Winter Warriors

two 1,100 pounders each and one of those cluster bomb things. We can’t move any of the trains, even if the locomotives were working.”

“What’s wrong with Curly and Moe?” Perdue turned around, Curly’s locomotive was swathed in steam.”

“Both damaged sir, strafing hits.”

“Very well. Get the commander of the ASTAC unit over here.”

The Lieutenant doubled away, then came back a few minutes later with an engineer.

“Tovarish Major.” An idle thought ran through Perdue’s mind. If his father had heard me using the Russian “comrade” so familiarly when growing up, he’d probably have taken a strap to my backside. “How soon can we repair the tracks?”

The Russian pursed his lips, thinking. “By mid-day tomorrow certainly. If these were normal trains, we could do it much faster than that but these heavy guns? They are more tolerant of bad tracks than normal railway wagons but still we must take very good care to make sure the tracks are bedded down properly.”

Perdue nodded. It was too long. “How badly is the bombed locomotive wrecked? Can we use some parts from it to repair the other two?”

It was the Russian’s turn to nod. “We can. Or my men can repair the parts that are damaged. But only two locomotives. The bombed one will never move again.”

“Then we need only repair two lines then yes? How soon can we manage that?”

“By dawn. Certainly by then, if your men can help as well.”

“Very good.” Perdue looked around. The ridge to the west of them was stained by a column of black smoke where one of the Focke-Wulfs hadn’t escaped the anti-aircraft guns. “I will give orders that every available man not needed for the guns will join you.”

Perdue walked over to the command carriage and sat down with the communications lines. Ten minutes later, he had a better picture of what was going on. There were three German thrusts. One from Finland that was biting deep into the Canadians holding that front. A second between Lakes Ladoga and Onega. The Russians had pulled a fast one, a pre-emptive attack with their 161st Rifle Division. The division had been chewed up, badly, but they’d knocked the Germans off balance. That thrust was stymied. The third thrust was due south. That was reported to be moving up relatively fast. It would be at his position shortly after dawn, assuming the Germans fought through the night. They probably would. Some of their units had the new-fangled night fighting equipment.

Three thrusts, obviously aimed at encircling and destroying the troops holding the southern part of the Kola Front. Perdue had his orders. If he couldn’t get his guns out, he was to blow them up. The Germans must not be allowed to capture them.

Perdue looked at the three great railway guns. In his heart, he knew that blowing them up and exfiltrating his troops was the right way to go. The Germans would move fast, even at night. His unit couldn’t stand off the forces that were reportedly moving up on him. If he wasn’t careful, his guns could be captured in the chaos of a night action. But, although it was the sensible decision, he wrote it off. Larry was beyond saving. With its locomotive gone, it couldn’t be moved. He’d shoot with it all night if he could then blow it up. But Curly and Moe could be saved. Perdue decided that he would be damned before he’d blow them both up as well.

Front Held By The 3rd Canadian Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula, Russia

The lakes had been the way through. Ever since the Continuation War had started, the lakes had been barriers to an attack. In summer, they were impassible, they were large enough to need a full-scale amphibious operation to cross and that would alert the defenses the other side. In winter, they were thickly iced enough to cross but the hard sheet gave no cover and any infantry that tried would be exposed as the machine guns cut them down. That was just a way to commit suicide. Normally; not this time.

The storm had been the worst in living memory. It had blanked the moon out for days, leaving the nights pitch-black. Its subzero cold froze the ice unusually thick for the time of year and it had dumped almost three meters of snow on top of that ice. That had provided cover and turned what had been a barrier into a highway through the Canadian defenses. A highway that Lieutenant Martti Ihrasaari and his platoon had exploited. Now, they were deep behind the Canadian positions, blocking the road that the Canadian unit behind them would have to use for its retreat.

The Canadian unit had been hit in front by artillery fire and a determined infantry assault. The Canadians weren’t Germans whose orders from the top had always been to hold their ground at any cost. Nor were they Russians who held grimly on out of sheer bloody-mindedness. The Canadians believed in a flexible defense. When hit by prepared artillery barrages, they fell back, out of the line of fire. Then they regrouped and regained ground by counter-attack. A sensible tactic; one that the Finns themselves used. This time they intended to turn it against the Canadian troops.

Ihrasaari’s platoon was dug into position, covering the road when the Canadian unit appeared. Mostly infantry moving back, some Universal Carriers. Ihrasaari had already pushed the bolt on his rifle home and was taking careful aim, selecting his target with scrupulous attention. One of the Canadians was showing initiative, watching the men retreating back along the hastily plowed road. An officer, possibly, an NCO probably. One who was looking after his men and that professionalism would cost him his life. Ihrasaari took a deep breath, held it and then fired. The man spun around and fell down. First blood.

The bolt on the Moisin Nagant was sticky. They always were. Ihrasaari wrestled with it, bringing the cocking handle up to vertical with repeated blows of his hand then forcing it back. Once the adhesion in the chamber was broken, it worked smoothly enough but that initial bout of struggling took too much time. By the time he’d leveled the long rifle back to aim at the Canadians, they’d gone to ground and were firing back. Their Lee-Enfields didn’t have bolts that glued up with lacquer deposits in the chamber. Ihrasaari didn’t know what size force he was up against. Probably a point platoon for an infantry battalion, but they had more firepower than I do.

His own machine guns were hammering, spraying their bullets at the Canadian riflemen. There was a streak across the battlefield. One of the Finnish Panzerfausts had scored a direct hit on a Universal Carrier, dissolving it in a fireball. Almost instantly, the Panzerfaust gunner died. A grenade, launched from one of the many launcher rifles the Canadians had, exploded over his head. The crackle of fire from the sub-machine guns that dominated the battle. The Finnish Suomis and the Canadian Capstens exchanged bursts as the gunners tried to pin each other down. The two guns were evenly matched. There wasn’t that much difference between the 7.62 Tokarev and the 9mm Parabellum although the real nitpickers reckoned the extra penetration of the 7.62 gave it an edge. The Suomi was more controllable though.

It was the racket of the grenades going off that would decide the battle though. As always, the Canadians were throwing them around in profusion. These days every Canadian soldier seemed to have a shoulder bag fall of the evil little Mills bombs. They’d been shocked by the firepower of the German assault rifles and this had been part of their answer, hand grenades used in extra-large quantities. Every time Canadian troops moved, they did so behind a shower of Mills grenades.

Ihrasaari fired again, cursing the sticky bolt on his rifle and the long length that made it difficult to aim. Long rifles had almost gone from the Russian Army. They used either the M44 Mosin Nagant carbine, the PPS-45 or the SKS; all short, handy weapons. The Finnish riflemen still had the full length 3-line Mosin Nagant, many of which had been captured back in the glory days of the Winter War. Then it had been ‘gallant little Finland’ fighting the hulking Russian bully. Now, Finland was just another German ally, to be treated with contempt and hammered whenever the Allies had nothing better to do. He squeezed his shot off at the muzzle-flash of a Capsten. The snow bank exploded upwards as his bullet plowed into it. Then his own cover erupted as a Canadian Bren Gun zeroed in on him.

He felt the sting across his face, probably just ice thrown around by the bullet impacts. Time to leave. He slid down the bank and squirmed along to find himself a new position. He froze several times as grenades exploded near him. Those damned grenade launchers. They worked in conditions where a mortar would not, where a mortar round would bury unexploded in the snowbanks. The Finns had rifle grenade launchers as well, but not as many nor were they as effective as the Canadian weapons. By the time he got back to a firing position, the firefight was dying down. The Canadians had driven the Finns back, away