Unknown Soldiers

Chapter One

As we all know, the Lord is almighty – he knows all and sees far. And so, one day, he let a forest fire burn a good swath of state land, laying waste to acres of the dry, pine forest around the town of Joensuu. The people did everything in their power to put a stop to his work, as they always did, but he burned the forest undeterred, just as far as it suited him. He had his own plans.

A certain colonel was the first to appreciate just how far the Almighty’s gaze had extended. Chief of staff of an army corps at the time, he noticed that the fire had opened up first-rate sites for his returning men to set up camp. Finland’s Winter War had ended: the war that was, of all wars up to then, the best – seeing as both sides won. The Finns, however, won a bit less, in that they were obliged to cede some land to their opponents and retreat behind a new border.

What was left of the troops was sent home, and a younger set was called up in replacement. And so the clearing found itself beset with a battalion of infantry. The older men set off in the warmth of the spring – in fur caps, coats, felt boots and thick, wool sweaters. They returned without any ‘difficulties of reintegration’. First, a good, old-fashioned Finnish dousing – then, back to work. Were all of our sacrifices in vain? Well, that was a question reserved for people without spring planting to do – and those people might well wonder whether their sacrifices had been so terribly great after all.

For the most part, they were a solid crop. The spiritual difficulties of re-entry into civilian life? They couldn’t afford to invent stumbling blocks like that. People in the winter of life may have souls, but a soldier has nothing of the kind. Anybody who had such a thing would have had it anaesthetized as quickly as possible. No, the deep-set eyes above their chapped, stubbly cheeks revealed only animals, sly and ferocious, trying to hang onto two things: their positions and their dear lives.

The younger troops assumed their ranks.

There they stood, bumbling into lines with a bit of difficulty: Mother Finland’s chosen sacrifice to world history. Farmers in coarse, sturdy clothes – day-laborers in flimsy jackets, ties sticking out from underneath their cheap, milled collars – and even some clueless city slicker with a wool ‘ulster’ on, who has ‘like, no idea what happened on the trip out here. Like, seriously, none.’

Mäkinen was a bit hesitant, at first. A bundle under his arm, he had his best clothes on and his last wood-chopping pay tucked into his pocket. He had a picture of the neighbors’ daughter too. Mäkinen wasn’t actually in love with the girl, any more than she was with him, but he’d heard that looking at girls’ pictures was something you did in the army. They were just neighbors, having lived down the road from each other their whole blessed lives, but when he was leaving, Mäkinen had taken the picture, awkwardly half-joking, ‘Remember to write!’

What was his relationship to the great tides of world history, ripples of which had reached his ears one way or another? Adolf was raising a ruckus. That much he knew. And he knew what a ruckus would mean, too. It had already happened, at the dances, that some ‘chest-beater’ would climb up onto a chair, yank the lamps from the ceiling, and roar, ‘Everybody out, goddamn it!’ Finns are fierce – and we didn’t start this. It’s our right. That was just what Mäkinen thought as well. And if anybody comes over here again, then by God, we’ll meet iron with iron.

‘What greater honor than dying in battle, valiant guardian of your nation’s land…’ That was how the Finnish schools tried to cultivate the chest-beating bravado into something a bit more respectable. The future looked brighter if you considered it from a developmental point of view. But ditties dreamed up by some hobbling old man weren’t quite the thing to spark these men’s imaginations. ‘Back in old Hellas! I mean, way, way back, fellas, when there was no Finland, yet… alas…’

Trumped-up tunes were fine for gents – the average Finnish male having none too high an opinion of whatever it is that knocks around in the mind of a gentleman. More to his taste were tales of men who jumped on tanks and banged iron bars down machine guns to knock them out of plumb. Those guys were more in line with the heroes from the stories he knew.

So, their Finnishness was ennobled. Duly cast into the model of patriotism. Truth be told, their spirit could not have been better suited to the task for which they’d been assembled.

A year went by. Barracks rose along the edges of the clearing, which itself had been leveled into a training area. There the men ran, shouted and gradually grew into a lazy lot of confirmed ‘old-timers’. Mäkinen was a soldier now too – or would have to suffice. He hadn’t turned out quite the way his makers had intended, but he would have to do. The gaping jaws of world history were waiting.

The machine-gunners were training on a separate side of the clearing. The afternoon was sweltering, and the heat, combined with the meal they’d just eaten, made the men so sluggish that their drills became even more slack than usual. Even the drill leaders had been NCOs too long to have any of that sharpness of ambition about them. This was particularly true after they realized that a conscript with the rank of corporal could consider himself at the highest peak his military career was going to afford him. The officers lingering further off weren’t particularly keen to back them up either, should they manage to muster up more than the minimum amount of effort required. Enthusiasm of that variety would be shot down immediately by murmurs of mutiny from the ranks.

‘Stop screaming, you fucking war horse!’

Listless orders rang out through the clanging of the guns the men lifted and lowered, going through the motions of their even more listless pivots.

‘Boys, this is it! What’cha gotta know in war is how to pivot. Just bust out one of these little doozies, and that’ll clear everything right up. In the bag.’

‘What’s that fellow Rahikainen muttering over there? Shut your traps in the ranks!’

‘Soon as you shut yours, pal…’

Suddenly, the drill sprang to life. Clangs sharpened and steps quickened and the officers loitering further off hurried briskly toward their platoons. Prompting all of this was a thin-blooded little man who had emerged from the barracks headquarters and was now heading for the training area. It was Captain Kaarna, formerly of the renowned Finnish Jaeger Battalion trained in Germany, and presently commander of the company. Fifty-something, clean-cut and straight as a ramrod, he cut a compelling figure, despite his small stature. The Captain was a swift and nimble fellow, but even so, something in his present step signaled exceptional urgency. Kaarna kept his eyes fixed on the company as he walked, as if, in his impatience, he might will himself to his destination. And so he stumbled on a burnt tree root, regaining his balance quickly, though not before sputtering, ‘Yee-aach! Mother f—’

Turning around to look for the root, the Captain promptly tripped on another, this time only barely managing to remain upright. ‘Whaaoah! Son of a bitch!’ All his bottled-up tension erupted in an impromptu soliloquy that fizzled out into series of disgruntled coughs. ‘Achem. Hmm.’

Upon reaching the company, he paused for a deep breath. Then, sitting on each syllable, he yelled, his voice cracking mid-command: ‘Ma-chiii-hi-iine Gu-nnaaars!’

The men turned to face the Captain, each soldier stiffening to attention. One guy turned the wrong way in a panic, and was correcting his error with bated breath when a new command rang out, much to his relief.

‘At ease. Platoon leaders!’

The tension in the men’s bodies went slack and the three officers started quickly toward the Captain. He awaited them impatiently, shuffling his feet as his restless eyes glanced back and forth between the sky and their approaching figures. They formed a line in front of him and stiffened to attention. Kaarna avoided looking at the First Platoon leader, Lieutenant Lammio. Lammio had a habit of raising his hand to the visor of his cap in a jerky, almost spastic manner that Kaarna found supremely irritating – particularly because, on top of everything else, Lammio curved his wrist, which was against regulations. Anyway, the Captain really couldn’t stand the man himself. The Helsinki lieutenant was tall, thin-faced and possessed of a self-assured arrogance that severely tried Kaarna’s patience – which was none too bountiful to begin with. Lammio was a career officer, and the Army Academy had spoiled him for good. He had picked up all sorts of mannered gestures there that really made the old captain grit his teeth. The sound of Lammio’s voice alone was enough to prick the men’s hostility, piercing the air with its shrill, pretentiously convoluted orders.

The Second Platoon leader was a young, conscripted ensign – a small-town, high-school graduate from the wealthier, western part of the country, trying to live up to some mythic ideal of the Winter War ensign by performing his duties with outlandish ceremony.

The Third Platoon leader was also an ensign, aged about thirty. Vilho Koskela was a country boy, hailing from a small farm in Häme, some hours north of Helsinki. Sturdily built, blond-haired and blue-eyed, he had a cleft chin and spoke so little that he had acquired the nickname ‘Quiet Koski’. The men had heard rumors of his feats during the Winter War, though he himself had never spoken a word of it. All anybody knew was that near the end, he had been serving as a company commander, even though by rank he was only a sergeant. When the war ended, he had been sent into officer training, and he had remained in the army beyond his conscripted time at the pay grade of ensign. He spoke very little and was somewhat awkward in carrying out his duties, but he was very direct, so in the end he was able to manage his men as well as anybody else.

The Captain held him in high regard, and even now it seemed as if he were addressing Koskela personally, reducing the other two officers to mere onlookers. The company watched as the four officers’ conversation dragged on, raising their hopes that a change of activity might be afoot. Finally, the consultation ended. The Captain went back to the barracks headquarters and the officers returned to their units. The company’s spirits perked up considerably when the order rang out that all platoons were to march back to their barracks.

‘I bet we’re going swimming,’ one guy whispered to the fellow next to him. The latter, well past entertaining the illusion that pleasant surprises were something that army life afforded, restricted himself to a half-hearted sneer.

Koskela marched his platoon to the front of the barracks. He stood awkwardly for a moment, as if uncertain how to begin. He was uncomfortable giving orders in general, and formulating commands was particularly difficult, because somehow or other he was embarrassed by the contrived formality army commanders used to say such simple things.

‘Right. NCOs, there’s some stuff you guys need to take care of. A transport’s coming to move the battalion to a new location, so we need to pare down the equipment. Everybody take the clothes you’ve got on and put a change of underwear, foot flannels and your overcoat in your pack. Bread sacks and mess kits come too. And weapons, of course. Everything else goes into storage. Try to be quick about it. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve packed my own stuff.’

The situation was so out of the ordinary that the first section leader ventured a question that was actually rather out of line. The assignment they’d received hadn’t been accompanied by any indication of why it was to be carried out, so Corporal Hietanen, boldly assuming a ‘just between us’ sort of air, asked, ‘So, uh, where are we headed? The depths of hell, I guess?’

Koskela glanced at the horizon and answered, ‘I don’t know. Those were the orders. I’ve got to get moving. You’d better hurry, too.’

So that was all the men were to know of their fate. That being the case, they can be held only so responsible for it. But, anyway, they were very excited. Some men even took the initiative and asked their squad leaders what needed to be done – a rare occurrence indeed. Hietanen sat down at the table and drew up a list of the equipment to be taken along, which cut down on the chaos considerably. The Corporal was from the southwest part of the country around Turku, and in Koskela’s absence he was the eldest in the platoon. His great voice boomed out over the others as he took charge of the preparations, setting time in his amusingly staccato Turku accent. He was a breezy, easy-going fellow – young, with a powerful build; and he had managed to garner some sort of authority within the platoon, mainly thanks to his imposing strength.

‘The guys said the runner reported that the company secretary said that they’re sending us to garrison Joensuu,’ a self-important voice called out.

Hietanen was all too familiar with these rumors, which hope spawned now and again, and replied mockingly, ‘Well, I heard from the drivers that this whole battalion here’s being sent to garrison Helsinki! We’re gonna trade in all these old rags for new, and we’re all gonna get riding breeches into the bargain. That’s what I heard. Oh, I hear all sorts of things.’

The second squad leader, Corporal Lahtinen, was kneeling on the floor, tying up his pack. He was a big guy from northern Häme with evident communist sympathies. He was leaning over his pack, muttering, ‘There’s gonna be a stink, boys. You’ll see. That nutcase in Germany’ll take off first, and then our idiot big-shots’ll hoof it after him. Might as well be written on the wall, the way he’s been yabbering on about it.’

Lahtinen looked around apprehensively, his mouth twisted into an anxious knot. Then he continued, ‘Well, we’ll just see how things work out for him. They sure aren’t gonna to run out of ammunition over there’ – his head tilted ever so slightly east – ‘and they’ve got mines lying in wait on all those roads, too.’

‘Ah, and there my Katyusha lies waiting for me, too!’ grinned Private Rahikainen, the unconcerned, perennial truant from North Karelia.

‘Nah, listen guys,’ Hietanen spoke up. ‘I bet I know. We’re just going to build fortifications along the border. The stuffed shirts are scared that if they join up with the Germans, the Russians’ll drop in again—’

‘But what would the Russians want here?’ Lahtinen cut in, unconvinced. ‘Far as I know they’ve never attacked anybody. But Herr Fritz and his buddies are already here.’

‘Just passing through on leave!’ somebody said.

‘On leave!’ The sharp accent of Lahtinen’s voice revealed an untold reservoir of fury and disdain that sparked an all-out uproar. ‘About as “on leave” as the Russians down there in our seaside hotels in Hanko! Just renting the place, uh-huh. Right! Like the ones in Viipuri. Vyborg, my ass. Stop defending them, for Christ’s sake.’

Any attempt at defense was obviously hopeless, and even Lahtinen’s ‘Well, we’ll just see!’ was drowned out by the din. They didn’t really think the question was as momentous as all that, but the clamoring might well have continued indefinitely had it not been cut short by Hietanen’s deafening roar of ‘Attention!’

The Captain stepped into the barracks. ‘As you were, as you were, it’s all right. Everyone taken care of?’ The Captain strode swiftly about the room, inspecting the men’s equipment as he said, ‘Swap any broken equipment for new. If you have any civilian clothes, pack them up and smack a home address on them. The quartermaster will be responsible for taking care of them from there. Don’t bring any unnecessary extra gear like writing pads and that kind of stuff. You know what it says on a boy scout’s belt? “Be prepared.” Be prepared! All right, all right, let’s go.’

‘Oh, but Captain, sir! Not the writing pads, please. The ladies won’t oblige if we don’t lay on the love songs.’

The men choked back their laughter at Rahikainen’s plea, all the more outrageous for having been addressed directly to the Captain. But even the corners of Kaarna’s lips betrayed the trace of a dry smile as he said, ‘Well, well. Listen to this. Listen to this man! Won’t oblige, he says. Naaw… nah. If she takes after her mother, she will, and if she takes after her father, she’ll downright beg you for it. All right, let me see. Those boots – trade ’em in for new ones. They won’t last the march… hee, hee. Lay on the love songs. So that’s what it is. Well, well. This boy’s going to conquer the ladies with his pen… his pen, he says! Hietanen! The NCOs appear to have taken advantage of their friendly relations with weapons supply to get some shoddy rifles for themselves. Well, that’s one way to get out of cleaning and greasing your gun barrels… sneaky business… sneaky business. But if anyone in the platoon is still hanging on to one of those, have him go and trade it in immediately. Is that clear? OK, all right. With his pen, he says. Hmm. Ha! Well. Lah-dee-dah… da-dee-dum-dada.’

The whole time, the Captain’s sharp eyes had been surveying the men’s gear. The running monologue and constant humming were typical of his general mode of operation – outlets for his excess energy.

Without even standing at attention, the first squad leader, Corporal Lehto, suddenly asked, ‘Captain, sir, I’m not a boy scout, so I don’t know what we’re supposed to be prepared for. It’s not war, is it?’

‘Nooo… no…’ The Captain kept his composure. ‘You don’t go to war just like that. The war’s pretty far off. All the way in the Balkans.’

‘Captain, sir,’ Rahikainen piped up, ‘it seems to move pretty quick these days! You know… uh, “Blitzkrieg”, so to speak.’

Kaarna looked at Rahikainen and laughed. ‘Well, if it comes, it comes! War comes, you fight!’

‘Oh, we’ll fight all right. And once we get started, there’s no telling how far we’ll go.’

‘That’s the way, that’s the way!’ Private Salo, the guy from Ostrobothnia, was eager to chip in a word.

A ripple of disdain flashed across the Captain’s face. Salo’s ingratiating zeal clearly nauseated him, but his voice remained businesslike as he turned to Lehto. ‘By the way. It seems you may have to do without that coffee.’

‘Makes no difference to me,’ Lehto replied flatly.

Lehto had taken on a position of trust with the Captain, having recently moved the latter’s family into a new apartment in town. The lady of the house hadn’t been able to offer him the customary coffee during the move, so Lehto had been promised it at some later date. This corporal from the outskirts of the working-class town of Tampere had taken a rather curious route to becoming the Captain’s favorite – namely, by returning late from leave. Lehto had been without his parents since he was a little boy, and so was accustomed to fending for himself. There was something shady, even sinister about him, and the others all sensed it, though they wouldn’t have been able to put it into words. They were all about the same age, but Lehto seemed older. His terse, surly manner never betrayed the slightest hint of warmth, and he became visibly irritated when confronted with sentimental situations. Homeland, family, faith, the Glorious Finnish Army and anything at all that smacked of ‘spirituality’ – Lehto had one swift answer to all of it: ‘Cut the crap! Let’s see who’s got cash. Who’s playing?’

As a civilian he’d ridden shotgun for a truck driver, but beyond that no one had managed to squeeze any information out of him about his previous life. Marches and other heavy-duty exercises never seemed to tire him. His face alone would take on a stony cast, and his thin-lipped mouth would stretch tight into an almost savage expression.

He’d been a full week late returning from leave, and in response to the Captain’s questioning, he had replied flatly, ‘Didn’t feel like it.’

‘Feel like it!’ Kaarna fairly trembled with rage. ‘Are you aware of the consequences?’

‘I know the Disciplinary Code, Captain, sir.’

The Captain paused for a moment, staring out of the window. He tapped his fingers on the corner of the table and finally said quietly, ‘If that’s the road you want to take, you’d better be prepared to see it to the end. A man can take his own will for the law only on the condition that he forfeit all rights. You set yourself outside the tribe, outside of its jurisdiction, and you are an outlaw.’

For just one moment the Captain had tested Lehto’s willpower. But Lehto’s eyes were level with the Captain’s, cold and expressionless. His gaze entertained not the slightest distraction – no diversions, no evasion.

‘At its extreme, it means your life is always on the table. Do you think you would play with those stakes, if this incident had escalated to those dimensions? Now we’re just talking about a couple of weeks’ confinement, which is nothing. But if push came to shove, and it was your will against that of the army with every security it offers you at stake, do you think you’d hold your ground?’

Lehto hadn’t actually looked at it from so high a vantage point. In his mind it was more of a private affair. ‘Long as they don’t torture you before they kill you,’ he replied, ‘then why not?’

‘Fine. If that’s how it is, listen: everything great that man has ever done has depended on that conviction. There’s no use wasting it on petty insubordination. Strength and determination come to nothing if you squander them on just being defiant – they lose all their value, and then they just look ridiculous. I have no ethical right to punish you, only a right conferred by power. You ask nothing, so you owe nothing. I don’t think your position is any more incorrect than my use of power. But if you waste your energy on stunts like this, I will consider you a fool. Aim higher. Every man’s got a shot in this game – it’s a battle of wills and the field is wide open. But winning is not easy, and it requires more intelligence than you’ve just demonstrated. Just being able to muddle through trivial incidents as they come up isn’t going to cut it. You need a broader field of vision. Find it.’

A brief silence ensued before the Captain shook himself back to reality and said, ‘Very well. You’re dismissed.’

No disciplinary measures were taken, but Lehto was entrusted with various private tasks instead, including this whole moving business. And one evening, for no apparent reason, the Captain said in passing, ‘It’s never too late to start studying, you know. There’s always more worth knowing. Start with history.’

The suggestion bore no fruit. Lehto didn’t acquire any books, but the men did learn that the Captain himself read voraciously.

Otherwise, Lehto passed the test Kaarna’s favors presented. His attitude toward the Captain himself remained gruff and non-committal, but his work was always meticulously and carefully done.

‘Makes no difference to me,’ he said flatly, tossing his pack onto the bed as if the Captain weren’t there at all.

‘Right, right. So it goes,’ the Captain replied, matching the Corporal’s work-a-day nonchalance. And with that, he resumed his game face, calling out, ‘Hurry up, then!’ and strode swiftly from the barracks.

The exhortation was unnecessary. The men were already heading out. Where to they did not know, but that was what made it exciting – not to mention the truck transport, which meant that there would be no onerous foot-march to kill their mood. Truck transport, in the Finnish army! What on earth could such extravagance possibly foretell? It seemed wildly out of keeping with the whole enterprise.

They lugged their blankets and mattresses to the storeroom, where chaos reigned as never before. The quartermaster was beside himself. Corporal Mäkilä hailed from Laihia, a town renowned as Finland’s stingiest – and he had not been raised there for nothing. Thriftiness was Mäkilä’s passion – to such a degree that the term ‘pathological’ would not have been out of place, had the men been aware of such fine psychological distinctions. He kept the shelves in impeccable order, stocked with all the finest equipment, unmarred by any worn-out items – which he distributed to the company. He even spent his free time in the storeroom, checking the inventory against his account book over and over again. An ongoing feud prevailed between Mäkilä and the company. The men coming to trade in their equipment made their clamoring demands, only to be met with Mäkilä’s low-voiced – and thus, all the more stubborn – refusal, which he typically checked only upon receiving express orders from the Captain. The most excruciating moments of his military career were those in which he was obliged to stand by and watch, turning red and clearing his throat, as the officers cherry-picked the best equipment for themselves, enjoying the privilege of their rank. A low muttering would emanate from the storeroom for a long time after such an incident, and any man who dared enter would be met with a reception even more offputting than usual.

Unlike most quartermasters, Mäkilä dressed himself in the shabbiest garments to be found in the storeroom. He was quick to point to his own scarecrowesque attire as grounds for his refusal. ‘Of course, everyone wants to walk around dressed like a brigadier general. But we have to make do with what’s left, when the actual officers keep snatching everything right out of my hands. You all want riding breeches and patent-leather boots, but then where will they be when you actually need them?’

Such ‘actual need’ as would induce Mäkilä to surrender gear voluntarily was not likely ever to arise. As the son of a big farm-owner in Laihia, Mäkilä often received packages from home, which he would furtively sneak off to the storeroom so he wouldn’t have to share them. Once the mail arrived so late that Mäkilä had already undressed for bed. His package was dispatched to the corporals’ barracks, putting him in a tight spot. He didn’t dare get dressed again to take the package away, but if he kept it in the barracks he would be forced to share its contents. Mäkilä fended off the men temporarily by mumbling something about sharing things in the morning, and hid the package under his pillow.

That night, a cautious rustling of paper began to issue from Mäkilä’s bed, prompting the lights to flood back on as Hietanen’s voice boomed through the barracks, ‘Guys, wake up! Mäkilä’s sharing his package!’

Suspecting that Mäkilä might try to pull something during the night, the others had organized a rota to stand watch, just in case – and now they descended upon the package’s luckless owner by the dozen. Mäkilä sat on his bed, blinking his eyes and gripping his package to his chest, concealing it beneath the corner of his felt blanket. No physical blows were dealt, but every possible psychological pressure was applied in full. All in vain, however – for, as Mäkilä assured them, ‘It’s just clothes. There’s nothing to eat but a couple of rye crackers. And those aren’t even worth trying to divide up. It’s just the underwear I wrote home for – there’s nothing to eat.’

Not so much as a crumb made it into the men’s clutches, and for weeks afterwards their jeering and abuse fell on Mäkilä’s deaf ears.

The men did recognize that Mäkilä had his merits, however. The machine-gunners faced none of the usual supply-chain thievery that usually diverted chunks of the soldiers’ spartan rations to a circle of insiders, and this was due solely to the fact that Mäkilä was scrupulously honest in performing his duties. Once, one of the squad leaders from Mäkilä’s barracks had appealed to his sense of camaraderie to try to get something from the storeroom, but that turned out to be a mistake. Mäkilä just stared at the ceiling, going red, blinking his eyes and clearing his throat in his typical fashion. Then he indignantly declared, ‘You should be aware that all rations are shared on the mess hall table. The provisions I receive from the battalion are set according to company headcount, and I weigh them on scales and divide them up for meals. The only way to get extra food in the army is by stealing.’

The company’s unexpected departure presented a severe trial for Mäkilä. It pained him to watch the men detailed to help him carelessly rolling up blankets and mattresses into unruly bundles, but his book-keeping prevented him from getting mixed up in the matter. It was equally distressing for him to watch men dumping their equipment all over the floor in their impatience to be off.

‘There’s all the gear for Old Lady Rahikainen’s boy! Gimme a receipt, now, huh?’

Mäkilä was beet-red. Beet-red and clearing his throat. And it says a lot that this man, who had never sworn in his life, who clasped his hands in prayer furtively under the table at meals so the others wouldn’t see, now sputtered, ‘My God, what a sorry state of affairs this world is in! Sure, just drop your gear wherever you want, like a dog drops shit. Nobody gets a receipt until I’ve taken an inventory!’

Just then a fellow from the Third Platoon walked in, the guy the Captain had ordered to trade in his boots. He was turned away, and so had to fetch Hietanen to come and back him up. Hietanen had already managed to get himself into a card game, and so, annoyed at the interruption, he hurried to the doorway and hollered, ‘Boots for Salonen on the double! Cap’n’s orders.’

‘I do not have time to give out boots. And that Cap’n gives orders as if we were in America, where there’s more stuff than anybody needs. Just go crying to your Cap’n and he’ll order me to give out whatever it is you’re hankering after!’

Now Hietanen was hacked off, too. ‘Jesus! It will never cease to amaze me how you hoard all that garbage back there. How in the hell anybody can love those ratty, tatty rags so goddamn much is beyond me. Some pretty, affectionate girl, well, sure, I can understand that just fine, but Christ! Plain old rags? Nah, you got me on that one, I’m stumped. Pre-tty damn strange if you ask me. Just thinking about it makes me feel like somebody dropped an anvil on my head.’

Even Mäkilä’s patience had its limits. He stammered for a moment before the words came. ‘Take it all. Take whatever you want. Here, clear the place out. Call over the whole platoon and deck yourselves out. We’re clean out of those spurs with the nice clink, but we’ll divvy up the best we’ve got.’

‘Look, I don’t need any jingle bells, but I am taking boots for Salonen. Those, grab those ones there. Just swap your old ones and let’s go.’

Salonen exchanged his boots and they left, but Hietanen was so tickled with amusement at the whole situation, and particularly his victory, that he couldn’t resist hollering from the door, ‘Don’t you give up hope, now! There’s enough ratty tatty rags to go around!’

Mäkilä moved a pair of gloves onto a different shelf and seized a pile of mattresses, then lowered it back down to the ground. His voice cracked as he said bitterly, sulking, ‘Just take a-anything you need. It’s not worth keeping track of anything around here anymore. Call in the whole battalion so they can stock up on riding breeches – and seam-stripes, too. The machine-gunners are going to set out dressed like real gentlemen. Just got to dig up some of those patent-leather boots…’

One of the men opted to take Mäkilä’s speech at face value and, pulling a new shirt out of the bundle, started taking off his old one. Mäkilä watched for a moment, racking his brain for the most vindictive possible punishment. His shrill voice cracked as he screamed, ‘Ge-et down!’

Mäkilä had always avoided taking any kind of managerial stance in relation to the men, and was even fairly embarrassed whenever he had to give them orders. His outburst was, therefore, all the more jarring, and the stunned man cowered in obedience. Then he scrambled to his feet and slipped in behind the others, trying to save face by muttering, ‘Now the son of a bitch has lost it completely!’

From that point on, the distribution of equipment went more smoothly, however. Mäkilä seemed to suffer at least a few pangs of conscience, and proceeded somewhat shame-faced. He even took the initiative to give some men new items when he saw the state their equipment was in. Wordlessly, he passed out gear, clearing his throat quietly as splotches of red burned on his cheeks.

At last all the gear was packed and loaded into carts. Mäkilä followed the carts toward the battalion, his account book under his arm. As they were leaving, the driver offered him a ride, but Mäkilä turned him down, saying with an insinuation the driver pretended not to grasp, ‘Horses are just fine for transporting equipment. There is no need to start transporting legs good enough for walking.’

The uneven cart tracks through the sandy forest were riddled with roots and potholes, and a deep one jolted the cart to a complete stop. The driver slapped his reins and shouted, ‘C’mon! Goddamn it… git!’

Mäkilä raised his arm in disapproval, cleared his throat and offered the driver a word of advice. ‘You should use the reins to direct the horse. It is not difficult to avoid the potholes if you just pull a little on the lines.’

‘Damn it!… This way…’

The horse braced itself, leaned into its harness, and yanked the wheel loose. The journey continued across the burnt clearing, the tall pine trunks along its rim already reddish in the sinking sun.

Preparations for departure were underway in the barracks headquarters as well. The bed in the Captain’s room had been stripped, and the last, yellowed shreds of the paper shades had been tossed into the fire. The orderly and the company secretary had already packed the archives into a wooden crate and were now loading up their own packs. These gentlemen could take along whatever they wanted, not having to worry about the strain the weight would put on their shoulders. The company secretary had packed ‘parade boots’ and a pair of civilian slacks. He was a curious creature, in a way – a real quirk of nature. A child of the people, but excessively refined; he was a bit feminine and spoke with a sort of lisp. He had a long cigarette-holder as well, which he used to smoke North State cigarettes, imported from America. Only the best would do.

Coffee was brewing on the stove over the crackling waste paper. A rough-hewn, wooden table sat beneath the window. The Captain was seated beside it, gazing out. He twirled a pencil in his slim, sinewy fingers. A faint smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as he noticed Master Sergeant Korsumäki slowly making his way down the path to the office. Korsumäki had been a master sergeant with the Border Patrol before being transferred to the company on account of his age. A ’36 field cap sat on his head, perfectly straight, pressing down slightly over his eyes so that the top of the cap just covered the smooth crown of his head. He wore carded-wool trousers and tall army boots, and the red-on-gray stripes of his thick, wool socks peeked out over their tops. The Master Sergeant moved slowly, scanning the ground around him as he walked. Then, spotting a wooden stick on the ground, he bent down, picked it up, and stuck it in the crook of his elbow with two sticks that were already there.

Soon his soft footfalls reached the porch, and he walked over to the stove, the three sticks still in the crook of his arm. Setting the wood on the fire, he lamented, ‘There’s bits of firewood strewn all along the paths. Funny how these things work. We’re like a pack of spoiled brats out here. Nobody would stand for this kind of wastefulness at home, but out here we all act like it doesn’t matter at all.’

He lifted the lid off the coffee pot, saw that the coffee wasn’t ready, and sat down at the table opposite the Captain. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Then, glancing at the phone, he asked, ‘Any word on the convoy?’

The Captain roused himself from his silence and quickly resumed his customary rapid retort. ‘No, no. Nothing at all. They don’t even know themselves. I told them it was one hell of a way to run an army. You’d think they could at least keep us informed. Strange how we can’t even get a straight answer about where the convoy is. They say there’s some large-scale reorganizing going on higher up. I think it means new troops. It looks like the rumors of mobilization may be true. They’re forming divisions. We’ll be the seed for one of them. The other two regiments will come out of the reserves… Orderlyyy… the kettle…’

They fell silent as the orderly made up the coffee and returned to the porch, where he and the company secretary were packing their bags. Then the Master Sergeant resumed, somewhat dejectedly, ‘That means war.’

‘I don’t know. I’d say it depends on Germany. Theoretically it depends on three parties: Germany, Russia and ourselves. Germany could attack Russia – and I don’t doubt for a second that she will – and demand that we enter the war. The importance of the Murmansk railway supports that possibility. On the other hand, Russia might try to simplify matters by taking us out right away, or at least moving the war onto our territory. She’s hardly going to sit back and wait for us to decide whether we want to let this opportunity pass us by or not. Then there’s a third possibility, which is that we might not let this opportunity pass us by. To hell with the peace agreement. We’re going to have to take sides one way or the other, and anyone can see which way it’s going to go.’

‘Of course. It’s just a question of how it’s all going to play out for us.’

‘Afraid we’re in for a whipping?’ The Captain gave a short laugh and then continued, ‘We’ll never have another opportunity like this. As far as I’m concerned, we should go for a bold offensive. Justice has always followed the sword of the victor. As it will now. The losers are in the wrong. But take whatever position you like, one thing is clear. Our fate is bound to Germany’s success. And that’s why it’s our job to do everything we can to make sure the Germans succeed. The way I see it, central Europe is the center of power, and Finland’s fate hinges upon the degree of force it exerts at any given moment. German pressure is directed outwards, and when it’s strong, eastern power declines. If it weakens, then everything along the peripheries draws in toward the center and we’re snuffed out in the process. That’s just how it is – strange as it may seem from our usual perspective on things, by which we consider France and England our friends, when in truth they’re our worst enemies. Their defeat is Germany’s victory, and Germany’s victory is also our victory. If we’re defeated, then we’re six feet under and that’s the end of it, but the thing to do now is hit Russia with everything we’ve got and take her out – preferably permanently.’

The Master Sergeant stared at the floor and said, ‘So I should keep my family where they are.’

The Captain realized that Korsumäki hadn’t been following his train of thought in the least, but had been preoccupied with his own affairs the whole time. Age and the Winter War had stripped the Sergeant of all idealism – assuming he’d had any to begin with – and so, with a sigh, he thought of the suffering and hardship to come, which he had already known intimately once before. Kaarna could appreciate Korsumäki’s frame of mind, though it was utterly foreign to him personally. He hoped there would be a war. More than that, he hoped it would be a tough war. His career demanded it. He had had to leave the army some twenty years earlier, as a lieutenant, after having taken part in the controversial campaign in the Olonets. That, anybody could guess, was the reason he maintained a permanent state of war between himself and his superiors, even now. For his men he had not a mean word, but even the battalion commander was liable to be given hell. Kaarna was a difficult subordinate, no question – exceptionally talented and smart as a whip. He didn’t hide his light under a bushel either, but shone it ruthlessly upon any issue that provoked controversy. Despite his superior rank and position, even the Major had difficulty holding his own against the man who, on top of everything else, had enough medals to outweigh a two-pound sack of potatoes. He had been promoted to captain during the Winter War and commanded his own battalion. Then he’d remained in the service yet again when the war was over, but only as a company commander, demobilization having freed up too many majors and lieutenant colonels for the higher command positions. Even now, he still wasn’t going to get a battalion. Not even an infantry company! And what use were machine-gunners, least of all in an offensive attack? Well, death and duty would weed out the ranks, and his turn would come. His whole body itched for a chance to exercise its prowess. He had taken on death’s challenge enough times to know that he could face it down. It was as if the world war had reignited all his drive and ambition, making them flare up with new life. And he was patriotic, besides. He cultivated the sentiment actively because it fired him up with vigor and a desire for action.

Whole and powerful – that was him. His gaze betrayed none of the soul’s weaker points, vulnerabilities that might bring him to his knees.

The Master Sergeant called to the orderly to pour more coffee and the Captain resumed where they’d left off. ‘Yes, better leave your family where they are. We won’t be turning back. It’s not like last time. By the way, the supply vehicles will only meet up with the company once we reach our destination. They have to load them up first. And the supply train isn’t assigned just to the company, it’s arranged in conjunction with the whole battalion.’

Well, that’s a relief, the Master Sergeant thought. So we don’t have to worry about that. ‘But this smells a heck of a lot like war. Whole lot of hurry up and wait.’

The Captain laughed. ‘That’s it all right. It’ll be time to head out pretty soon. Say, whatever happened to supper? Or did they take the field kitchen in advance? Oh well, that’s their business.’

They drank their coffee in silence. The Master Sergeant was lost in thought, gazing out at the porch, where the company secretary was combing his hair. The man was making faces at himself in the mirror, adjusting its distance from his head as he pressed down on his wavy hair. The Master Sergeant sighed, as if to expel his rather melancholy state of mind, and said, ‘Takes all sorts.’

Kaarna gave a dry, cutting laugh and said, ‘The history of the world’s made up of all kinds of deeds. Some fellow in Berlin may be looking at a map of Russia and laying plans. This guy here, he’s combing his hair. But he comes along for the ride, too.’

The Captain set his cup on the table and, trying to cheer up the Sergeant, said confidently, ‘Well, we’re all in this together. All in for the long haul, wherever the devil it takes us. So it goes… Hmm… hmm… dum-dee-dum. Orderly! Fetch some razor blades from the canteen, will you? Get a bunch of packs. Pick up some bread rolls with the rest of the money – you can finish the coffee… Ah-ha. Moment I leave that damn phone, it rings… hmmm… hmm.’

The local branch of the Lotta Svärd, the women’s auxiliary, held a nightly canteen in one of the empty barracks. It was crammed with soldiers when the orderly arrived. The place sold coffee mixed with substitute, rock-hard bread rolls, tobacco, razors, envelopes and notepads. The notepads featured a stylized drawing of a soldier on the front. There he stood: helmeted, creases running down the front of his trousers, the blue cross of the Finnish flag billowing in the background. Some fantasy image or other. Just never, under any circumstances, reality. Reality was crowding around the canteen counter in a sort of mob, shouting, ‘Damn it! Don’t push in, you dickhead! Go to the back of the line!’

There was not a creased trouser-leg in sight. One guy had brown hand-me-downs from the charitable nation of England, somebody else had civilian trousers, somebody else, gray military slacks. The only articles of clothing they had been uniformly issued with were a cap, a light button-down shirt, and a belt.

There was just one Lotta behind the counter. The men were cracking jokes up and down the line – whatever jokes anybody happened to know, as they had to attract her attention somehow. Of course, they knew none of them stood much of a chance with Lieutenant Lammio sitting over at the end of the counter. But Rahikainen was one of those guys who refuse to recognize any opportunity as hopeless, on principle. He strutted up to the counter and said gallantly, ‘Now, what does the pretty girl have for Rahikainen today? Before we must part for ever! Ah, well. Cuppa coffee, of course. And a bread roll.’

‘Tonight we’re selling as many rolls as you want. We’re closing down the canteen.’

‘So that’s how it is. War’s comin’, huh? Signs of it in the air. Before we only got one per cup. What grave misfortune awaits us! I may never look into this little lady’s beautiful eyes again.’

The Lotta flushed with pleasure and glanced at Lammio, who was sitting at the end of the counter. Because it was for him – the radiance emanating from her. Even the flicker Rahikainen had sparked. Lammio was irritated at Rahikainen’s gallantry. First, for the general reason that he couldn’t stand the presence of another rooster on the roof, and second, because he had already arranged to profit by this particular Lotta’s presence in the barracks. Who knew when he’d see a woman again? And there wasn’t enough time to make it to the city. But if the convoy was slow enough coming, he could see this Lotta home and try his luck.

There was, of course, a clear division separating the Helsinki lieutenant from the North Karelian private, which was indeed so great that Lammio was not concerned, even if he knew Rahikainen to be a ladies’ man, and a successful one. Rahikainen was a tall, handsome fellow, well built, with a curly mop, a rich singing voice, and an everlasting motor-mouth that typically ran on empty. The last was Rahikainen’s primary vehicle for advancing his cause, but this time he hit a wall.

‘Finish your business so the others can have a chance, please.’ Lammio was suddenly very concerned on behalf of the other men in line, though he himself had dawdled for no less than twenty minutes making his own purchases. Rahikainen, however, was not the born-yesterday type. You couldn’t scare him with stripes and buttons, and Lammio’s power did not extend so far as to govern his canteen purchasing practices.

‘Oh, but Lieutenant, sir, let’s not be too hasty. If we’ve got a long trip ahead of us, we’d better have some provisions. How much of that tobacco am I allowed?’

‘How much would you like?’

‘Let’s say that pack there. And toss in about ten of those bread rolls.’ Rahikainen paid slowly and made a few more passes at the girl before being supplanted by the next fellow in line. Gathering up his purchases, he moved out of the way and found a seat at the table by the door, where some guys from the Third Platoon were already seated. Seeing as the Lotta was the communal center of attention, Rahikainen’s little enterprise had not gone unnoticed.

‘Looks like that girl ain’t gonna be the mother of your children,’ Hietanen smirked. ‘Need a few more pins on your collar.’

‘I don’t have any need for her services at the moment.’

‘Now you’re just tellin’ whoppers. Guy like you – why I’ll take you out to our neck of the woods and use you as a stud if you make it out of this alive!’

Just then the orderly came in to announce that the convoy would arrive at ten o’clock. For Lammio, the announcement meant the possibility that his hopes would be realized, but for the rest of them it just meant more waiting around. The canteen closed and Lammio set off with the Lotta, walking her bicycle. The men wandered back to the barracks, their excitement at departure souring.

‘What are they dawdling for? What kind of numbskulls do they have up there running this show? We’re not really going to just keep milling around the empty barracks, are we?’

The bed frames sat in their spots, empty. The beds and the narrow spaces between them had grown familiar to the men, and the blue-stained boards seemed strangely dreary now that they had been stripped bare. An inscription had already appeared at the head of one of the beds: ‘This bed belonged to Pentti Niemi, who slept here during his service to the Finnish army and departed 16 June 1941 for an unknown destination. Recruit, rookie, FNG: when you come near this bed, take your boots off, because this bed was a sacred spot to some guy once.’

They were blessed, however, before departure. Since there was time, the battalion’s chaplain came round to hold evening prayer services in each of the companies. The duty officer rounded up the men, and this time both the officers and the utilities platoon took part as well.

The Captain stood a little way off, awaiting his cue, and the Master Sergeant followed at the tail end of the company, looking very grave. The duty officer wasn’t sure whom he was supposed to cue to bring the company, since the officers’ presence eliminated the possibility of the Master Sergeant’s serving this role. Koskela was the oldest officer present, but he was just walking along at the head of his platoon, and clearly had no intention of getting involved. Luckily, just then Lammio rushed onto the scene. His plans had been seriously thwarted. He had been pinning his hopes on this Lotta, knowing that she was a country girl, but this very fact had turned out to be the cause of his downfall.

Lammio took over the company from the duty officer and presented it to the Captain. Kaarna had observed Lammio’s entrance but averted his gaze. He had no patience with men who went absent without leave, officers included, and it was even more irritating in this case because it was Lammio. Keeping his voice low, so that the company would not hear, the Captain murmured, ‘The company is on alert, which means no absences are permitted. As far as I know, the Lieutenant is still a member of the company.’

‘Yes I am, Captain, sir.’

‘Well then. Assume your position.’

The scolding didn’t ruffle Lammio in the least. He walked calmly to the head of his platoon. The haughty expression of his face was just slightly stronger than usual, reinforced by the stiff flair of his nostrils. It was his typical response to any and all criticisms directed his way.

The Captain was pacing back and forth in front of the company. He muttered something to himself and kept glancing at his watch. Once he stopped, turned to the company and said, ‘OK. Now we should… Well, no, no, let’s not.’

Resuming his pacing, he reasoned with himself, ‘There’s no need. It’ll work out without… hmm… hmmm…’

The chaplain came across the clearing on his bicycle.

‘The crow has landed,’ Rahikainen whispered, as the others suppressed their smiles. ‘The crow’ was their nickname for the chaplain. It drew its inspiration from the fact that the chaplain was a frail, dark-skinned, narrow-shouldered type. A prime target for tuberculosis bacteria.

The Captain’s orders rang out. The men removed their caps, allowing their bristly hair to stick out in whatever direction it pleased. Or directions, rather, as even within just one head there seemed to be aspirations in several directions.

The minister began the hymn in his thin, tinny little voice, to which the men contributed a vague sort of moo that gradually developed into singing: ‘forrr… truuuss… is… aar… Go… od…’

Faces were stiff, brows knitted, eyes dull and squinting. Bearing no sentiments of devotion whatsoever, the men paid their respects to their god looking rather dismal and cross. Hietanen furrowed his brows and choked out some noises, though his singing skills were a little questionable. Lehto stood mute, his thin lips firmly shut. It was as if he had been turned to stone, and would have preferred to get through the whole hymn without having to hear a word of it. But next to the Master Sergeant, a clear, beautiful voice was ringing out from Mäkilä’s mouth. The quiet man had no equal when it came to hymn-singing. He opened up his whole soul, and its strength seemed to lift him up into the clear twilight.

‘Let us pray.’

In so far as it was possible, the men’s expressions grew even angrier. They looked as though they were just about ready to eat somebody alive. The minister tried to deepen his voice to make it sound more powerful. ‘O Lord, God of nations. You who hold our fate in Your hands. May You turn Your face to us and have mercy upon us, for You are our refuge. Let Your will be done, for Your vision exceeds our humble understanding. If You send us trials, it is no more than we deserve, but we pray to You: strengthen our souls with Your power, so that we may withstand Your trials. Help us to fulfill our duties in Your name, to our families and to our homeland. Give us the strength to make even the greatest sacrifices, for it is in Your name that Your chosen people move toward their destiny. Fill our souls with the same steadfast courage and the same, burning spirit of patriotism that our brothers felt as they faced their deaths – our fallen heroes, who now sleep in the cemeteries of soldiers. This is all we ask of You. Bless these men in all that they do, in whatever may lie before them. Bless all the people of our nation and make us one. May You open our hearts to Your will, that we may travel the path of righteousness.’

Then the chaplain read the Lord’s Blessing, his voice returning to normal, as he had exhausted his fervor in the three identical services he’d already given in the battalion’s infantry companies. After the blessing, he struck up one last, short hymn, and then the service was over.

The Captain allowed the company a break, and the men began wandering around aimlessly. Rahikainen lumbered along, shoving his hands in his pockets as he said, ‘Ye-ees, what a sermon! How in the world does that spindly little man drone on so damn long? Did you hear the horrible things that guy said? We’re headed for the cemeteries, boys! My neck-hairs are still standing on end from the threats that chump made.’

‘I thought that guy did purty good,’ Salo said.

They stayed outside with their packs and weapons. Some men gathered in little groups to play cards or tell stories, and the others just loitered around with nothing to do. Ten o’clock came and went, revealing the meaninglessness of the appointed hour. The convoy didn’t arrive.

Hietanen was lying on his back with his pack for a pillow and singing. It was a bit of a funny song, as it didn’t really have a tune, and the lyrics were sort of all over the place too. He just improvised, belting out:

As he sang, he looked up at the pale blue sky, which had darkened just enough to offset one, powerful star. Then, interrupting his song, he burst out: ‘Nah, I have to say, those stars are pre-tty far out there. It seems like they’re real close and all, but when you start thinking about it, you realize that the distance between you and them is pre-tty damn far, and you can’t even conceive of it the same way you normally look at things. And the thing that’s really got me stumped is what in the world anybody does with ’em. Seems like they’re totally pointless, if you ask me. Who needs ’em? Nobody.’

‘They do create some light, though.’ Corporal Lahtinen was sticking a needle back into the side of his cap, having just finished sewing back on a shirt button that was coming loose. He’d been focusing intently on his task, and had just tossed off his comment in passing, but Hietanen was vehemently intent on the issue and burst out, ‘Light! Sunlight and moonlight, sure, I can understand that just fine, but what does this kind of light do? Nothing! I think that if I’d have been God, I wouldn’t have made all these stars. And if I could, I’d get rid of the lot of them. What are you supposed to make of things that don’t do anything?’

Lahtinen’s needle was now firmly in place, leaving him free to consider the matter. He glanced around carefully and spoke in a low, slightly hesitant voice, as if preparing in advance for opposition from the others. ‘No-o, they weren’t made by God. That’s just talk. That’s what they teach you in school, even though they know it’s a lie. He didn’t create people, either. They were born in the sea. People are made out of carbon and other things. The simple man is kept in ignorance so he’ll be more submissive to the capitalists. That’s all there is to it.’

Hietanen laughed, ‘Yeah, I get that, but I don’t believe it. Carbon! You gone soft or something? That sounds pre-tty strange if you ask me. How the hell could a normal human being be born in the sea? Just being underwater half a minute’s enough to finish you off. And there ain’t a speck of carbon in my body. Muscles and bones, that’s what people are made out of. Anybody can tell you that. I don’t know anything about capitalists. If my old man dies before I do, I get twenty-three and a half acres of real shitty land. I’m that much of a capitalist. Don’t think I’m particularly submissive, though – let whatever capitalist you want come up to the edge of our field. I’ll just walk right over with my hands in my pockets and give him a good, long spit. That’s what I’d do.’

Lahtinen spoke again quietly, earnest as ever, which suited him really – he who never took anything lightly. Assessing the loneliness of his position all too well, he was a little uncomfortable. He certainly didn’t want to get into a fight, but he couldn’t just drop the issue, so he said in his defense, ‘You can be underwater, if you have gills. Man began as a fish. Even the capitalist scientist has recognized that.’

Now Hietanen wasn’t laughing anymore. He sat up and looked straight at Lahtinen, his eyes wide, blazing with astonishment. ‘Hey guys, listen to this! Listen to what our boy Yrjö has to say! Well, I’ll be damned. Now you’ve really started it. Listen, guys! I guess I’m a perch, ’cause I’ve got stooped shoulders. Come chew on this, guys… Gills… Look, I’ve never read anything but the Turku newspaper once in a while since I finished school – painfully – but I still know better than to believe that. So I’m a perch! A carbon perch… Pre-tty strange if you ask me.’

Hietanen was on a roll. And he was whipping himself up into an even greater tizzy. He glanced around, looking for others to confirm his astonishment, but no one had taken any interest in their conversation except Private Vanhala, the only guy lying nearby. He was lying silently, but he had been following the debate and was quivering with suppressed laughter. Vanhala was a quiet, chubby fellow, who rarely took part in conversation, though it was clear that he would happily have done so. When he did cut in on occasion, he would instantly start struggling for words and turn red, glancing around at the others, embarrassed by his difficulties. He had followed Hietanen and Lahtinen’s argument with a smile dancing in his eyes, laughing to himself, repeating: ‘Fi-ish… heehee… fi-ish… Hietanen is a pe-erch… heeheehee…’

Lahtinen’s face had withdrawn into a sullen expression. You could tell from his tone of voice that he didn’t want to argue any more – though, of course, he knew how things really were. ‘It’s Nature that creates,’ he said. ‘That’s just how it is… Everything else is hogwash. Sure, rich people know what tune to sing, soon as any question about their purse-strings comes up. That’s what that spindly crow was just harping on about. We got it all wrapped up in one go just now. Give us the strength to defend the moneybags of capitalism! I mean, if this homeland had left them as poor as it’s left me, I don’t think they’d care for it any more than I do. And I wouldn’t give up so much as an old foot rag for it. Well, whatever, let’s move on, but we’ll just see how things pan out… There are enough fellows over there to fight us, that’s for sure.’

Vanhala hesitated a moment. Then he said, ‘But one Finn’s a match for ten Russkis. Heehee.’

‘Mmm… Sure. And what do we do when they send round the eleventh?’

Hietanen, who had no interest in the political question, only the purely theological one, turned the conversation back around to its previous topic. ‘Look, I’m no Doctor of Philosophy, but my reasoning says the world couldn’t just pop up all by itself. I’m sure about that. I don’t believe in any of that supernatural stuff. How could something be born by itself, without anybody making it? God has to exist. But I have to say, he sure did do a lot of work for nothing. We don’t need all those stars. I’ve thought that a bunch of times. I can’t see any use in having things like ants and frogs in the world. They are totally useless if you ask me. Just like bedbugs and cockroaches.’

Vanhala could scarcely contain his giggles, and his whole body quivered as he gasped, ‘And lice!’

No sooner had he said it than he blushed and went straight-faced. But then he noticed Hietanen’s approval, and his round face broke into a broad grin and his body started quivering again. Hietanen pounced, continuing to rattle off his evidence. ‘You said it! Who needs lice eating away at him? Nobody. And then you gotta feed the goddamn pests somehow! On top of everything else. Yeah, I know old people say frogs keep the well-water clean, but I don’t buy that at all. That’s just batty. Who the hell wants to drink frog eggs?’

‘And tadpoles! Heehee.’ Now Vanhala was feeling so self-assured that he stopped blushing and downright shone when Hietanen concurred straight away, ‘Exactly!’

Hietanen lay back down on the ground, brushing the conversation aside, but not without concluding, finally, ‘I don’t believe in any of that supernatural stuff. But I still say there’s a whole lot of unnecessary junk in this world.’

This final point prompted him to tack on another. ‘To hell with all of it.’

Then he drew a deep breath of fresh air into his lungs, as if he wanted to blow out the whole pointless train of thought, and began to sing. He just sort of wove the words together as they came to mind, making up a tune to fit the song that went:

Several of the men wandered further off to write letters, driven by some vague foreboding of what fate held in store. Others tried to sleep, and a few gathered around card games, murmuring now and again. ‘Couple of whores. You tried to pull a fast one, you old cheat. Stop grumbling and get to it! Pot limit. Three shorties and a jack high. You got a pair a kings over there, don’t you? Written all over your face.’

Dusk began to settle over the burnt clearing. The warmth of the day still hovered, so the men could lie outside, gazing up into the depths of the twilit sky that seemed to conceal within it both the past and all that was to come. The rumble of trains drifted over from the railroad tracks as singing, shouts and the occasional order rang out through the camp.

The next pointless alarm came sometime around midnight. The men had already started shivering from the cold, and murmurs of discontent were rumbling here and there. They set in for another wait, until at about one o’clock the duty officer came to put the company on alert. Boisterous with excitement, the men got into formation. They were bursting with that thrilling sensation probably familiar to all troops heading off to war. True, these men weren’t entirely sure it was war they were heading off to, but over the course of the night, a rumor to that effect had taken hold throughout the company. And when Lammio called them to attention, their heels clicked more crisply than usual, and even their pivots betrayed a model precision. And what was the cause of this sudden verve and enthusiasm? May those who wonder why the world goes to war find an answer to that!

They set off toward the other side of the burnt clearing, where there was a path leading to the main road, which would take you just about anywhere. East to Lake Onega and the Svir River, for example – amongst other places. And why not further, if the men had it in them?

The First Company commander, Captain Helminen, had been put in charge of the transport. He issued orders to the officers as he walked. Captain Kaarna arrived after his company and immediately began quarreling with Helminen, as if holding him personally responsible. ‘Should be! The convoy should be on its way! Remarkable, how it continually should be coming. When is it actually coming, then? This is the third time we’ve been called to alert and I’m afraid this one’s a washout, too. Where is the convoy and what is it driving? A convoy can’t just disappear.’

‘I don’t know,’ Helminen replied defensively. ‘The Commander said they drove the Second Battalion to the border during the night, or rather, late in the evening. So maybe they’re still out there. Otherwise, there was just one artillery transport that passed. Supposedly, those guys weren’t regular troops – so mobilization is underway.’

‘Mm… sure, sure. Looks that way. Well, we’ve also been mobilized since yesterday. So who knows? Maybe by tomorrow we’ll actually be mobile.’

Kaarna set off toward his company and said to the men, ‘Well, boys, looks like you’re going to learn how to wait. Don’t get worked up, now. Take advantage of every opportunity you can to get some rest. Coats on, packs for pillows. Get some sleep.’

‘Learn to wait? Oh, we got that down already. Year and a half now we been waiting to go back to being civilians.’

Rahikainen hadn’t meant that for the Captain’s ears. The Captain caught it, however, though he didn’t bother to address it. He just laughed and gazed sidelong at Rahikainen. The men wrapped themselves in their coats and tried to sleep. The cold kept them awake, and they cursed the whole system through their chattering teeth. The ‘gentlemen officers’ could hear snippets here and there – a Finnish private can be pretty cutting when the mood strikes him. The men were hungry, too, though that was by no means exceptional. They’d been hungry since they’d joined the army, and some of them probably well before that. Malnutrition had not yet disappeared from Finland – not in the least. There were still pockets here and there that provided entirely favorable conditions for it to flourish. Certainly the doctors the military had called in to examine the recruits were aware of it. The human stock comprising the infantry bore weaknesses that were the clear product of malnutrition.

Besides being cold and hungry, the men were also sleep-deprived – so, of the four components we might say encapsulate the essence of war, fear was the only thing missing.

Time passed. The summer sky grew lighter, and the edge of the dawn began to glow red in the east. At four o’clock the companies were called together and the march back to the barracks began. The officers let the men grumble in peace. ‘Stroke of genius from our esteemed officers! Just another piss alarm, boys! Practice for the war, right. Sweat saves blood – so every time they mess with us it’s a goddamn “exercise”. Hurry up so you can come and loll around on some clumpy grass!’

The company hadn’t even reached the barracks when an orderly pedaled up behind them on his bicycle. ‘Come back, come back, the convoy’s coming!’

‘About, face! March!’

The murmurs fell silent. Now they were sure departure was imminent. That was how everything happened in the army. They were also sure that a mad rush would set in now, just because the occasion seemed to call for it.

Dusty vehicles began to wobble into view just as the company reached the roadside. A dust-covered master sergeant on a motorbike led the convoy, circling round as the vehicles followed suit, pulling up in a line. The tired drivers took no notice whatsoever of the loading, their bloodshot eyes sinking shut as they dozed off over their steering wheels.

‘Machine-gunners, lighten your water weight,’ Kaarna called out to his company. The men smiled, but the Captain said, almost irritated, ‘Yeah yeah. There’s nothing to laugh about. It’s a long drive.’ He offered himself as an example. Once he had taken care of his business, he jiggled himself dry, buttoned up his trousers and said, looking at the sky, ‘A beautiful day is about to dawn. A great start! A really great start! What a brilliant, red glow… Mmm. Into the vehicles by platoon!’

‘How the hell’s a platoon supposed to fit in that?’ One of the soldiers stared in disbelief, but only until he realized that stalling would mean a bad spot, at which point he dived in with the others. Koskela pressed his thumbs under his belt and looked on silently as the men crammed into the vehicles. He knew the human cargo would organize itself into the best possible configuration, so he left the men to their own devices.

‘Quit shoving, will you? Say, where do we put the packs and guns, huh?’ Having cut the line and seized a prime spot by the wall of the cab, Rahikainen was now demanding more space.

His constant cheating and corner-cutting had earned him a place of special disrepute with Hietanen, who shouted, ‘Pretty sure you can sit on your pack with your gun in your lap just like everybody else.’

‘Sit on my pack? Why, my writing pad’ll get crushed!’ There was no way Rahikainen would have sat on the bare floor of the truck, but he was hoping his ruse might win him more space for later use.

‘Jesus! We’re not gonna start making separate space for the bags on account of your stationery supplies,’ said Hietanen.

‘Well, excuse me. I’ll be happy to put it under me, if it disturbs your soul so greatly.’

‘It doesn’t disturb my soul in the least, but Salo and Vanhala’s rears won’t fit in the truck if you don’t sit on your damn pack!’

Gradually they all situated themselves as comfortably as they could. Koskela got into the cab and the platoon sat waiting for the last ten minutes. They were in a hurry.

‘Well, looks like we’re stuck here. Might as well enjoy the chance to sit in a vehicle for once. The Finnish army doesn’t pay for this kind of thing too often. The higher-ups must’ve got some wires crossed. You know, some people get things turned around from time to time, but somehow those clowns always do.’

The guy leading the convoy drove away from the truck, dragging his feet on the ground. Somewhere within the trucks a voice cried out, ‘Ready!’

The Master Sergeant, who was from Savo – where else, with those absurdly rolled Rs – called back, ‘All rrrrrrighty, boys! Keep a hundred and fifty yards between the vehicles so the dust can settle in between.’

The first vehicle started off. The transmission screeched and the motor groaned: ay yai yai yai…

The Third Platoon’s truck shook and rumbled off in turn. The men bounced down the uneven road to the rhythm of the potholes as the vehicle pitched this way and that. Their spirits rose, as if shaken loose by the lurching of the truck. Some shouts emerged from the convoy, and somewhere in the truck somebody had already burst into song: ‘On the heath a little bloom called Erika…’

‘So long, burnt clearing!’ somebody yelled from the Third Platoon’s truck, and others chimed in, ‘So long, barracks!’ ‘The old troops are headin’ out!’

Hietanen had already forgotten his recent exchange with Rahikainen. Drunk with excitement at their chaotic departure, he outdid them all and launched into a full-on speech. Rising to stand, he steadied himself on Lehto’s shoulder, gesturing extravagantly with his free hand as he said, ‘One last goodbye to you, burnt clearing. Farewell, you old sweat-sucking swamp! The old boys are off and we salute you! You, whose surface our boots have messed up with so many footprints. You give the next round of rookies hell, now, all right? The old guard’s rootin’ for ya!’

Cheers from the other vehicles joined in his hurrah, as did his own men. But Rahikainen just grumbled irritably, ‘Of course they drive us off at night. Not one little lady by the side of the road to see us off.’

The truck turned onto the main road, into the dust cloud floating in the wake of the preceding vehicles. The drone of the trucks emanated from its midst, accompanied by strains of the old school songs, ‘What happiness greater than taking up arms, protecting the land of our birth…’

Glints of the clear morning shone between the trees lining the road, gilding the dust cloud with gold as loads of excited young men drove through, one after the other.