle. The man turned toward the movement, as Hale took aim, he saw a skin tone that he was unfamiliar with. The man’s coloration was darker than anyone he had ever seen in the frozen tundra of his Finnish homeland. Where is this guy from? Hale thought. Could he be one of those China men I read about?
Not wasting any more time to think about what he was seeing; Hale pulled the trigger of his rifle. The bullet penetrated the left eye of his target, causing his luckless victim to drop the rifle he had just caught. The man wavered for a moment, then dropped to his knees and fell face forward into the snow.
Hale was forced to duck, as a shot rang out from the back of the truck. He quickly worked the bolt on his rifle and crawled over to the nearest tree. Using the tree’s trunk as a shield, he stood up, raised his rifle, and peeked out from behind the tree. He nearly ate a bullet as the sound of a Soviet rifle rang out and the bullet struck the tree mere inches from his head. This one has some skill.
Hale tried to take a moment to identify the shooter from the shadowy interior of the truck. Not wanting to linger as his unseen assailant worked the bolt on his rifle, Hale squeezed the trigger. His rifle barked and he heard a Russian yell out in pain as his bullet found flesh. As he started to grin, a second rifle report rang out and the bark of the tree he was leaning against fractured less than an inch from his face showering him with splinters.
Apparently, the shooter is still alive and well. I must have hit someone else. Hale worked his bolt quickly, and fired his fifth and last round into the opening in the canopy. This time he did not hear anyone cry out in pain. A miss. Worth a shot, especially with that enemy sniper in the back. Hale grinned at himself over the use of a pun in his internal monologue.
Hale ducked back behind his tree, removed his thick gloves, popped his magazine lose, and caught it with his left hand as it fell toward the ground. He then slipped it into his left pocket, and reached into his right for the reload. His fingers closed around the cold metal clip. Pulling it out, he slapped the magazine into place on his rifle. The clip of five bullets easily slipped into position with a click.
He heard the sounds of several voices and what was likely the sound of boots hitting the snow-covered road. If I stick my head out, that Soviet bastard will likely take it off. Sighing deeply, Hale slipped his gloves back on, slung his rifle onto his shoulder, dropped to the ground, and began crawling to the south.
As Hale slowly worked his way along on the ground, the surviving members of the Soviet Squad, cautiously made their way toward his last known position. Hale would occasionally pause his own movements, to listen for the Soviets. Each time he heard the sound of their boots crunching in the snow, still at a distance, he continued crawling.
After about two hundred feet of crawling across the frozen ground, Hale decided that he had put enough distance between his original position and his current location. Remaining prone on the ground, he slowly worked his way around until he was facing in the direction of his former position. He took the rifle from his back, and checked it to make sure there was a round was in the chamber. Satisfied, he took aim at the position he recently occupied as he dealt death to the Russian invaders.
The Soviets, moving cautiously, took another ten minutes or so to reach the location that Hale had slain half their number from. It took them only a moment to spot his trail, and one of them pointed in his general direction. It was the last act he would ever take in this life. The other two men dropped to the ground, as Hale worked the bolt on his rifle to chamber another round.
Hale raised his rifle back to his shoulder and attempted to take aim at his two surviving opponents. From his position on the ground, Hale could not see them. Deciding to take a chance, he crawled forward and stood up behind a tree trunk. From somewhere off to his right, a rifle cracked. He felt the warm breeze of the bullet travel closely by the back of his neck.
Not wanting to wait around for a second shot, Hale threw himself on the ground. It saved his life. Two more shots rang out from the soldiers in front of him. As soon as he dropped to the ground, they had stood and taken careful aim at him, Fuck, they have me in a cross fire.
The sound of Hale’s heartbeat thundered in his ears and his body flooded with adrenaline. Trying not to panic, he tried to follow his training and remain still. As he did so, his mind slipped back to his training. “If the bastards know where you are, but don’t have a shot remain calm. If you panic, your blood be feeding the trees.” Sergeant Kivi said.
Hale made eye contact with the Sergeant’s pale blue eyes as he continued to speak, “Be patient and sit still. This will buy you time, and most impor
tantly make the enemy nervous. A nervous enemy makes mistakes. Especially half trained Soviet farm boys who can’t wipe their own ass without permission from their political officer.” Sergeant Kivi said.
“How do you know so much about the Soviets?” Dal, a private standing a few feet away from Hale asked.
Sergeant Kivi, unconsciously raised his hand to his face and fingered the jagged scar on his left cheek before replying, “I volunteered to fight the communist in Spain. Over the course of the war, the Nationalist’s International Brigade, which was made up of volunteers from every country that wasn’t Germany or Italy, had several engagements. Several of those engagements were with a brigade of Soviets fighting for the Republicans. None of the Spanish Nationalists could go toe to toe with the Soviets, so we got ordered into their path frequently.”
“How did they perform?” Hale asked.
“They were well equipped with the best the Soviet Army had to offer at the time. As a group, they fought much more ably than the Spanish peasants did.”
“And individually?” A private named Leo asked.
Sergeant Kivi laughed for several moments before replying, “Individually, they are as dumb as a fence post. They haven’t been trained to think for themselves you see.”
“Why does that matter?” Dal asked.
“Because private, if you don’t have a sergeant to direct your inexperienced ass when it’s time to shoot the enemy, or seek cover, you’ll just stand there with a dumb look on your face.” Sergeant Kivi replied.
“So, the Soviets are at their worst, if we can break them down into small groups?” Hale asked.
Sergeant Kivi smiled and said, “Well I can see that at least one of you isn’t an idiot. Yes, that’s correct Hale.”
The memory faded from Hale’s mind as he drifted back into the present. The recollection of that warm fall day, a few short months ago, was much more pleasant than the frigid cold of his current reality. Hale continued to lay on the icy earth waiting for the Russians to lose their patience and make a mistake. He sat still and listened. For an hour all he heard was the sound of the faint wind pushing the smallest of the tree branches about overhead. The stiff branches, frozen from the extreme cold, made noise as they stiffly moved about.
The Winter Sniper Page 3