‘Well, I know one thing for sure,’ Rokka said. ‘We’re gonna be hungry now that we’re on’na move again. Rations are enough in a positional war since you don’t gotta move, but from now on, fellas, we all better start scroungin’ crumbs again.’
‘We’re a little low on wheat, but chaff we have in spades.’
‘Stop bragging.’
Twilight fell. The path rustled with their footsteps. And off marched the Finnish private – his tilted cap crumpled with the tell-tale folds of its owner, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, his trouser-legs rolled, and his face set in a tense, bitter grimace. One man from the ranks drew in a deep breath, slowed his step into a slack, workaday rhythm, and started to sing. Along with the profane words ringing out into the summer night, there came the cry of his soul, voicing the bitterness of three years’ useless fighting, as if, in this cry, he might scream defiance at all his enemies.
And here my song begins, a story for the ages …
II
A low rumble filled the hazy, smoke-filled air. Incessant air raids and artillery fire kept the surface of the earth in a state of perpetual shaking. The constant drone of fighter squadrons whirred overhead from every direction. It was as if the whole world were burgeoning with some menacing force that kept bursting forth in howls and explosions.
For the retreat, Sarastie’s battalion was put in a combined combat division commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Karjula. At first they retreated quickly along the poor forest roads, but then the front line caught up with them and the fighting began to intensify.
Bit by bit they ceded back the Eastern Karelian roads they had conquered in such bitter fighting three years before. They were tired and resentful once again – and hungry, just as they had been. The physical exertion took its toll on their food supply, but the poor organization of provisions meant that even the former portions now came irregularly and were often small. Of course, sometimes there was an over-abundance of food, as large quantities of the army’s supplies would occasionally have to be destroyed. Then, even a hungry soldier might manage to sneak into a storage depot and steal all the food he could carry. Rahikainen put his skills to work on behalf of Hietanen’s platoon once more, often keeping them from going hungry and sometimes even improving the state of their clothing. Once he even wormed his way into some barracks that was under heavy artillery fire, boldly risking his life for the ten pairs of new boots he triumphantly emerged with. Had so dangerous a task confronted him in a combat situation, Rahikainen would never have carried it out voluntarily. The only downside to the whole affair was that no one had been able to carry anything with him that was worthy of exchange for such goods, so Rahikainen was obliged to give everything away for free. Every last one of them was short on cash, so even purchasing was out of the question.
The platoon made it through the beginning of its journey without any casualties. The one exception was Honkajoki’s bow, which he had been faithfully dragging along with him. It was left behind at some position when they had been obliged to make a rather swift exit. Honkajoki had been about to grab his weapon as he left, but just then one of the assailants, who had already managed to duck into the bushes beside him, shot a hole through Honkajoki’s shirt. So the bow stayed, and Honkajoki bemoaned its loss, gasping out between breaths as their sprint finally ended, ‘It would give me great gratification to employ an expletive at this moment, despite the gravity of our current situation. At the very least, I must say: damn that Bushki for depriving me of my personal weapon!’
Honkajoki wasn’t bitter. For him, the defeat seemed to be as insignificant and irrelevant as every other worldly circumstance. At one point he went missing for three days. Four men from the First Company disappeared around the same time, and it was decided that they must have left for the ‘pine cone platoon’ – in other words, deserted. But then Honkajoki turned up again. He had simply been carrying out some reconnaissance work a little way behind the camp, he explained. In truth, he had been with the group of deserters, but at some point he had become separated from his companions and decided it might be best to return to the fold.
Otherwise, the platoon’s fighting spirit was probably in slightly better shape than that of the other units. Koskela was away, but he had left an indelible mark on the platoon, and Hietanen and Rokka were not the kind of men you desert lightly. Hietanen never urged anyone on. He would just toss his submachine gun over his shoulder and start walking, and the others would follow suit. He had changed, as if in the blink of an eye. Maybe the change was just more striking in him because he had been so conspicuously rambunctious before. As his solemnity grew, so his bravery seemed to increase. A defiance had appeared within him whose roots were laid bare whenever anybody voiced any political Schadenfreude over the defeat and Hietanen barked out briefly but threateningly, ‘Shut up!’
He wasn’t the type of leader to safeguard the morale of his platoon. No, he was the type who realized, from the moment the defeat came, that his former wayward patriotism had been integral to his whole attitude toward life, and that the blow of defeat was a blow to the very foundations of his being. The man in him had allowed the carefree boy to revel in the times of success, but with the arrival of defeat, he stepped forward and took its burden upon his own shoulders.
Generally speaking, Rokka remained his former self. He might have fought even better than before, but he demonstrated no wasted heroism. When he saw that a situation was hopeless, he, too, would stop trying, as he knew perfectly well that even if he held his position, the guy next to him wouldn’t. Once he even said that a pointless death was higher treason than desertion. The rumors that deserters were being shot struck him more sharply than any of them. It was lucky that he didn’t run into any high-ranking officers during that time, as the rage the rumors had fostered within him might well have landed him in an inescapable stew.
Salo remained steadfast. He believed in their ultimate victory in spite of everything, and the less basis there was for his belief, the more stubbornly he stuck to it.
A few days after Midsummer, they were in the midst of retreating. Low-flying Sturmoviks were harassing the column from the air, and somebody yelled, ‘Run for it, boys!’
‘But our own fighter planes’ll show up purty soon, don’t you think?’ Salo said, his comment pushing one embittered man to the point of rage, as it was precisely the absence of their own fighter planes they were perpetually cursing.
‘Show up, you goddamn fool! They were out there flyin’ round when nobody needed ’em, but where are they now? Those boys up there don’t seem to have any problem keepin’ on our tail.’
In his rancour, the man was just looking for any means of praising the enemy, but Salo retorted, ‘They’ll keep on our tail as long as we keep lettin’ ’em! If we just keep on runnin’ away, whatta you think’s gonna happen?’
‘Shut – shut – shut the hell up! If this road’s good enough for the rest of us, it’s damn well good enough for you.’
The truth was, in terms of his capabilities as a soldier, Salo did belong to that vast majority of ordinary men. He fulfilled his duties, for the most part, but you couldn’t exactly call him a hero. The other men felt his recent words had overstepped his normal frame of operation, however, as the established understanding amongst the group did not afford him the right to accuse others of cowardice. Salo fell silent, but when the ground-attack planes returned, instead of taking cover, he took aim at a nearing plane, steadying his rifle on the side of a tree. He didn’t look at any of the others, nor did he hear Hietanen’s furious command to take cover, he just aimed with movements so calm that th
e intention behind their contrived performance was unmistakable.
He shot one round and was loading a new cartridge into the barrel when the Sturmovik opened fire. Salo fell, and as soon as the commotion died down, the men hurried toward him. He was pale, but calm. His left leg had been hit, so its bones were badly crushed, and there was no doubt that Salo would walk with a prosthetic leg to the end of his days, if he made it through alive.
Uncomplaining, he endured the horrific pain as the medics removed his boot and bandaged the crushed leg. Beads of sweat pearled on his forehead and his body stiffened frequently from the pain, but he withstood it all without a sound. No doubt he had always wished to be a braver man than he was. Perhaps this incident afforded him some kind of compensation for the feeling of inferiority that had been gnawing away at him the whole war – which his insistent belief in victory had only brought to a head. For the smug superiority with which the others mocked his belief had been facilitated, in a way, by his mediocre abilities as a fighter. The shock brought on by the injury raised him up into a mental state that made it possible for him – this time – to step outside of his usual self. His voice was cuttingly calm as he said, ‘We ain’t gonna start cryin’ over a little leg now, are we? If we were runnin’ away, well now, look, I’m rid of the thing that was makin’ it all worse.’
The men of the platoon bade Salo farewell as the medics lifted him into the ambulance. As they waved him off, and each of them uttered something or other appropriate to the occasion, a note in their voices announced that with his unnecessary sacrifice, Salo had bought their respect. They never saw him again, but those who remembered him recalled him as a brave and courageous man. The last impression covered over all that had come before, and even the faith in victory that had provided them with so much amusement ceased to be stupidity and was transformed into an indomitable will.
The retreat continued. Soon they no longer remembered that there had been this man by the name of Salo in their platoon. The ever-intensifying fighting kept their minds fixed on fear, hunger and the vain hope of rest.
III
The machine-gunners’ command post was situated beside a winding forest road. There were sounds of firing over by the front line, and heavy shelling was underway between the front line and the command post. Lammio and Sinkkonen were receiving replacements, whose orders the company secretary was filing away. The secretary had been made a corporal as well, and seeing as there were eight young recruits amongst the replacements, he affected a lofty, superior tone of voice as he inquired after their details – never mind the exploding six-inchers making the ground shake even at the command post. It was indicative that the man was clearly aping Lammio’s gestures and intonations in his managerial role.
In addition to the boys, there were also three men over forty who had been called up out of the reserves. All the replacements had dug foxholes to protect themselves from shrapnel, and they crouched down into them every time a shell crashed to the ground.
Lammio stood tapping a stick against his boot as he spoke with the Master Sergeant. ‘It would be best to assign the old men as drivers and have the younger men who are driving now join the infantry. Send four of the new recruits to Hietanen, that platoon’s down several men. Also, I received word that Kariluoto has rejoined the battalion and resumed leadership of his company, so Koskela can return to his own platoon. Only temporarily, of course, since he is to be transferred to company commander of some other unit. They’ll probably move him to the Third Battalion, since they’ve been suffering heavy losses amongst the officers. I know Sarastie doesn’t want to give him up, because he’s afraid we will soon have need of him in his battalion, but under the current circumstances accommodating his opinion is hardly going to be an option. Well, it will all be sorted in due course, and Hietanen is certainly up to the task. These men just need to be fed before we send them out to the line.’
‘Yes sir, Captain.’ Sinkkonen turned to the older men. ‘We’re going to pull the younger men from the supply vehicles and assign them to the infantry platoons, then put you fellows in as drivers. Do you know how to drive a horse? What was your name again?’
Sinkkonen gestured toward the large man with a dark complexion who was sitting beside his foxhole looking glum and chewing nervously on a blade of grass. The man flinched angrily, diverted his gaze from the Master Sergeant and grunted, ‘Hname … hmph … my name … Fuck you!’
Lammio stepped closer to the man. ‘I do hope you know your own name.’
The straw wriggled its way from one corner of the man’s mouth to the other. ‘Papers’s over there … hmph.’
‘Answer me properly. How is the secretary supposed to know which file is yours?’
‘It’s the last one, of course. That one that’s left.’
‘State your name. What kind of game is this?’
‘You oughtta know. Knew it well enough to come drag me outta my home. Hmph … that’s right. So fuck off!’
Lammio was about to raise his voice when he remembered the stern warning he had received about not provoking the men any more than necessary, and so restrained himself. But Lammio didn’t know how to behave except with the overbearing arrogance now deemed inappropriate to the situation – so his voice was helpless and uncertain as he said, ‘Well, you must have a name at least.’
‘Fine, it’s Korpela,’ the man growled, as if angrily throwing his name in Lammio’s face, but only in passing. ‘Private. Hmph.’
Korpela chewed nervously on his straw, then snatched it from his mouth and viciously tossed it aside. He didn’t say anything to anyone, he just stared off into his own world, and when the Master Sergeant took the men to the field kitchen to eat, he threw his pack angrily over his shoulder and followed after the others, muttering something to himself that none of them could make head nor tail of.
After he and Mäkilä had selected which of the drivers would be reassigned to the infantry platoons, the Master Sergeant left Mäkilä to take things from there. Mäkilä was facing tough times. Any attempt at systematic organization was doomed. The book-keeping was a shambles. There was almost never any information about the strength of the food supply, as they frequently ended up having to feed divisions that had become lost or separated. Equipment vanished, as the drivers would quietly take it upon themselves to lighten their loads, and even the horses were dropping like flies under the strain of the incessant air raids on the supply vehicles. All of this only made Mäkilä more tight-fisted, however. The more equipment he saw destroyed, the more jealously he guarded what remained – as opposed to the rest of the men, in whom the situation had inspired something of an ‘easy-come-easy-go’ mentality.
Mäkilä distributed the men’s food and was just assigning them horses when Korpela burst out angrily, ‘Where are the fuckin’ nags, anyway? Ones we’re supposed to drive, I mean. So the fat cats of Finland can make their money in peace.’
Mäkilä wasn’t about to get into something as pointless as fat cats’ finances, so he just showed Korpela to his horse and said with a cough, ‘Well, you take good care of this horse, then. Try to feed him whenever you can.’
Korpela just about exploded. ‘Fuck you! I don’t need you tellin’ me what to do. I been drivin’ horses my whole fuckin’ life! Stop givin’ me your goddamn instructions! You just look after yourself! Yeah, you heard me.’
Mäkilä had flushed red and started coughing. He didn’t say anything more to Korpela, but his speech was more tense than usual as he addressed the others. Korpela looked at the harness, tossing and slapping the reins about angrily as he resumed his incomprehensible muttering. Mäk
ilä watched his shenanigans sharply out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing. Only when Korpela walked away from the carts did Mäkilä go set the harness in order. Then he asked the drivers, ‘Whose turn for the soup run?’
Shells came crashing down all along the edge of the road, so it was no one’s turn.
‘Uusitalo! Your turn!’
The man in question swirled around angrily and started cursing. ‘Course it is. Maybe you should try it yourself once so you see what it’s like. Anybody can give other people orders.’
Without a word, Mäkilä fetched a horse from beneath a nearby spruce, harnessed it, and lifted the soup vat into the cart. He was just leaving when Uusitalo came over and said, ‘Get the hell away from there and gimme the reins!’
Mäkilä blinked his eyes and looked past Uusitalo, giving the reins a tug as he said, ‘Chuh … so … I’m going. This time.’
Uusitalo could see that there was no point in continuing the discussion, and Mäkilä set off. He walked beside the cart, figuring the horse had enough to carry with just the vat. They had to go over a mile, because the air raids obliged them to keep the supplies further back, as far from the front line as possible. After they’d gone a little way, a messenger cycling toward them got off his bike to warn Mäkilä. ‘Be careful. They’ve bracketed the main road down there. Bad news comin’ down on both sides, little way past the mortar positions.’
Mäkilä didn’t reply, but plodded calmly on, staring directly ahead. He passed the mortar positions and neared the point in the road where the shelling was concentrated, which was in a low, muddy spot at the bottom of a sloping hill. Once he made it over the hill, he paused to wait for a break in the firing. The shells came at short intervals, always in pairs. The boom from the launch was followed by a crackling whistle, which always paused just a second before the explosion. The horse snorted and quivered and Mäkilä held it from the bit. When a pause between launch booms stretched out longer than usual, Mäkilä figured that the artillery had quieted down and climbed into the cart. But just as he passed the halfway point, the booms on the hill started up again. For the first time in his life, Mäkilä struck the horse, who had started galloping frantically down the hill. The shells splashed mud up into the air a few dozen yards off, but the softness of the earth cut down on the schrapnel considerably. The horse reared up on its hind legs, snorted and started pushing the cart backwards. Mäkilä climbed down and began leading the horse on foot.