Sarastie regretted that Lammio had ever been brought into the matter. It was really a little over the top, trying to force the man into submission by slamming him into such a demeaning assignment.
But Sarastie also felt that his own authority had been compromised – so, he concurred. Inspectors couldn’t be going around reporting such things about his battalion.
II
This incident took place during their ‘turn on the Millions’. This time their lot fell to the stronghold on the right, ‘Mini-Million’ – the worst one. In terms of the terrain, the two posts were actually the same position, but the men distinguished them from one another because they were manned by separate infantry units. They were situated on the same rise. ‘Mini-Million’ was on a downward-facing slope on the right side of the ridge, which tapered off into the narrow bay of a neighboring lake. They manned the area up to the head of the lake, and after that they maintained contact with the guys at the next position with the help of a messenger patrol squad. The enemy positions were about a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards off. The terrain rose behind them, and the Millions were under direct fire from that slope, while being simultaneously under fire from the right, as well as from the back, where the lake’s inlet curved around them. It was precisely this crossfire that made the positions so dangerous. The fortifications had been poorly constructed, due to their proximity to the enemy. Amongst other things, there was no barbed-wire fencing at all, and the shallow trenches, lacking any structural reinforcement, were continually collapsing under the constant shelling. On occasion it could be quiet even here, but for the most part things tended to be lively on one side or the other, more so than at any of the other positions.
After his visit to the command post, Rokka was quiet and irritable all afternoon. He offered no explanation of the incident other than saying, ‘What’s to know? Fella asked the only stuff those clowns can think to ask …’
It happened that he had the graveyard shift that night, from midnight to two a.m. He relieved Vanhala and made sure the hand grenades and submachine gun were all in place. He could hear the infantry guard coughing off to the left. The machine-gun nest was on the far right, thirty yards from the lake, and the messenger patrol guys kept in contact from there.
The August night was almost dark because of the heavy cloud cover. A gentle wind rustled the grass in the foreground, and Rokka kept sharp watch, listening attentively. After he’d been on duty half an hour, he took the flare gun from the niche cut into the trench wall and shot off a flare. He hadn’t heard anything special, but it amused him to shoot the flares. The bluish light would flicker for a moment in the air, giving Rokka a chance to inspect each rise in the terrain. Nothing but grenade craters, a few bodies and the gun-nests looming further off. Rokka ducked his head, knowing that his flares would bring about two outcomes. First, the enemy would shoot off a few rounds, and after that the guy on guard duty in the neighboring position would get restless and shoot off his own flare. The perfect regularity of the sequence made Rokka smile. He was of a mind to answer the submachine-gun fire, but he restrained himself, as it would prompt more fire in return, as he also knew from experience. It would make the enemy hit the positions with some direct cannon fire, in other words.
A rustling sounded from the communication trench and Rokka took the submachine gun under his arm and turned toward the noise. He suspected the messenger patrol from the neighboring position must be approaching. The men suddenly popped up right in front of him, before he had even been able to distinguish them from the darkness. Rokka kept his submachine gun at the ready the whole time.
‘Who’ssere?’
‘Just us. Home team … Oh! Sankia Priha’s off duty already.’
The men had come to know Vanhala by his nickname. They knew Rokka as well, and lingered for a moment to chat. Rokka was rather taciturn at the moment, however, so the men returned quickly to their position.
After the men left, Rokka thought for a moment about his old plan to blow up the enemy gun-nests. He had looked out many times, even laying out the route of how he would crawl over. He wouldn’t have started considering the gamble if it hadn’t been for the idea he’d hatched that the stunt might earn him a leave. But this time the whole scheme seemed like a waste.
‘They’ll slap me in’na can for sure. That’ll be it for my leave. Bastards do that and I’m finished. I ain’t doin’na damn thing after that. And when I ain’t even done nothin’! Gaddamn it they ask stupid questions, and in that awful tone of voice, like I was some kinda criminal …’
Rokka was fretting over the affair, as he knew perfectly well how much trouble it might cause him. But he was also resolutely decided that he was not going to back down. ‘Even if they up and shoot me, damn it. Anyway, I ain’t wastin’ any more time thinkin’ about this nonsense. There we are!’
Rokka reinforced his mind’s movements by dropping his shoulders, as if to slough off the burdensome, bothersome weight of the whole issue. He slipped naturally into just the right means of eluding these useless worries and wonderings.
He hunkered back down to his previous vigilance on guard duty. Actually, Rokka always lived in the ‘here and now’. All that existed for him was the night, the rustling grass, the voices carrying over from the enemy side, and the odd shot that would ring out now and again. Lammio and military discipline were distant, unrelated trifles that had nothing to do with his guard duties.
A blast exploded with a flash of light. For one second, a red flame illuminated the curve of the trench. Not until after the explosion did he hear the boom of the launch.
Rokka quickly ducked down into the shelter in the trench wall. Another shell exploded about a dozen yards off. Shrapnel sailed through the air and dropped onto the parapet. The barrage continued intermittently for about five minutes. Rokka scrambled out of his shelter and shot a flare, but then hurried immediately to the neighboring gun-nest. The terrain in the foreground was empty, but the cannon fire was picking up speed. Then a short pause ensued, followed by a few shells.
When the firing had stopped, Rokka held his breath and listened for a long time, but no unusual noises followed. Soon he was restored to his previous calm and stood quietly at his post. Then he heard the tiniest of rustles coming from behind the communication trench. A clod of dirt fell onto the floor of the trench.
Rokka held his submachine gun under his arm ready to shoot and took a few steps from the gunner’s nest toward the communication trench. He suspected the patrol squad was back again, but the uncertainty of the clamoring gave him pause. Normally the men didn’t bother much about trying to be quiet.
Rokka was no more than a yard from the bend in the trench when the rustling sounded again directly behind it.
‘Who’ssere? Password!’
A towering figure appeared before Rokka, and a great deal happened in the space of the next few seconds. Rokka was about to shoot right away, but the thought of the patrol squad that had just been there cost him a precious tenth of a second. The impression still fresh in his mind, he hesitated for an instant rather than following his initial instinct, and in that same instant the barrel of his gun was pushed to the side. In a flash Rokka grasped what was happening and, in the blink of an eye, began moving without hesitation. They were going to take him prisoner. Rokka quickly loosened his grip on his submachine gun, giving up the struggle over it and instead pulling the same trick that had just been pulled on him. He shoved the hand holding the pistol aside. The pistol went off as Rokka howled, ‘Help! Sound the alarm! Enemy in’na trench!’
The man was already upon him as he yelled. Rok
ka’s plight was desperate in the extreme. The man wrestling him was at least as tall and powerful as he was, and his first move had revealed him to be both quick and determined. And Rokka glimpsed another one behind him. Luckily, the trench was so narrow that the men behind couldn’t get around right away and so had to stay behind the man fighting with him. Rokka knew that as long as he remained in this position, he couldn’t be struck or shot, as the man acted as a shield protecting him. The pistol went off again, but again missed, as the man’s wrist was stuck fast between Rokka’s arm and his side. The pistol was within Rokka’s reach, but if he let go of the man’s hand, he was done for. The enemy squad must also have realized by now that the operation had misfired, so they would no longer have any interest in keeping Rokka alive and would just try to get themselves out as quickly as possible.
‘Guard! Help!’
A submachine gun started shooting into the air about twenty yards off, and Rokka could see over the shoulder of his opponent that it had attracted the attention of the man behind him. But there were even more men beyond him. Both wrestlers grunted, teeth clenched, and the Russian hoarsely tried to say something to his friends, but Rokka’s forehead happened to be pushed up against his mouth at just that moment. Rokka was trying to whack his head into the man’s face, but he couldn’t manage to get any force into the blow.
It was clear to Rokka that he was going to have to try something soon. The situation couldn’t continue this way for long. The man standing behind had already raised his submachine gun into the air to strike Rokka, despite his friend’s head.
Rokka let go of the man and seized just his right hand, the one holding the pistol. It shot a third round as Rokka wrenched it away. The man threw a punch at him from the left, but struck only his shoulder. Rokka couldn’t shoot, as the pistol was backwards in his hand, but in the fierce rage of self-preservation, he funneled all of his might into a blow directed at the man’s head. The back of the pistol cracked against his face, and in the same moment Rokka grabbed him and shoved him on top of the man behind him. When that man then shot his submachine gun, the muzzle flash of the barrel nearly singed Rokka’s eyebrows. The recoil was enough to knock the man over, however, giving Rokka enough time to turn his own pistol around in his hand and, in the same blink of an eye, finish off the third man in line. Rokka yelled instructions to the neighboring guard, ordering him to shoot down the communication trench. ‘I’m in’na nooka the nest! Don’t worry ’bout me, just shoot!’
But the guard couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. Nor would he have been able to shoot, as there were still a couple of bends in the trench between him and the men. He still hadn’t managed to get any closer, as the struggle had lasted only a few seconds.
The second Russian was scrambling to his feet, but no sooner had his head reached Rokka’s knee than the latter’s boot struck, sending him sinking back to the trench floor. Rokka was filled with the wild rage of desperation. He acted with all of his might, but directed each movement carefully, for his rage was not the blind rage of panic. He did not hesitate for the briefest moment; rather, he was immediately aware of everything. In pushing the man from his lap onto the man behind, he knew that he would then be in danger from the ones behind him, because they would be free to shoot. That was why he had not shot the fallen man, but the third. The trench leading to the guard’s nest was empty now, but Rokka fully suspected that more men awaited him just beyond the turn in the trench. He couldn’t escape, as that would require climbing up onto the parapet, and that would certainly be the end of him. He couldn’t just stand there and wait either, though, because as soon as the men behind the bend deduced that their buddies were dead, they would surely send a hand grenade sailing over the corner of the trench. It was a matter of seconds once again, so Rokka didn’t grab his own pistol, which was a few steps behind him, but seized the weapon of the man he’d kicked onto the trench floor instead. He made sure the job was done by giving the man another kick in passing as he jumped over him.
A soldier loomed behind the bend in the communication trench, and for just a fraction of a second he was unsure whether the man coming toward him was a fleeing countryman or an enemy. He hesitated for the same reason Rokka just had. But his luck was worse, and he died, letting out a panicked scream and falling to the ground. Rokka heard a trampling noise behind him, from which he deduced that the rest of the pack had come to the obvious conclusion about their failed mission. Because if it didn’t succeed right away, all was lost. A close-combat situation in the trench would only mean bad news for them.
The neighboring guard also dashed into view round the bend in the trench and was just about to shoot when Rokka howled, ‘Don’t shoot, gaddamn it!’
‘Where are they?’
‘Gone … Lissen, you take care a those two fellas, one of ’em’s at death’s door for sure. But the other one I just kicked with m’boot. Don’t kill ’im. I’m takin’ ’im prisoner.’
Rokka chased after the fleeing men, fearing the messenger patrol squad might run into them in the trench. But the men made it out in time. Nothing but reeds rustled along the lake’s edge as they disappeared, and Rokka saw them off with a few farewell rounds. Just then, one of the men from the messenger patrol yelled from the edge of the lake, ‘Password!’
‘Aw, damn it. What was it? It’s Antti Rokka here … Hang on, I got it! Karelian …’
‘Bear.’
The patrol guys asked what was going on, and Rokka ordered them to stay and guard the water’s edge for a little while. ‘Lil’ bastards came from over there. Gaddamn it! Fellas ain’t dumb, that’s for sure. Ain’t their fault if I’m not headin’ back with ’em.’
By the time Rokka returned to the guard’s nest, the whole position was manned, the infantry guard having sounded the alarm. Rokka was already entirely calm by then. He was perfectly aware of all the nuances of this incident, and affected a lighthearted joviality even greater than he actually felt. To Koskela’s query he answered offhandedly, ‘Well, we had ourselves a wrestlin’ match, see. Finland v Soviet Union. I scored us a clear win. Might’ta broken a couple a rules, but then, fellas did gang up on me.’
‘Clear win … heehee! Looks like that win was hard-won. Just died, heehee. Face all bashed in … heehee!’
Rokka looked panicked. ‘Naw, damn it! ’Sother one still alive? All he got was a boot in’na head.’
Rokka calmed down once he heard that the man was still living. He was sitting in the trench spitting blood, Rokka’s boot having knocked out one of his teeth.
‘We’re takin’ care a this fella here from now on! I need ’im. Lissen, Koskela, don’t you say nothin’ about this here wrangle. And you, Lieutenant, don’t you report nothin’ either. We’ll give ’em a lil’ surprise tomorrow. They promised leave to any fella gits a prisoner. I’m deliverin’ mine personally to the command post tomorrow.’
Koskela, who was aware of Rokka’s scheduled interrogation, could guess why Rokka needed the man. The lieutenant from the infantry platoon also promised not to send a report before Rokka himself had delivered the prisoner. He didn’t know anything about the disciplinary issue, but when Koskela asked, he conceded, even if it wasn’t exactly allowed.
They took the prisoner into the bunker and threw the other bodies up over the banks of the trench. They inspected their Russian prisoner more closely in the bunker. The man’s lips were badly swollen, so you couldn’t tell much from his face, save that he was a churlish, fearless man somewhere in his thirties. He looked them fiercely in the eye, clearly prepared to face down anything, even death, if need be. The man wasn’t wea
ring his shoulder insignia, but his general tenor gave them reason to wonder whether he might be an officer. Rokka fetched him some water and the man washed the dirt from his face. ‘Lissen, you take this rag and soak it in’na cold water. Then stick it on your mouth. Look … Right there, I think.’
Rokka tended to the man, who accepted his assistance, even if he didn’t seem exactly grateful for it. He inspected Rokka closely, however. His interest may have been piqued by the insane fury with which Rokka had defended himself. Maybe he was regretting that his team had ended up attacking a man too tough for them. Koskela’s men also suspected that this prisoner was more valuable than the ordinary sort, as they generally didn’t select just anyone to take prisoner.
They sent for the fellow over in the neighboring position who spoke Russian – the same guy from Salmi who had written the messages on the rat-collars – and started listening to the prisoner. He refused to say anything at first. Then, finally, he offered up Private Baranov as his name, but the interpreter also suspected he was lying about his rank, and said so. The man fell silent again, but eventually identified himself as Captain Baranov. He had probably reached the conclusion that there was no point in keeping his rank a secret, and that it might actually be better to let it be known, which was indeed the case. The men immediately began to treat him with greater deference, and if the disclosure meant that they were going to require him, as a captain, to disclose more information than they would have asked of a private, well then, so much greater was his opportunity to lie.