January 1940 in Pitkäranta remained locked in a steady -20°C.
A month was enough time for the skin shredded by jagged rocks to form dark red scars, and for the through-and-through wound on Walter's left forearm to heal slowly beneath the bandages. Walter leaned against the windowsill, watching the thick frost flowers blooming on the glass, his fingertips lightly stroking his left hand, which had finally regained some mobility.
In truth, the atmosphere in the ward had turned somewhat delicate a few days prior.
Last week, a clerk from Regiment Headquarters had visited to announce the award list for the wounded. Juha, Aalto, and Old Juhani were all promoted to Private First Class for their gallantry in the engagement with Soviet forces. Though still bedridden, Juha had excitedly asked an orderly to sew the new V-shaped chevron onto his ragged greatcoat.
He had teased Walter about it: "Hey, Walter, looks like the army values a brawny man who can take a hit. You're a hell of a marksman, sure, but in the eyes of the brass, a bit of muscle is probably worth more than a fancy sharpshooter."
Walter had only smiled then, saying nothing.
However, everyone sensed the anomaly. As the two men with the highest kill counts and greatest contributions to that brutal struggle, the promotion orders for Walter and Simo had yet to arrive.
Then, the moment of departure arrived first.
"Old friends, I've got to move out."
Old Juhani shouldered his heavily patched rucksack, leaning on a smoothly carved wooden staff. His Civil Guard unit designation had been reactivated; he was to return to the defensive lines on the northern shore of Lake Ladoga, where veterans more familiar with him awaited.
Walter turned to look at the little old man who had once sprinted desperately behind the donkey cart. Old Juhani's beard had been trimmed, but the weariness in his eyes could never be fully erased.
"Take care of those two boys." Old Juhani glanced at Juha, who was posturing on his bed over his new rank, and at Aalto, who was struggling to finish his porridge. He then turned his gaze to Simo and Walter.
"You two... you were born for this trade. But don't go thinking you're made of iron."
"There's no shortage of heroes' graves in the woods; what we lack are living men who can make it to spring. Don't worry about the rank. Life is worth more than a scrap of metal."
Simo stepped forward and shook Old Juhani's hand firmly. There were no grand words, only the silent farewell shared between men.
"Stay alive, Juhani," Walter said.
Old Juhani chuckled, revealing a missing front tooth, waved them off, and pushed the door open into the swirling blizzard.
…
Three days after Old Juhani left, the promotion they thought had been "forgotten" arrived with much greater ceremony.
Accompanied by the rhythmic, heavy thud of polished boots, the weathered wooden door of the ward was pushed open. A staff officer, a Major in a crisp wool greatcoat with gold-glinting collar tabs, stepped into the room. Behind him followed two somber adjutants carrying wooden trays draped in red velvet.
"Attention!" the guard leading the way shouted.
Juha and Aalto instinctively tried to rise, but the Major signaled them to stay down. The Major's gaze swept over the two new Privates First Class and finally locked onto Walter and Simo.
"Corporal Simo Häyhä, 6th Company, 34th Infantry Regiment. Private Walter Ilves."
The Major's voice echoed in the low-ceilinged ward, carrying a professional chill. He unfurled the commission papers.
"In light of your exceptional performance in combat, specifically, your success in neutralizing an enemy commander under extremely adverse conditions behind enemy lines."
"Following verification by Division and General Headquarters, your combat achievements have exceeded the scope of standard promotions, resulting in a delay in processing."
The Major paused, his tone rising: "By order of Headquarters…"
"Private Walter Ilves is hereby promoted to the rank of Corporal! Corporal Simo Häyhä is hereby promoted to the rank of Sergeant!"
Walter felt his heart skip a beat.
"Furthermore," the Major took two heavy medals from the tray, "you are both awarded the Order of the Cross of Liberty, 4th Class, with Swords."
It was a black iron cross, inlaid with a golden swastika at the center, with two short swords crossed behind it, emitting a cold glint. The Major personally pinned the medal to Walter's hospital gown. His grip was strong; as the pin pierced the fabric, Walter could feel the chill of the metal against his chest.
"Thank you, sir," Walter replied, his eyes as calm as a deep well.
Once the medals were distributed, the Major gave a crisp salute and departed with his entourage.
Peace returned to the ward. Juha stared at the glinting cross on Walter's chest, then looked down at his own freshly sewn Private First Class stripe and laughed.
"Well, Walter, forget what I said before. That's not a reward; you've gone straight to the top. The Cross of Liberty... you could probably trade that for a truckload of vodka."
Despite the weight of the medal, wartime promotions were never just about honor; they were about responsibility. Per the Ministry of Defense's orders, while the promotions were approved, Walter and Simo were required to attend a four-week "Wartime Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO) Short Course" before their commissions were officially finalized.
The makeshift NCO school in Pitkäranta was located in an old local primary school. Chalk doodles from children before the war still lingered on the blackboards, now overlaid with military maps and fire-density charts. There was no heating; only a small iron stove in the corner emitted a faint warmth. Dozens of newly promoted NCOs crowded behind small wooden desks, wrapped in thick greatcoats, their breath intertwining in the air.
In the classroom, Walter sat on a musty wooden stool, using a pencil to precisely mark contour lines and overlapping fields of fire on a map. As a modern man, this logical thinking and pattern recognition were not difficult for him.
However, beside him, Simo was in a completely different state. The hunter who had struck terror into the Soviets on the snow plains was currently staring at a map covered in tactical symbols with a look of profound misery.
The new Sergeant was a god of death in the wild, but in this cramped classroom, facing dry company-level theory, his eyes, accustomed to focusing on a front sight, kept losing their focus.
"These little circles and arrows..." Simo lowered his voice, sounding deeply helpless. "They all look the same on paper."
Over the next two weeks, the training proved far more tedious than expected. Mornings consisted of dry theory. Old officers transferred from Helsinki emphasized platoon-level defense layers, ammunition supply priority, and how to communicate using flares in the event of a radio blackout.
Afternoons were for field exercises. Instructors would lead them into the desolate hills outside the city, simulating emergencies in the -20°C winds.
"Corporal! If your left flank is breached by a tank and you have only two Molotov Cocktails, what do you do?" an instructor barked at Walter.
Walter didn't hesitate. He quickly scanned the terrain and pointed to a narrow pass ahead. "I would use the terrain to lure the tank into deep snow to slow it down, then send men to drop Molotov Cocktails from the ridge above."
The instructor nodded and turned to Simo. "Sergeant, what about you?"
Simo thought for a moment and gave a humble smile. "I'd pick off the infantry following the tank first. Make that iron lump blind. Without infantry protection, a tank is just a pile of moving scrap metal."
The old instructor blinked. Simo's bone-deep killing instinct was something that couldn't be taught.
As the course progressed, Walter noticed Simo becoming increasingly silent. Simo didn't hate learning, but he belonged to the wasteland. In that cramped classroom, he looked like an eagle caught in a cage, his eyes constantly drifting toward the vast, white sea of trees beyond the window.
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