James Mullins - The Winter Sniper

“Where did the commissar go?” Hale asked.

Pekka didn’t answer. Instead he circled around the camp until he settled on a pair of footprints, “Look here, these prints. They are the only ones that leave the camp in a different direction.”

“Back toward Russia.” Hale said.

“I guess the cowardly bastard has had his fill of Finland.” Pekka replied.

“Perhaps. He told me last night, in Finnish, that he was half Finn and half Russian.” Hale replied.

“I hope the bastard has enjoyed his homecoming so far. Hopefully he’ll freeze to death before he reaches the border.” Pekka replied.

Hale walked over to the dying fire in the middle of the camp. Sitting over the smoldering flames was an iron pot with a lid upon it. Steam leaked out of the lid’s edges and slowly wafted up into the sky. Hale, with his gloved hand, grabbed the handle on the top of the pot and raised it. A pleasant smell of boiling pork, rice, and vegetables filled his nose, “They made stew for us.”

“Let’s take the pot and go. I don’t want to risk that cowardly commissar getting the drop on us.” Pekka said.

Hale pointed at the truck, “What about the vehicle?”

Pekka looked up the road to the north, then back at the olive drab green Gaz-MM emblazoned with the red star of the Soviet Union and smiled, “I’ll drive.”

Hale let out a belch, “That was good.”

Pekka nodded in agreement, “I wonder which one of them was the cook?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t the Commissar.” Hale replied.

“What makes you say that?” Pekka inquired.

“He seemed to much of an arrogant ass to actually get his hands dirty doing anything.” Hale said.

Pekka pulled up the sleeve of his white overcoat and glanced at his watch, “We’d better get moving before another Soviet column shows up here and wonders why two Finns are sitting in the middle of a camp surrounded by their dead comrades.”

“What’s did you have in mind?” Hale asked.

Pekka looked off to the north as he pondered Hale’s question for several moments, “How’s your Russian?”

Hale laughed at the question, “We were in the same basic Russian class with Oda. What do you think?”

“Pretty shitty.” Pekka replied.

“Exactly.” Hale said.

“We can at least look the part. Let’s get ourselves into two of their green overcoats and hats.” Pekka said.

“Won’t our own people mistake us for Russians and try to kill us?” Hale asked.

“Maybe, but the odds of us running into one of our folks out here is pretty slim. There’s just a handful of us trying to delay their advance. General Mannerheim has a nice surprise cooked up for them a bit further north.” Pekka replied.

Pekka stood up and walked over to the tent where Hale had been held prisoner the previous night. He disappeared for several moments before emerging with a green overcoat and hat in his hands, “This one is pretty clean.” He started to remove his white overcoat. As he did so, he pointed to another Russian body nearby, “I shot that one in the head. Why don’t you roll him over and see if he bled any on his coat?”

Hale did as he was instructed. He rolled the corpse of the slain enemy soldier over and said, “The coat looks good, but the hat is a bloody mess. I shot one in the back out in the woods. I bet you his hat is just fine.”

“After you collect your weapons, why don’t you go and get it. I’ll see about starting this truck.” Pekka said.

“I want to check these other tents first.” Hale said.

There were two more tents in the camp. Hale started with the larger of the two, assuming that is where the Commissar spent the night. He lifted the two folds of the olive drab green fabric and secured them to two hooks sewn into the fabric for the specific purpose of holding the door flaps open. This shed enough light into the dark interior that Hale was able to make out contents.

In addition to two cots, Hale saw his gear neatly stacked in the back of the tent. He collected his rifle and pack. Checking through it to make sure all was well, he quickly noticed that the vodka he’d looted the previous day from several enemy soldiers was missing, “Bastards.” Hale muttered under his breath in disgust.

A moment after he spoke the word, a loud noise came from the direction of the truck. It sounded like one-part grinding gears, and one-part shrieking banshee. The screeching element of the noise, similar to the effect of dragging fingernails across a chalk board, sent a shiver up his spine. After several long moments of this, the sound abated and the truck began sputtering to life. Several long seconds later, with a great belch of black smoke from the tailpipe, the engine started.

Hale inspected his rifle as he walked through the forest. When he was satisfied that his rifle was in working order. He pulled the leather shoulder strap that secured the Russian carbine to his shoulder and without a second look dropped the Soviet weapon into the snow. With a faint smile on his face, he slipped the SK Nagant M/28-30 that his father had given him onto his shoulder.

The familiar weight of the weapon gave him comfort, as he trudged through the frozen forest. As he searched for the enemy, he had slain earlier, his mind slipped back to the day his father had given him the rifle. “Happy birthday!” His family, which included, his grandparents, parents, and little sister said in unison as his mom walked out of the kitchen with a chocolate cake. Included in the small gathering was Nea the daughter of the couple that owned the neighboring farm.

They were clustered around a simple battered wooden table. The room barely large enough to hold them all, was decorated with colorful streamers. His mother brought the cake to the head of the table and tilted it slightly so that everyone could get a good look at it before she met Hale’s gaze and said, “German chocolate.” She paused a moment as the smile spread across Hale’s face before adding, “You’re favorite!”

Unlike a regular chocolate cake, the icing on this masterpiece of home cooking, was more of a caramel color than the dark brown typical of chocolate. The smell of the freshly baked cake filled the small room. Hale’s mother set the cake down on the table. Working with Hale’s Grandmother, the two women carefully slipped thirteen candles into the icing. As the two women finished and stepped back, Hale’s father struck a match and began to light the candles one by one.

The candles blazed atop the cake as Hale’s family began to sing Happy Birthday to You, in unison. At the conclusion of the song, his mother said, “Blow out the candles honey and make a wish!”

Hale inhaled deeply and blew for all he was worth. The candles winked out quickly. As the wicks of the candles began to smolder and send rings of smoke lazily into the air, Hale’s family clapped in approval. Aina said cheerfully, “Now you get to open your gifts!”

Hale looked down at his sister, she was barely more than a toddler and said, “Hmmm, I wonder whose gift I should open first?”

Aina quickly blurted out in the unabashed manner typical of toddlers, “Mine!” As she thrust the small package into Hale’s hands.

Hale looked down at the small box that Aina had just given him. It was wrapped in festive red and silver wrapping paper that had clearly been used and reused many times. Hale made a great show of raising the package to his ear and shaking it gently while saying, “I wonder what’s in it?”

“Open it and find out!” Aina urged him.

Hale carefully removed the wrapping paper, so as not to damage it, and pulled out a tiny wooden box. He recognized the box as one he kept under his bed. The previous summer he had collected several bugs out in the woods and kept it in this very box. After they all promptly escaped, he quickly forgot about the empty box as it collected dust under his bed. His sister had located it and repurposed it for this occasion. He smiled down at her and said, “What a wonderful gift! Thank you.”