The White Death - Best Sniper in History

The enemy is moving again. They're not hard to spot, lumbering through the deep snow in light brown uniforms, standing out like hay bale practice targets against the pristine

white

snow. Despite it being the middle of winter, no one bothered to issue winter uniforms to the Russian occupiers. However, Simo Hayha is not one to complain; If anything, he is grateful. He certainly makes his job easier. He does not use a modern telescopic sight as many of his fellow explorers do. Sure, the sleek glass is nice for very long distance shots, but it also sparkles in the sunlight.

He has seen many of his friends get their heads blown off after a stray flash gave them away. Many of the enemies too, only this time it was he who delivered

death

. Plus, using scopes means you have to lift your head a few inches higher than with iron sights, and that's all you need to get the top of your head blown off. If that weren't bad enough, cold weather often fogs up the glass, basically rendering the shooter useless. Instead, he uses old-fashioned iron sights on his outdated SAKO M/28-30. He has been in service since 1891, but most troops prefer newer models with sleeker sights.

However, for Simon it's all he needs to do his deadly job, and he does it with deadly precision. Now, he watches the squad of Soviet soldiers trudging through the snow, slowly making their way toward his position. He couldn't ask for better goals. The men stand out like a sore thumb in their brown coats, and the lack of snowshoes slows them down to practically crawling. They can thank Stalin for that, he thinks as he scans the small formation and begins to mentally assign an order to each

death

, it was Stalin's paranoid purges in the Red Army that left him with a bunch of idiots running everything.

That's the only way to explain the Russian military's terrible performance to date: invading a country a fraction of its size and barely able to move more than a few kilometers in weeks of fighting. Fools even drive tanks over frozen lakes without inspecting them first, only to have the ice collapse and drown their crews. Stalin's purge of any Soviet leadership he thought posed a threat to his rule has not only cost the Red Army its

best

generals and tacticians, but also its most capable logistical personnel. What kind of idiot would send an entire army to fight in Finland in the dead of winter without snowshoes or

white

coats to help camouflage the soldiers?

Simon clears his head, he has already finished assigning his kill order. Whoever that idiot is, he's grateful. He slowly and steadily presses the trigger and the old rifle releases a sharp response. Less than half a second later, a Russian soldier falls backwards into the snow. Perfect shot, just below the throat. The Russians panic and begin to disperse. Some begin to return fire, firing blindly into the snow-covered landscape in front of them. Simon curses under his breath as he moves his sights towards his next target: he had miscalculated the soldier's movement. He had intended to fire once the man had a firm footing in his next step; that would have prevented him from flying backwards and thus revealing the direction of the fire.

Instead, he had caught it a little late, with his back foot already moving and the soldier off balance when the bullet impacted, leaving him with only one way for the enormous kinetic energy of the impact to send him. A clear indication of a squad of professional soldiers, but these are not professionals. They are conscripts, hastily recruited from farms and villages across the Soviet Union, given ill-fitting uniforms that often leave them suffering from frostbite or simply dead from the extreme cold, and thrown into a disorganized and inept offensive. In winter. . His next shot hits one of the men blindly shooting directly in the head.

He had intended to kill him fourth, but the fool was getting lucky and bullets were starting to fall near Simon's position. He's not very afraid of being seen, he's spent hours in the dead of night building his murder cave, a hole in the snow that completely surrounds him. Compacted snow helps cushion the rifle and stabilize it. He allows falling snow to accumulate on and around him, helping to hide signs of the hard snow around him, but he constantly clears snow that falls directly in front of him. This way, the rifle won't cause a telltale cloud of snow with every shot.

Bam! The next shot again hits the man he wanted to kill second in the upper chest. It's a clean kill, just like he was taught when he was a child to hunt deer, wolves and other wild animals. They may be invaders and occupiers, but Simon does not wish to prolong his suffering as they truly deserve. Revenge is another man's game: Simon is here simply doing his job and nothing more. Only seconds have passed since the ambush began, and the panicking soldiers have finally settled into three predictable roles. Some have thrown themselves to the ground, seeking refuge in the snow;

It's actually not a bad idea, except that the snow does little to stop or even slow Simon's bullets. Numbers four and five meet their deaths despite burying themselves half a foot in the snow. Others run blindly, still not knowing which direction the shots are coming from. Admittedly, some are trying to do what they have been trained to do: storm the ambush, but unfortunately they have no idea which direction the ambush is coming from. Others simply run in search of what looks like solid shelter, a rock here, the remains of a fence post there. He ignores them for now.

The third group flees for their lives. Panicked, the Russians break and begin to retreat in the direction of friendly lines. You can't fight what you can't see, and already demoralized by devastating war, poor equipment, the worst food, and abusive leadership, the threat of an invisible attacker is too much for them. So they run, but Simon doesn't let them. More than the men who seek cover and scan the hills for him, these runners are now his greatest threat. If one of them returns to friendly lines and has the presence of mind to report his position, it could be a very bad day for Simon as artillery rains down around him.

It won't be the first time he has to go through an artillery barrage designed specifically for him. Normally his priority target would be the radio operator, except, like most Russian units, these men don't carry one. It's not just squads, he has seen entire platoons of Russian infantry operating through a corridor system. No wonder they are having such a difficult time against the mobile and flexible Finnish defenders, by the time they manage to score a goal and receive the order, the Finns are already attacking from a completely different direction. It's like a bad game of whack-a-mole played blindfolded, and sometimes the information arrives so late when artillery support arrives that it falls directly on Russian heads.

That's why it's important to catch the runners first, even if it disrupts your kill order on him. Three more quick shots and there are no more runners. Problem solved. Simon examines the survivors, clearly visible in their brown uniforms against the white snow. He almost feels sorry for them, but he can deal with the guilt later. He now he needs to finish his work. He looks once again for any sign of a squad leader, really anyone who seems to be taking command. As expected, he doesn't find anyone. The Russians have never been good at fielding a professional NCO corps.

He explains why they are so bad at maneuvering. Satisfied that no one is coordinating the terrified survivors, Simon takes a moment to refill his mouth with fresh snow. He moves slowly, steadily and very methodically; Otherwise, he may reveal his position. From time to time, terrified soldiers fire near his position, but he doesn't care. It would take all the luck in the world for the fans below to see his little lair. The breath of fresh snow is vital. He cools his breath before exhaling, so he doesn't give it away with a telltale stream of steam. Ready to continue his grim work, he puts the iron sights back on his eye.

He adjusts to the rising wind and pulls the trigger. Another Russian mother who will never see her son again. You shouldn't have let a dictator send him here. Simon works slowly and methodically. Even shooting too close to him threatens to reveal his position, allowing soldiers to determine his location by the sound of gunshots. Instead, he shoots and then simply waits, mentally counting to thirty seconds. He then he repeats. Over and over again until finally only one survivor remains. He is well protected. He hid behind a rock when the ambush began, and Simon is having a hard time locating him well.

At least the Russians figured out which direction the shots are coming from and keep the big rock between him and Simon. Now it has become a confrontation with only two results. The first is that the soldier gets lucky and another Russian squad or even an armored vehicle passes by and flags them down. That could be problematic for Simon, he certainly isn't equipped to deal with an armored vehicle and taking on an extra squad would be a problem; Even if he doesn't run out of ammo first, the sheer amount will likely overwhelm him. The second is that the soldier chooses to be patient and simply wait.

The sun is still high in the sky, but the days are short in the Finnish winter. A few more hours and darkness will cover the soldier's escape. There is a third option, Simon supposes. He could just let the man go. There are already eleven fresh corpses in the snow, turning the bright white into a deep crimson. What is a twelfth? Will killing just one more invader really end the war? These are the internal struggles that Simon details in his private memoir, hidden from the world until years after his death. He calls it his “book of sins,” a personal and detailed account of the more than five hundred soldiers who after the war, he estimates, ended up dead because of him and his rifle.

He doesn't bother to justify, he's already killed so many that it really doesn't make sense. Instead, he decides and then acts. His first shot hits the rock near the top. As expected, the impact of the bullet causes the rock to crack and sends thin splinters of sharp granite exploding outward. The soldier punches some in the face and instinctively retreats. That's all Simon needs. The second shot ends the Russian's life. But it is not a clean death. Would not be. He only had two inches, maybe two and a half inches of exposed skull to work with. Instead of killing immediately by penetrating deep into the brain, the bullet hit the upper layers of the brain and targeted them as it exited the top back of the skull.

This sends the soldier flying onto his back, and he immediately begins to convulse as his brain tries to cope with the massive damage he just suffered. Simon curses and forgets to regulate his breathing, letting out a brief puff of steam. This is not right, kills must be clean, whether of prey animals or invaders. He tries to readjust himself for a fatal shot, but the rock is still between him and the slowly dying man. The only parts of him visible to Simon are an arm and a leg, both convulsing as his brain struggles to process electrical signals to his muscles.

None of whom will allow Simon to achieve a mercy killing for him. There's nothing I can do for him. A minute and a half later, the Russian finally stands still. Simon curses again and apologizes to the dead soldier. Or maybe it's for God. Later he will have time for repentance and repentance, but now he has to remain calm and alert. The entire exchange seems to have lasted days, but it barely lasted more than fifteen minutes. Most of the killing happened in the first few minutes, then the rest was just a lot of waiting and cleaning up.

However, now is not the time to let his guard down. He may not be able to see any more Soviet soldiers before him, but that does not mean that there are none. It's been at least two weeks since national newspapers started publishing stories about him. Finnish newspapers call it the “White Death”, Russian newspapers do not report on it at all, especially the staggering number of casualties it helped inflict on the occupiers. Rumors would later circulate that it was the Russians who gave him the nickname White Death, but in reality it was always a Finnish propaganda construct.

To add to his mystique, newspapers add additional titles such as "the magic marksman", implying that his bullets can pierce even the armor of a tank to achieve his one-shot, one-kill lethality. Russian newspapers may not publish stories about him and his increasing death toll, but that doesn't mean they aren't very aware of him and his actions. In fact, theIntelligence interceptions have confirmed that the Russians have sent their own

sniper

s to eliminate him. It is these that you are now carefully searching for in the field. When the war began, he would never have dreamed that the Russians would use an entire squad of young recruits as bait just to kill an enemy

sniper

, but after months of fighting, he has witnessed Soviet tactics for himself.

They often send hundreds of recruits to their deaths against Finnish machine guns and artillery just so that their older troops can have an easier time in the follow-up attack. The Russians are fighting a war of attrition in its purest form, and their men devour Finnish bullets until all their magazines and cartridges are exhausted. This is largely because they are simply too tactically incompetent to do much else. If Stalin is popular at home, he is more popular than ever among the Finnish army. Unfortunately, Finland is a fraction of the size of the Soviet Union and the tactic is working.

Today, Simon worries that this ambush was too easy. These men were lambs for sacrifice. The day is silent except for the distant sound of tanks rumbling somewhere miles away. Simon remains completely still. Snipers cannot stay in one position for long or they will become easy prey for artillery or counter-snipers, so most snipers will escape or reposition themselves immediately after taking out their targets. Yet Simon remains absolutely still, maintaining the same careful discipline that kept him alive for weeks on the front lines, even when he penetrated deep behind enemy lines to go hunting. His position is good, he is situated on the side of a large hill where last night he spent several hours sinking in the snow.

He has avoided the tree line and the cover it provides only because while he was establishing his position in the dead of night, the snow had begun to fall again. Once Simon was dug enough, the new layer of snow would erase all signs of him being dug. The downhill position has two advantages. Firstly, it makes the few parts of it that are visible harder to see thanks to the sun casting a shadow on that part of the hill. Secondly, as the falling snow creates new drifts, they fall down the slope and onto his position, helping him camouflage himself further.

But he chose this specific hill for a third reason: the winter sun sets quickly this time of year, and by doing so it will be almost behind him. That means anyone looking for it will be forced to do so with the sun in their eyes. All Simon has to do is wait patiently and maintain his incredible discipline. His body aches from moving and stretching after six hours of being completely still, but he pushes these thoughts out of his mind as he continues to carefully scan the surrounding countryside for a threat that he instinctively senses is there. .

Something, a third sense, has him nervous. When the growing hunger becomes hard to ignore, he doesn't deny himself like other snipers would. Denying yourself food often makes you unstable, which impairs your accuracy. Instead, he carries small pieces of bread and sugar cubes in his pockets. He moves slowly, deliberately, almost imperceptibly, to take out a sugar cube and put it in his mouth. The effort takes him half an hour, so slow and minuscule are his movements. The sugar cube dissolves in a fraction of that time, but the energy boost is enough to keep the shakes away. The crows have begun to work on the bodies below.

He doesn't dare check his watch, but measures how much time has passed through the lengthening shadows. Three, maybe four hours since the ambush... and still nothing. But he can't shake that feeling of being chased, something tells him that death is out there, waiting for him to make a mistake. Maybe it's a sixth sense, or maybe it's just his knowledge that, in his position, that's exactly what he would do. The lives of twelve men in exchange for the life of one? With Simon's kill count approaching two hundred, he finds it hard to deny that it's a fair trade.

However, he has stayed alive by always planning for all possible contingencies, including this one. The location of this ambush was not chosen at random, and when the sun begins to set in the sky, the reason becomes clear. With the sun now behind him, he is firmly in the eyes of any aspiring hunter. And most importantly... there! The hunt is over in less than a second. That's the benefit of not using a scope. Reduce your field of vision too much. It's good to pick up details, but many snipers spend their short lives staring down the lens of their scope and missing the big picture.

Not Simon. Using only the iron sights of his old rifle, he immediately detects the telltale flash of a moving enemy's sights, searching for and scanning him. A few pounds of trigger pressure later, and the duel is complete. He must have killed the Russian immediately because he doesn't hear any screams. The only thing that now gives away the well-hidden enemy sniper is the rapidly growing crimson spot in the fresh white snow. But Simon still doesn't move. His only celebration is a mouthful of fresh snow to continue freshening his breath and prevent the steam from giving away his position.

It is discipline rather than precision that keeps a sniper alive. He eliminated one hunter, but there could be others. Minutes turn into an hour, Simon still doesn't move. When the sun is only twenty minutes from completely setting, it happens: he hears the telltale roar of distant artillery. The sound is quickly followed by the high-pitched screech of incoming bullets crashing into a grove of trees to the right of him. Then there was another sniper. Only when the sun began to set did he know that time was running out to search for him. Unable to locate Simon, the Russians finally relented and simply ordered an artillery strike in the general area, hoping to kill him before darkness allowed him to escape once again.

The artillery shakes the hill and the surrounding trees. Most of it falls on the grove of trees to the right of him, and after it turns into matches, the rounds begin to fall among the trees to the left of him. The fire is being guided by the enemy sniper, who is eliminating all the most likely hiding places. He would never have dreamed that Simon was hiding in plain sight all this time; Yet another reason why a good sniper never chooses the obvious places. But that doesn't mean he's safe, as artillery is notoriously inaccurate. A bullet demonstrates this point by crashing into the snow thirty meters below Simon, sending up huge columns of snow.

He can hear the furious whirring of sharp shrapnel hitting the snow around him. However, he remains calm, all the time searching for the enemy sniper. Panicking now would be a death sentence, since the moment he gets up to run, even under the cover of incoming bullets, he has no doubt that the Russian will shoot. This is not the first time the Russians have turned to artillery in frustration, and it won't be the last time. The bombardment continues fifteen minutes after the sky has darkened. The bullets get uncomfortably close, but the falling plumes of snow only help to increase Simon's camouflage.

The enemy has used artillery to broadly sweep the landscape, leaving little space in their wake. Even the bodies below have been ravaged by incoming bullets or torn apart by high-velocity shrapnel. However, Simon remains, and when it becomes clear that no more rounds will come, he makes the move on him. There is still a low fog of snow in the air due to the thick columns kicked up by the incoming artillery, and this, along with the cover of darkness, gives him all the cover he needs to escape. Simon avoids the actual top of the hill where he will stand out against the stars and dancing lights of the distant northern sky.

Instead, he advances along the military ridge, parallel to the battlefield below him, and heads towards the protection of the twisted and splintered trees. Once there, he follows the curve of the hill into a narrow valley where he will be hidden from view on all sides. He has chosen his escape route as carefully as his shooting position, leaving not a single detail to chance. In minutes, he left behind his old position and a frustrated enemy sniper, and in an hour he will be back behind friendly lines. He takes pains to announce his approach to friendly lines through a predetermined position that has been told to await him and several other scout snipers sent the night before.

As he enters the camp, his commanding officer gives him a quick nod. The man looks exhausted, exhausted after another day repelling another fierce Russian attack. The Russians have the numbers, but the Finns have superior defensive positions and fighting spirit; They are proving to be a very difficult nut to crack. "It's a good thing you're not dead, Simon," his superior comments wearily as she points him in the direction of a hot meal, a rare luxury on the front lines. "Was it a good hunt?" Simon simply nods and gives a quick total enemy death toll. Not all deaths can be independently verified, but Simon is a humble man - even in the midst of war, there is little reason to doubt his grim figures, especially since, unlike others, he takes no pleasure in any of them. .

It is simply his duty, carried out without hatred or malice against the men who invaded his country, and the moment they pack up and leave, he will stop killing them. Until then, he will continue his hunt, killing as many as possible before he himself dies in return. Simon has no idea that in less than four months he will earn the title of the deadliest sniper in

history

, with the highest body count in

history

: 259 confirmed kills and more than 500 unconfirmed. Furthermore, he is operating in a target-rich environment, against an enemy that lacks discipline, motivation, or even proper winter gear.

Simon's body count, or his count of sins, as he will see it later in life, is more a testament to the evil of dictators than to his own competence. But that doesn't mean that Simon Hayha is truly one of the deadliest snipers in history, and there are thirteen recent Russian bodies to prove it. For now, he devours his hot meal and mentally reviews the day's actions, looking for ways in which he could have further improved his efficiency, investigating his actions for any tactical weaknesses he can eliminate in the future. . His mind is always working, always preparing for the next day's actions, even when he too longs for peace.

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