Unknown Soldiers

Chapter Six

From that point on, the fighting was more or less continuous until they reached Petroskoi. The Karelian Army had launched its second offensive, and they were under constant fire all along the rough country roads leading from the border to Lake Onega. They didn’t know anything of the Karelian Army, however, much less the phases of its offensives. Each man knew his regiment number, but even a ‘division’ was a pretty hazy concept to most of them, not to mention an ‘army corps’ or an ‘army’. Once in a while they would catch a glimpse of a general in a passing car, looking like a picture out of their ‘Private’s Handbook’, and wonder, ‘What the hell is that guy doin’ all the way out here?’ Generals belonged to a whole other world. In their world, there was nothing but misery, hunger, danger and exhaustion, and a group of guys who became your buddies – one or the other of whom would vanish from time to time, never to return.

On they lumbered, mile after mile, ‘decimating the opposition with expertly designed maneuvers engineered to disrupt enemy communication lines’. And for this, their highest commanders received medals of the greatest distinction.

Continuous cannon fire rumbled as far as they could hear to the north and the south, and aerial battles were being played out overhead. Sometimes they would pause to watch a plane fall to the ground, flaming like a torch.

They were always hoping the advance would speed up once they’d driven the enemy back from some position, but to no avail. Every couple of miles brought new resistance. They grew increasingly quiet and irritable with each day that passed. Petty squabbles broke out constantly. Eyes sank deeper into their sockets, cheekbones grew more pronounced and, within a few weeks, lines carved their way into their smooth, boyish faces. Rahikainen stopped scavenging badges. Bread and tent tarps were in higher demand.

The relationship between Koskela and his platoon grew ever closer. The quiet ensign had attained such an unassailable position in the minds of his men that all he had to do was hint at what needed to be done and it would be taken care of. In combat he was silent, tireless, shrewd and calculating. As a result, his platoon escaped with very few casualties. Not once did he send the guns into a dangerous combat situation where they couldn’t be of any use, and in situations where they could be effective, he accompanied them personally, guiding the others. But above all, the men felt he was one of their own because he was just like any one of them. When he was off-duty, no one would have been able to say he was an officer without checking his badges, so naturally did he blend in with his men, right down to the detail.

Lehto’s moods grew ever darker. Once a grenade exploded beside him, but he escaped unharmed. He went deaf for a little while, and was, indeed, still deaf when he proceeded to shoot a wounded enemy soldier, saying that he couldn’t take the man’s moaning any longer. No one took much notice of the incident. They were soldiers now. Once, retreating from some hill, they had to leave a wounded guy behind. When they retook the hill, they found him stripped to his underwear, a deep bayonet gash in his side. In retaliation, one of the submachine-gunners from Kariluoto’s platoon casually took aim at three of the Russians who had surrendered, shooting them down without even removing his gun from under his arm. Two days later that man met his own end when a grenade landed squarely upon him, cleaving his body in two. Death had ceased to be a moral issue.

Rokka seemed to be enjoying the war. He showed no signs of fatigue – on the contrary, he buoyed the others up with his excess energy. His reputation spread, but the officers were obliged to recognize that this man was not at all the model soldier he might have seemed. He demonstrated no respect for military hierarchy whatsoever. An officer with a rank sufficiently lofty to prevent Rokka from telling him to ‘Lissen here!’ had yet to be seen. As a fighter, he was evidently brilliant, a cool-headed killer – and it often happened that he would take off on his own with the submachine-gunners, in between his turns behind the machine gun. ‘Hand-to-hand’s a kinda military domain you don’ git’ta see much of in a machine-gun outfit, see. I wanna give it a whirl, see what it’s all about.’

Vanhala increasingly overcame his bashfulness. His comments were already frequently spot-on. Moreover, he proved himself to be a reliable guy, and Lehto took him on as something of a right-hand man, which further solidified his credibility.

Each in his own way, the men were transformed by the response the slaughter drew out of them. The strong grew stronger; the weak faltered further under the strain. Riitaoja began to babble incomprehensibly and Lehto demanded a replacement, but the request was turned down. No man was excused from his butchering duties.

Little by little, Ensign Kariluoto had developed into one of the battalion’s best platoon leaders. Autio gave him all the toughest assignments, and Kariluoto, for his part, tried to take Koskela with him whenever possible. Generally, Koskela did accompany him, or rather, accompanied the machine guns detailed to support his platoon, as he generally took the hardest missions himself. The relationship between the two officers was exceptional in all it comprised. Kariluoto tended to take his cues from Koskela’s moods, and Koskela delicately tried to avoid being forced into any sort of role as psychological leader. He knew that every time Kariluoto boldly threw himself into the line of fire while he was watching, he was doing it to make up for that moment back in the swamp when he had taken cover, unable to lead the advance. It was as if the young man wanted to redeem himself with these courageous acts, to free himself from the shame of the memory and regain his self-respect.

And this is precisely what happened, in reality. With each new obstacle that confronted him, Kariluoto repeated his command over and over to himself: Fourth Platoon, advance! and his voice grew more assured every time. And every time he shoved the feeling of weakness deeper into the recesses of his chest. And so Kariluoto came to be counted beside Koskela, Autio and Lammio as one of the battalion’s bravest officers.

His idealism underwent a change as well. The irrational waves of emotion gave way to a firm sense of duty. He became a favorite within his platoon before long too. The men had never hated him, but they had considered him somewhat immature on account of his over-zealousness. Now the brave among them saw it as their duty to live up to him, and the weaker demonstrated their respect in other ways.

One day he received a profound shock that made a decisive impression on him. He had a volunteer battle-runner, a boy a couple of years younger than the rest of them. The kid was generally quite brave, if only out of childish fearlessness, as he didn’t always understand just how close to death he was – luckily for him.

The enemy was defending some hill more relentlessly than usual. They were cast back from the slope four times, and it was there that the battalion lost the greatest number of men in one operation. Kariluoto’s platoon was reduced to a couple of squads. The third machine-gun team from Koskela’s platoon fell in a heap behind the weapon, one after the other, with the sole exception of the ammunition-bearer. Kariluoto pressed on desperately. The command to cut unnecessary losses had already been issued, but he still thought he might be able to succeed in the charge. Capturing even the smallest bit of the end of the trench would mean victory, and he planned to carry out the mission with just a few of his best men so as to avoid casualties.

He convinced a few guys to go with him, but they didn’t make it to the trench. Instead, the battle-runner took a bullet in the stomach as he was throwing a hand grenade, and the venture stopped short. Kariluoto dragged the wounded boy to cover behind a rock. He was in severe pain, as an exploding bullet had torn his stomach to shreds. Kariluoto himself moaned at the horror of the sight as he tried to bind the boy’s wounds. He just said gently, ‘Don’t move… It’ll hurt more. The stretcher’ll be right here. Hang on. They’ve had a lot to carry today.’

The boy’s mouth foamed with blood. ‘It’s death that’s coming… not a stretcher. I’m going to Father… oh! It hurts… ah… ahhh… It’s burning…’

Kariluoto was crying. ‘You aren’t going to die… Stay calm… The stretchers will be here soon and they’ll operate at the field hospital…’

The boy was overcome with a child’s fear of death. He struggled to move and Kariluoto had to hold him down.

‘Ensign… you pray… I can’t… remember… it’s burning… I’m dying…’

Kariluoto was in such a state of shock he didn’t know what to do. In his panic, he didn’t even register that he was praying, he just tried to appease the boy, murmuring, ‘Our Father… who art in heaven… Hallowed be thy name…’

The boy moved his blood-stained lips, ‘Our… Father… Our Father…’ Then he struggled violently a couple of times trying to raise himself up, lifting his back off the ground. His face went blue and his body stiffened. Kariluoto swept his cap over the boy’s eyes and crawled back to his men.

He wrote another letter. Not since Vuorela’s death had he done such a thing.

Kariluoto wasn’t ashamed of his letter this time. Instead, he was sickened by the stupid, naïve, patriotic phrases in the letters he received from home.

Days turned to weeks. Time no longer held any meaning for them. They lost track of the days. Once in a while somebody would say, ‘Isn’t it Sunday today?’ and somebody else would think for a second and say, ‘Shit – yeah, it is.’ Periods of time appeared in their calendars as follows: the time the platoon lost six guys, the shitty encirclement, the alarm at the crack of dawn by the railroad embankment, the annihilation of the vehicle column, the mad dash, the run-in with the assault tanks.

The nights were beginning to get dark now. It rained frequently, and you could feel autumn in the air. They occupied tiny Karelian villages whose residents had been evacuated. Those who had stayed behind looked on them with a submissiveness that seemed somehow suspect. Behind the troops there trailed pastors and cultural counselors dispatched to begin assimilation efforts amongst the Karelians, but the men had nothing to do with any of that.

They just hoped for food and rest, both of which were in short supply. Once they seized a field kitchen full of freshly prepared cabbage soup.

‘Don’t touch it. It could be poisoned.’

Rokka scooped himself a bowl. ‘You all are actin’ like children. Here we got shells an’ bullets whizzin’ non-stop and you fellas are worried ’bout a lil’ poison?’

Rokka ate, and when he showed no signs of poisoning, the others ate too. Lahtinen praised the soup to high heaven, comparing it to the meals from their own field kitchen. ‘These past thirty years now we been hearing about how everybody over here on these communal farms was gonna start dying of starvation, but it looks to me like the kolkhoz boys got something to eat after all. We’ll just see how all this turns out in the end.’

‘Well, who knows?’ Rokka said, licking his spoon and looking sly. ‘Things’s lookin’ pretty bad, it’s true. There is one bright side, though. Those poor devils lost some mighty fine soup. And that there’s a sure victory for us. Lissen, you take another bowl, just to seal things up.’

Even Lahtinen laughed at that – and their spirits were a bit brighter as they set off. But then Hietanen started whistling. Hietanen’s whistling always had the same devastating effect on them, regardless of the situation, as it was truly dreadful, but our boy Urho just carried on whistling away. Once in a while he would issue harsh judgements of communism on the basis of the poorly maintained Eastern Karelian roads. Lahtinen often found himself hard pressed to defend it in light of the half-rotting buildings, the shoddy newsprint, and the inhabitants’ ragged clothing.

On the other hand, they had to admit that its defenders seemed pretty attached to it. They died at their posts, behind great heaps of ammunition cartridges.

Barrages rumbled, automatic weapons rattled. Man after man died, each in his own way. Somewhere a sprint was cut short mid-race. Somewhere else a weapon slipped from arms gone limp and a head lurched down upon it. Some died moaning and begging for mercy, others cursing and gritting their teeth.

Somebody lay behind a rock waiting for death, brave and calm to the end.

Mile after mile was bought on these men’s backs: miles of muddy, Eastern Karelian road, winding toward Petroskoi.

Smoke struggled up from the stovepipes into the gray drizzle. Howitzers rumbled by, and an ammunition column clanged noisily down the muddy road. The racket didn’t disturb the men sleeping in the tents, however. They’d been sleeping like the dead for fifteen hours and showed no signs of stirring anytime soon.

Rahikainen was on fire-watch. He passed the time playing poker by himself, pulling two separate hands of cards and murmuring back and forth, ‘What’cha got? Three whores. Well, that ain’t bad at all…’ He tossed one hand angrily back on the deck. He glanced at the time and, seeing that his shift was finally almost up, hurried to wake Hietanen.

‘Hey! Get up and watch the fire.’ He poked and prodded Hietanen for a long time, until at last he got him to sit up. Hietanen groped around, entirely disorientated, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

‘Go stand guard by the fire. It’s your turn.’

‘Yeah,’ Hietanen said compliantly as he sank back into bed, blissfully ignorant of whatever it was he was being asked to do. Rahikainen relaunched his campaign.

‘No, no, no you don’t, you’re gonna go stand watch by the fire.’ Rahikainen was fired up by his own desire to sleep, so Hietanen would have to be roused, come hell or high water.

‘What?’

‘Fire-watch.’

‘Aw, shit. That dead pine still burning?’

‘Well, why wouldn’t it be? And in nice little logs, too. Rahikainen the Patriot here chopped wood. Just like a real war horse.’

‘Well, let’s hope they give you a medal for it. Jesus, it feels good to sleep. How long did we go without rest?’

‘Three days.’

Rahikainen crawled over to his bed and said as he dropped off to sleep, ‘Artillery got hit with some shells minute ago. Probably made a few more heroes. Heard some shoutin’ anyway. I’d be happy to do a round in artillery myself. Word is those guys get bigger rations. Might have been able to get some off of somebody over there, if I’d a had it in me to go that far. But I’m pretty beat.’

Hietanen looked out of the tent. Three wrecked tanks were lying on the main road and a few dead Russians lay by the wayside. That was where yesterday’s counter-attack had ended. Hietanen pulled up his trouser-leg to check on the small wound in his thigh. It already showed promising signs of healing. One of the mangled tanks now out on the road had fired a shell right next to Hietanen, and a shard had lodged itself in his thigh. He had burned a safety pin with a match to kill off the bacteria and used it to carve out the shard, which was now wrapped in paper and tucked in his wallet.

He pulled his trouser-leg back down, dug the shard out of his wallet and considered it thoughtfully. ‘This world’s got everything all right. Put a hell of a lot of work into making that thing, and then they send it shooting along through the woods. And they don’t even know how to shoot it! War’s a pretty crazy business, that’s for sure. All pre-tty strange if you ask me.’

Then he tossed some more wood onto the fire and sat dozing before the stove. The artillery kept rumbling by, and cracks of infantry fire rang out from the front line. Another regiment had been marched out there yesterday, when they had been ordered to stand down. Hietanen listened to the shooting and started dozing off. Machine guns hammered out intermittent bursts: pa, pa, pa, pa, pa. There was a light machine gun firing off solo rounds, and Hietanen figured it was probably Russian, since the sound of the shot had a different quality when you heard it from the front end of the barrel. Pa-koo-pa-koo-pa-koo.

Hietanen’s head jerked up with a start. He was afraid he would fall asleep if he stayed beside the stove, so he threw his coat over his shoulders and crawled out of the tent. He checked on the other squad’s fire and then, bored, started wandering around the encampment. A gray, misty rain drizzled from the low-hanging clouds. It cast a gray gloom over the whole, forested world and the war concealed inside it. Hidden in the trees, tens of thousands of men were fighting one another, and nothing but the clinks of combat revealed the existence of this life, and the death it portended. A horse-cart came down the road carrying a vat of soup – the driver huddled with his reins pulled in beneath his wet coat, which he had pulled up over his head like a hood. The horse’s back and neck streamed with water as the rain pooled and collected into black streaks.

Mielonen approached from the direction of the command tent, prompting a familiar dread to rise up in Hietanen. Was their rest period up? Of course, Mielonen could be coming for some other reason than to order them to head out – so, Hietanen avoided the question, caught between hope and fear. What would he say? Hietanen was practically having heart palpitations he was so anxious. Was that mouth about to declare, ‘Get rrready to head out!’? He calmed down slightly when he heard Mielonen’s voice say, ‘So, what’s the Hietanen boy wandering around for?’

‘Just sittin’ here thinkin’ war’s a right miserable business. Hunger, cold, fear, sleep, and these lice-infested rags just to top it off.’

‘Sounds about right. There’s saunas in these villages, but no, always gotta be pressing onward. I was just asking that ambulance driver over there, and he said that the vehicles can barely keep up. Guys are going down all over the place now. Seems they’re advancing down into the isthmus now, too, into Kannas.’

Whew, it’s nothing, Hietanen thought, relieved at the conversational tone of Mielonen’s banter. He was still afraid to ask straight out about departure, though. He was about to say something in response, but didn’t manage to get it out before Mielonen continued, ‘We’re heading out, too. Go alert the Third Platoon, will you? I haven’t got it in me to crawl in there and wake up Koskela.’

‘You’re joking.’ Hietanen felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

‘Nope. Sound the alarm!’

Blood rose to Hietanen’s face. His first wave of anger was so powerful that he was deadly serious when he said, ‘You mother-fucking bastard. I ought to shoot you dead.’

‘Down, boy. Shooting me’s not gonna do anything. Gonna have to knock off some of the big boys for that.’

The angry outbursts that greeted Mielonen’s calls to alert had long since ceased to offend him. He just hollered on as before, ‘Machine-gunners, get rrready to head out!’

No other shout of that strength would have awakened the men just then, but this one did. As Mielonen made his way through the tents, yelling ‘Wake up! Get rrready to head out!’ faces emerged from the tent flaps, spewing curses so vile an onlooker would have thought Mielonen’s calm indifference lunatic.

‘Shut the fuck up, Savo!’

It was hardly the fault of his being from Savo that Mielonen had to wake the tired men, but the words ‘Get ready to head out’ were ones the men hated with a vengeance, rolled Rs or not. And, on hearing them, oh, how they hated Savo – apart from those who were themselves from Savo and thus obliged to demonstrate their anger in other ways.

A furious Hietanen stood between the tents, venting his anger by shouting, ‘Third Platoon, wake up! You’ve slept too much already. Get up! Time to get up and show the people of the world what a terrifying creature the deep-forest warrior is. Up, fearsome lions of Finland! The ground is trembling and the cannons have already let fly. Put down your plow and take up your sabre! Time to add new pages to the glorious, the victorious, the downright staggering military history of Finland!’

Sleepy voices emerged from the tents. All the crown jewels in the arsenal of Finnish curses were trotted out in the service of the men’s bitterness. For the ten-thousandth time, their medal-hunting officers had a chance to hear their glories sung.

‘We’re not going anywhere. Let’s tell the bosses we demand at least three days’ rest before we’re going anywhere. That or they can take off by themselves if they want. Nothing to carry and orderlies looking after them. Ha! Assholes ought to try taking a load on their own backs, then they might understand how much a man can take. The strain on them is so much less than on us infantry guys that they think we can just keep going the way they can.’

Koskela packed up his things, and not without care. Nothing about him suggested that he considered this outburst a sign of insurgency – he seemed happy enough to let the men vent their anger in peace. Nature had somehow hit the bull’s-eye in every aspect of this quiet ensign from the countryside. His education was limited to the basic elementary school curriculum, but his intelligence was keen and never failed to lead him to the best solution for any given situation. His intelligence was not dazzling in speed or agility – on the contrary, the blankness of Koskela’s face might easily be interpreted as almost drowsiness at first glance – but it always cut straight to its target, and so managed to take care of everything it needed to. Now, for example, he knew perfectly well that when he tossed his pack on his back and left, the men would follow without further ado. But if he were to try to clamp down on their angry protests, in whatever way, the men’s bitterness would just fester in the back of their minds, and far more dangerously. Furthermore, he wasn’t pleased himself that their rest had been cut short. Exhaustion wasn’t just unpleasant in itself, it was also dangerous, because it brought out this quarrelsome tenor in the men and caused unnecessary casualties. And this irritability in their operations would lead to even greater exhaustion. He didn’t really feel he could say, though, whether it was an issue of necessity, or just poor management.

The grumbling continued, but Koskela foresaw that when the worst of the fury had died down, the situation would improve with the help of certain known individuals – Hietanen and Rokka, mainly. And, sure enough, Rokka started right in with his trivial chatter, sliding right into, ‘Well, soldiers, let’s git to it! Why’s this job here gittin’ you all so worked up? Fightin’s a way to finish a war. Gotta head on outta here if we’re gonna git anywhere. Who the hell wants’a dawdle around these backwoods for ever, anyway? C’mon fellas, mopin’ time’s done! There’s some big towns up ahead, too, and Russian ladies a-waitin’ for us to turn up, you hero-boys just wait and see.’

Rokka started swaying his shoulders and humming, looking mischievous. Vanhala melted completely and burst out laughing. And Hietanen comforted the rest of them by pointing out that when you were on the front line, at least you didn’t have to dread when your rest period would be up. ‘That’s the upside.’

‘There ain’t no upside to this, turn the damn thing over and upside down as much as you please,’ Rahikainen muttered flatly, angriest of them all.

Gradually they began to settle down, chatting idly to pass the time. Mäkilä called them to eat. He distributed three days’ dry rations to each man, leading them to suspect that some kind of special mission awaited them.

‘Don’t eat it all at once. It’ll have to last you three days,’ Mäkilä warned.

‘Have to last. Damn straight it’ll last if you won’t give us any more!’

‘There isn’t any more.’

‘Then steal something!’

Mäkilä let the conversation drop, knowing that the men were just messing with him. Rahikainen put in a bid for new boots. ‘These here ain’t gonna make it to the Urals.’

‘They’re still in good shape.’

‘Oh sure, they’re in good shape. Just like our quartermaster’s here. Excepting that I got this one toe here keeps tryin’ to sneak a peek at the Greater Finland. Look!’ Rahikainen covertly assisted his toe’s sightseeing efforts, stepping on the binding where it joined the sole and raising his foot from the boot. Mäkilä was forced to hand over new boots.

The field kitchen was dishing out oatmeal mixed with some bluish and generally rotten-looking bits of meat.

‘Yup. That’s a horsey.’ Hietanen removed a bit of chewed cartilage from his mouth. ‘One of the gypsies’, looks like. You can still see the whip-lash marks.’

‘No complaints about the food, please. The meat is absolutely up to standard.’

It was the company’s new master sergeant, First Sergeant Sinkkonen. He was on duty for the first time, having only just arrived. Following Korsumäki’s death, Mäkilä had taken over the Master Sergeant’s duties. Sinkkonen was a regular non-commissioned officer, over forty, and entirely incapable of relating to the men, from his first comment onward. He was dressed in full uniform, with a white collar setting off his neck, and tall, new boots on his feet, their tops folded over. His greeting to the men could not have been more tactless, and even Hietanen looked him over for a moment before saying, ‘Well, who asked you? Who are you, anyway?’

‘I’m the company’s new master sergeant and I’d like to begin by pointing out that this perpetual complaining is beneath the dignity of a Finnish soldier. I’d say the food is quite good, under the circumstances.’

Lehto was sitting on a mound of grass, eating out of the lid of his mess kit. The mess kit itself was sitting on the ground beside him, and when Sinkkonen stepped near it, Lehto said flatly, ‘Under the circumstances I’d say you’d better not kick over my tin.’

Sinkkonen’s neck began to turn red, and grew increasingly redder until Rahikainen said, ‘Might be beneath our dignity, pal, but out here you better turn a blind eye to a thing or two. It is true, though, it ain’t the horse’s fault if he’s got tough in his old age.’

For the first time in his life, this graying brat of the barracks realized that he commanded no authority whatsoever, and it shook the very foundations of his being. A misconception of his function had guided him through the entirety of his military career, and now it was backfiring. He was so shaken by the men’s insolent mockery that all he could do was stutter, ‘It has been said that the biggest whiners are the ones who turn out to be cowards in combat. The best men have performed their duties uncomplainingly.’

Rokka shook his spoon at Sinkkonen and said, ‘Lissen here, Master Sarge! You got sumpin’ real bad wrong with you. You crack jokes like they was serious. Out here a fella’s gotta keep things light. We’re all fellas with a sense a humor, see. Here, watch this!’ Rokka stretched out his left arm as if he were holding a violin, and, using his spoon for bow, began to play as he sang:

Fingerin’na fiddles! hiitulahaatuu

Accordion’sa blowin’ hilapatataa…

‘Lissen! You hear that fiddle music? Lissen, why don’t you join’na group! Let’s make a orchestra. Here, grab that spoon there and keep beat on drums. And you got sticks over there, yeah, take ’em! Lissen… what, you ain’t takin’ nothin’? Spoilsport! This fella here’s not playin’! We got a whole live show set up here, and he don’t wanna play. Well, whadda ya know?’

Sinkkonen stalked off, but Vanhala was all set to start banging, so he and Rokka played together. Rahikainen joined in to complete the trio, improvising an instrument out of a hairbrush and some wax paper.

‘What kind of circus is this?’ Lammio appeared behind them, almost as if he’d just popped up out of the ground. Vanhala put away his sticks in an embarrassed fluster. Rokka and Rahikainen stopped too, and Rokka said to Lammio, ‘That new master sarge, see, he was so down we thought we might try to cheer a fella up with a lil’ song. But he took off. Ain’t much of a man for music, I guess.’

‘Enough of your clowning around! The company is to be ready to march in one hour. Anyone who does not have a white handkerchief is to go collect a white piece of paper from the quartermaster. Squad leaders, make sure each man is taken care of. Move!’

This command was so unusual that nobody even knew how to joke about it.

‘I bet I know where they’re takin’ us,’ Rokka said. ‘They’re gonna press us deeper in’na forest overnight, and the handkerchiefs’re so we can keep in contact.’

‘Straight into the shit.’

‘When are those goddamn Krauts gonna make it to Moscow?’

Dusk was already falling. The rain continued and an autumn gloom reigned over the dark forest. Company after company turned off the main road, pressing into the forest in an extended formation.

‘Big time, boys. Got the whole regiment lined up.’

Each man had attached a white handkerchief or piece of paper to his back. These were supposed to help them stay in contact in the darkness. They were ordered to keep conversation to a minimum. Smoking was prohibited entirely after nightfall. The sappers walking out front cut nicks into the trees to mark the direction the men were to follow, and set down log paths across streams and bogs. Soon the terrain changed into swampland, and remained so for a long time.

The men’s loads were heavier than usual. They had twice the usual allocation of ammunition. The heaviest fell to the guys with the machine guns, mortars and anti-tank guns, as they had to carry the artillery on top of their own gear.

Mile after mile of the difficult journey slipped by in silence. The darkness thickened and their pace slowed. The first symptoms of exhaustion began to appear amongst the weakest. Their feet sank into the swamp’s hidden potholes, and their tired bodies kept toppling over, unable to keep their balance. Panting for breath, the men would struggle to their feet and continue plodding on. Every now and again whispers would run through the line to confirm contact.

The head of the line had already trudged across miles of swampland by the time the tail end finally turned off the road. Three thousand men stretched out single-file across the swamp in the middle of the dark, foggy drizzle. The game was reckless and the stakes were high. And who was to guarantee that the line wouldn’t break at some point? It was only as strong and shrewd as its weakest man. It might well happen that some guy would lose his way, leading those behind him who knows where. And it could also happen that, on top of everything else, that man would be afraid to send word of the break right away. The likelihood of a bottleneck and disintegration – and thus the possibility of failure – was great. And that was just the beginning. Awaiting them more than a dozen miles ahead was their destination: the junction of the enemy’s main road and its rail line. It was into this lion’s den that the regiment was supposed to elbow its way, alone, armed with the ammunition they held in their pockets, with no support, and nothing in the way of an umbilical cord but one phone line – which would certainly break before long.

The Regiment Commander used the phone frequently to make contact with the division. ‘Point such and such. Southern tip of A. So far so good.’

‘Status unchanged. No sign of any break in the line.’

The Commander walked along anxiously in his black raincoat, sucking on his moustache. At every moment he was expecting to hear shots from the head of the line, and for each moment of silence that passed he was grateful. It seemed impossible that the regiment would make it all the way to its destination unobserved, but nevertheless their odds improved with each mile they covered undetected. And what would happen if the dead-tired regiment did hit organized opposition? The Colonel hurried forward, then back to those behind, urging the men on. He was in desperate need of a cigarette, but hesitated to disobey his own orders. If he were to be caught, the situation would be embarrassing, to say the least. Sneaking off for a smoke didn’t really befit a colonel and regiment commander, though there was no question this fellow had partaken of the pastime in days of yore.

By around midnight, a general fatigue had taken over. More than six miles lay behind them, and the men were faltering. There was a low murmur of groans, hisses and whispered curses, and somebody or other was constantly toppling over. Sometimes there were sobs mixed in amidst the curses. Mud squirted up as some man sank thigh-high into the swamp. Then this fellow, on his last legs, his will tottering at breaking point, would summon the last shreds of his strength and continue on. Each man stayed with the group. There was no need for discipline, homeland, honor, or a sense of duty. A force mightier than all of these whipped them onward. Death.

You couldn’t fall behind, because that meant straying alone behind enemy lines – and thus certain annihilation. Ditching your ammunition or weapons would mean the same thing, even more certainly, as each man knew the price he would pay the next day. They left no gear behind. When they were allowed a break, they dropped to the ground right where they were. Oblivious to the wet and the cold, they lay in puddles in the swamp, panting for breath and collecting their strength for the next effort. Bit by bit, they devoured the little bread they had, but soon this source of pleasure, too, ran out for many. The hard rye crackers slipped into their mouths, neither nourishing nor satiating them.

Koskela carried four boxes of ammunition, having taken Salo’s when the latter’s strength had started giving out. Hietanen had Riitaoja’s boxes, and Lehto carried the gun-stand the whole time, while Vanhala carried the gun. Lahtinen and Määttä carried these for the other machine gun, as Rokka was helping Sihvonen and Susling, both of whom were weaker than him.

Finally, Rahikainen was forced to take Riitaoja’s rifle as well, as the man had reached the end of his tether. Even so, Rahikainen couldn’t help muttering, ‘Try to carry the clothes you’ve got on, OK, pal? My soldierly solidarity’s got its limits.’

They were lying down on a break when three men approached them from behind. A cigarette glowed between the fingers of the man in front, and Hietanen noticed it. He personally was suffering acute withdrawal, which was the primary reason he exploded angrily, ‘Don’t you fucking know we’re not allowed to smoke, asshole? You must be one hell of a big shot to smoke whenever you feel like it. Put it out! Now! It’s our lives you’re playing with, not just yours – which obviously isn’t worth shit.’

The man put out his cigarette without a word, but the fellow next to him murmured rebukingly, ‘Careful what you say – and to whom.’

‘No, no, he was perfectly correct. I was just testing out how the command was being enforced. You did quite right. Name and company?’

‘Corporal Hietanen, First Weapons Company, Colonel, sir.’ Hietanen rose to his feet a little uneasily, recognizing the Regiment Commander, but calmed himself with the reassurance that he was in the right, after all. Even if it was just his craving for a cigarette that had made him jump on the Colonel for smoking.

‘Well, Corporal Hietanen, keep up the good work.’

Then the Colonel turned to the rest of the men and asked, ‘How are you boys making out?’

Salo struggled painfully to attention and tried to sound chipper as he responded, ‘Very well, Colonel, sir.’

‘Atta boy! That’s Finnish endurance for you. The “Blood of Vaasa trembles not, nor does Iron of Kauhava rust”. The old Finnish way, boys. Nobody stands in the way of the mighty, not even the devil himself.’ The Colonel turned away and Salo sank back into his puddle, trembling with exhaustion and feeling as much joy as his tired, depleted state would allow.

‘So tell me, which one of those guys is the bigger tool?’ Lahtinen whispered to Vanhala, who giggled with delight, ‘Heehee… heehee. Ye-ess, the deep-forest soldier presses on! Fired up and ready to fight! Heeheehee.’

‘Advance!’

The night was beginning to give way to a weak light. They could already make out one another’s outlines: strange, monstrous phantoms staggering beneath their loads. Exhaustion began to recede into the shadows of their burgeoning anxiety, as they knew that by now the head of the line could not be far from the road. Messages urging them to be on their guard frequently rippled down the line. Every other man aimed right while the others aimed left, keeping watch in so far as was possible while still keeping an eye on the path and staying in contact.

Riitaoja fell and no longer had the strength to get up again. The others just walked past, but Lehto stopped beside him and yelled, ‘Give me your pack and get up!’

‘I c-c-c-can’t go any further, C-c-c-corporal, sir.’

‘Give me your pack when I tell you to and get up!’

‘Over there.’ Riitaoja began to cry, his sobs consuming the last shreds of his energy. He was entirely limp and incapable of doing anything. To make matters worse, he was so afraid of Lehto that he was trying to curl himself even deeper into the swamp. Riitaoja’s sobbing brought Lehto to the point of rage. He kicked him, screaming in a hoarse whisper, ‘I ought to shoot you, you little bastard! What I wouldn’t give for the Russkis to take you off my hands. But no, you, you little pansy, you never get near enough to the action for that.’

‘I c-c-c-can’t keep going… Please don’t hit me, C-c-c-corporal, sir… ahh… ahh…’ In his panic, Riitaoja kept stuttering and calling Lehto ‘sir’, curling tighter into a ball to escape Lehto’s blows. He groaned and cried out for Koskela, but the Ensign was walking far ahead at the head of the platoon. Unfamiliar men were already walking past. Each of them had his hands full just trying to keep up and so couldn’t get involved, and anyway, the endless exertion had made them all apathetic. What did it matter what happened around them? One fellow did at least shout at Lehto as he passed, though the source of his fury and bitterness was as much the march as anything else. ‘Don’t kick the man, you fuckin’ scumbag! I oughtta put a string of bullets through you!’

The man figured keeping his spot in the line was more important than getting involved, however, and so continued on without responding to Lehto, who yelled after him, his mouth foaming, ‘Try your luck, asshole! We’ll just see who the sun shines through.’

Whispers rippled down the line. ‘Viipuri’s been retaken… Pass it on… It was on the radio last night.’

‘Viipuri’s been retaken…’

‘Viipuri’s been retaken… Pass it on…’

‘Viipuri’s been retaken.’

Lehto grabbed hold of Riitaoja and yanked him upright. ‘Now we march, you piece of shit,’ he hissed, and started dragging the exhausted man supported in the crook of his arm. ‘Viipuri’s been retaken,’ he whispered hoarsely forward. He forgot to change the tone of his voice, so the guy walking in front of him received the news in a furious hiss, as if Viipuri’s retaking was the worst thing in the world that could have happened to Lehto.

‘Viipuri’s been retaken.’

‘Viipuri’s been retaken… pass it on.’

Lehto got Riitaoja up to speed and, shockingly enough, the latter managed to walk on his own again. There was no other option, as Lehto was walking menacingly behind him. ‘You start lying down again and I’ll take a stick and give you a beating you’ll never forget. Of all the motherfucking pansies, I have to drag you along.’

Riitaoja had already been afraid of his squad leader during peacetime, even if, for the most part, it had just been the timidity of an overly meek private before his superior. He addressed Lehto as ‘sir’, even when the others had taken to responding to their leaders’ commands with snarls of ‘Shove it!’ But in war his terror had altered. He feared the dark and violent nature of this man as if he were some sort of terrifying force that might crush him at any moment. True, Koskela had put Lehto under strict orders to stop abusing Riitaoja, but he wasn’t always around, and besides, even Koskela understood Lehto’s bitterness, seeing as Riitaoja not only left his duties to others, but also forced them to drag him along like a child. Riitaoja was also horrified by Lehto’s bravery, and thought that because this madman seemed to have no regard for death at all, there was nothing to prevent him from killing him straight off. Not even understanding himself how he managed to put one foot in front of the other, he pressed on across the swamp, fearfully choking back his sobs of desperation.

Then they were given a break, but this time they could guess what was coming. The halt took place silently, with no command, and each man dropped to his knee, raising an arm to alert those behind. A sort of pile-up ensued, as the darkness prevented anybody from making out the signal prior to tripping over the guy in front of him.

‘Road directly ahead. Eyes peeled, and stay calm.’

‘Stay calm… stay calm…’ Sihvonen repeated, but he was so restless that Lahtinen tried to urge him to calm down. ‘Take it easy now, we’ll be over there sticking our necks out soon enough. Ain’t gonna be a walk in the park, I mean… boys, tomorrow we’re in for some fighting over there like we’ve never seen…’

They stopped short as a gunshot rang out in front of them, and a submachine gun hammered back in response. Brr… brr… brr… brr.

Then they set off, groping their way forward. The battalion split up, and the machine-gun platoons broke off and assembled behind their infantry companies. The Third Company fanned out to the left, the Second to the right, and the First set up in clusters behind them. Koskela divided the machine guns between the platoons, who set them in position. Lammio arrived with the order that one gun was to be moved further out to the left, where the Third Company’s Second Platoon was advancing.

‘Kariluoto, do you have contact over there?’

‘No. My platoon’s in reserve behind their First Platoon, and we have contact with them. And the First and Second Companies are in contact with each other.’

‘Which of the guns wants to go? The second section’s guns are already taken.’ Koskela looked at Lehto and Lahtinen, who turned to look at each other. After a brief moment of silence, Lehto said, ‘First’ll go.’

‘Short end of every goddamn stick,’ Rahikainen muttered.

Lammio pulled out a map and pocket lamp. ‘Come take a look.’

Koskela and Lehto knelt beside Lammio, pulling their coats up over their heads to study the map beneath the makeshift cover. ‘The Second Platoon will assemble on the side of this meadow. Their objective is to advance to the main road, cut it off, and turn the front to the west. There is a path starting from the northernmost tip of the swamp that leads to the road, see? The platoon will advance along both sides of it. According to a patrol that went out, there should be some kind of barn in the meadow, but even without it it will be easy to find your way: two hundred yards out and to the left from here. You can’t miss it. If the platoon has already left by the time you get there, follow the path to the road and you should find them there. It’s about two hundred yards from the meadow to the road by way of the path. You could go through the First Platoon and follow the line along to the Second, but that would waste time, and besides, the First Platoon will already be under fire by that point. This is the safest and shortest way. Everything clear?’

‘Yep. So it’s Sarkola’s platoon we’re supposed to meet?’

‘Precisely. If the side of the main road is manned, then we’re in combat and you will easily find your way from the sound of the shooting. There’s almost certainly something there, as we were observed on our way in. But nothing has been confirmed, so just keep your eyes peeled. There could be something or nothing. Look out for yourselves. On your way.’

‘Hang on,’ Lehto cut in. ‘I’m not taking Riitaoja. Lahtinen can give me a man to replace him, he’s got more men anyway.’

‘True,’ Koskela said. ‘Lahtinen can give you one more man.’

‘You can take Sihvonen.’

‘Me! Of course.’ Sihvonen was furious. He was displeased at the separate assignment, but beyond that he was offended, as obviously Lahtinen would hand over the member of the group he considered most expendable.

‘Never mind the grumbling,’ Lammio said. ‘But Riitaoja will have to remain with the squad. If this shirking doesn’t stop, I’ll take whatever measures necessary to make it happen. A grown man ought to be able to pull himself together enough to serve as an ammunition-bearer.’

Riitaoja stood at attention and hastily gasped, ingratiatingly, ‘I’m pulled together! I was just tired a moment ago…’

The poor man didn’t know what he feared more – the enemy or Lammio – and he was so overcome with panic that he wasn’t even ashamed at being scolded in public.

The first machine-gun team set off, and no sooner were they out of earshot than the bickering began.

‘You! You goddamn war horse, you just had to offer us up, didn’tcha? Why don’t you go by yourself if you want to! What the hell are we supposed to do when it’s pitch dark out? They could be anywhere!’

As Rahikainen vented his anger, Lehto just walked on, every nerve on alert, muttering in passing, ‘Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.’

‘Yeah, we’ll just see what gets opened up out there. Do you hear that shooting on the right? They’re already on the road. And there’s a tank. What are we supposed to do without any anti-tank guns?’

‘Shut up. There’s the meadow and the barn. If we follow the edge of the meadow, we’ll automatically hit the path… which should start from that hollow over there, if the map holds true.’

It was a bit brighter in the clearing than inside the forest, where it was just about pitch-black, and they started curving cautiously along its edge, soon coming upon the path to the road. But there was no sign of Ensign Sarkola’s platoon. They heard some shooting off to the right, but according to Lammio’s account of the situation, that would have to be in the First Platoon’s sector.

‘Let’s turn back,’ Rahikainen said.

‘No, we’re going to the road. Or didn’t you hear the same command I did?’

‘But if there’s nobody over there—!’ Rahikainen persisted. ‘I don’t believe half of what that peacock says. Who died and made him king anyway? Guy’s full of it.’

‘The layout seems right… and we are going.’

‘Vanhala, let’s you and me head back.’

‘Let’s all head back, all the way to Finland! We could just go home and tell them we got lost, heeheehee.’

‘Fine, you sniggering bastard! You and that war horse can head off, the two of you.’

‘Two little Finns off to conquer a tank! Heehee. That’ll bring us stripes and medals by the bucket…’ It wasn’t clear whose side Vanhala was on, only that he was amused at how incensed Rahikainen was.

Lehto ordered them to shut up and follow. He released the safety catch on his gun and started groping his way though the pitch-black forest, creeping along parallel to the path. He navigated by watching for lighter spots between the branches, as pale channels of light shining down from the sky meant that the path was near. Mud oozed beneath his feet. The damp, dark forest was quiet.

Lehto was already nearly to the road, and he was beginning to doubt himself. Where was the Second Platoon? He paused and listened. The men following behind caught up.

‘Let’s turn back,’ Rahikainen repeated.

Lehto’s anxiety increased his irritation and he whispered angrily, ‘Would you shut the fuck up? We have to at least locate our objective. I’m not giving that peacock the pleasure of seeing me turn back halfway through. I’m going to head out in front a little. If anything happens, get into positions and hold your ground. One of you can run for help. But remember, the others are on the road now, not back there where we left them.’

Lehto was off. For one moment a suffocating fear nearly choked him. What was out there in the still darkness? Why wasn’t there any shooting, if their own guys were already over there? And why was there a tank rumbling so close on the right? His armpits were dripping with sweat, and his mind was fixated on this harrowing feeling that something was wrong. But when the thought of going back crept into his mind, his fear gave way to a strange, bitter rage. Never. Not ever. They would never get to see him turn back. ‘They’ was somewhat vague. It wasn’t just Lammio, it was everything he’d been rebelling against since childhood. But then, what hadn’t he been rebelling against? For him, there existed only enemies and extraneous people. He had hated people ever since the austerity years, as far as he could recall – since the time he had had to go to the Workers’ Association Building in Tampere to eat free pea soup out of a rusty can like a stray dog. He wasn’t even cut out to join the communists – seeing as he couldn’t stand having people anywhere near him. There were two men he’d felt some sort of respect for – Kaarna and Koskela – but even his regard for them was tinged with a certain proud disdain.

Tossing this anger around in his mind, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to see through the darkness and pricking his ears to make out even the faintest sounds in the night. The forest thinned, and he suspected he was a few yards from the main road. Just then, wafting through the damp, drizzly night air, a pungent smell came flooding through his nostrils – a smell he knew from Russian prisoners and fallen bodies. He raised his gun and was just stepping up to the side of the path when he heard a shout practically at his feet. He saw a bright muzzle flash, felt a crippling blast in his body, and fell to the ground with a weak cry.

When the enemy opened fire, Vanhala, Rahikainen and Sihvonen took cover beside the path. Riitaoja dropped his ammunition box and took off, running like a madman through the forest. Rahikainen had left the gun-stand by the path, but Vanhala still had the gun.

‘Let’s go, guys,’ Sihvonen said. ‘The attack’s gonna start soon.’

‘What happened to Lehto?’ Vanhala’s voice was serious this time.

‘What happened? Did you hear that scream? We’re not sticking around to get ourselves killed. I told you guys… but that loony had to go get himself killed.’ Rahikainen started crawling back through the forest.

The enemy had stopped firing, but now the silence unnerved the men even more. The darkness seemed saturated with danger. The others were already making their retreat, but Vanhala whispered, ‘What if he’s just wounded? We should try to find out…’

‘How you gonna find out? Look, even if he is alive, there’s no way you’d be able to get him out that way… not from right under their noses… Nothing comes of that except the guys who go to fetch him end up stayin’ out there too. And he himself ordered us to go back for help.’

‘One man – but the others were supposed to remain in position… Where’s the gun-stand?’

‘I left it over there by the path… Goddamn dead-weight can stay there. Anyway, if we start dragging it off now they’ll hear it and come and finish us off.’

‘The officers might ask for it,’ Vanhala said. He was in two minds. He could certainly keep his own fear under control, but he had a tougher time standing up to somebody else. Vanhala was not a leader, not by a long shot, but even so, leaving things as they were struck him as a little too inadequate. ‘Here, you take the gun, I’ll go get it.’

‘OK, OK, knock yourself out,’ Rahikainen said. ‘I’m done tryin’ to hold back the crazies tonight.’

Rahikainen and Sihvonen retreated further back, but Vanhala started crawling slowly alongside the path toward the gun-stand. He reached it without incident and began pulling it cautiously to the side. Naturally, it scraped against the only rock on the entire path, prompting some light machine guns to pepper the ground all around Vanhala. He heaved the gun-stand over his shoulder and clambered to cover with the others, abandoning any attempt at silence. And he was laughing as soon as he’d caught his breath. His success gave him the confidence to decide that he wouldn’t just abandon Lehto, but would do something to set matters straight. There wasn’t really much option besides yelling, however, so Vanhala just belted out, ‘Lehtoo… oo!!!’

Light machine guns fired back angrily, but no other sound came.

‘Jesus, pal, would you cool it? Maybe you better start believing he’s done for. Why else would he be silent?’

‘What was that rustling over there?’ Sihvonen asked.

They listened, but nothing more remarkable came. The noise was enough to get them moving, however, and they made a hasty exit. There was something in Lehto’s death that made them feel even more helpless than usual. They certainly weren’t overly attached to their squad leader, but his bravery and ruthless, brute strength had given them a certain confidence in him. He had seemed sort of invincible, even to the enemy, making it seem to them as if even the Russians were powerless against him. And now a light machine gun aiming at nothing but a sound had taken him down. They had seen plenty of guys die by now, but the fact of Lehto’s solitude made his death even more horrific. To be left back there, alone, in the darkness, before the enemy. They could still hear his quiet cry. It had struck them as a warning call, a shout of surprise and a whimper all at once.

They hadn’t given Riitaoja a second thought this whole time, assuming he was lying in terror somewhere back behind them, by the side of the path. They called his name quietly as they headed back, but no response came. They scoured the edge of the meadow as well, and called out for some time.

‘Where can that little fool have gone to?’ Sihvonen wondered.

‘He must have run back to the others,’ Rahikainen figured. ‘Anyway there’s no point in trying to find one man in these swamps.’

Guided by the sounds of the firing, they made their way toward the road, taking a wide curve out to the right so they would be sure to hit it behind their front line.

When Lehto first regained consciousness, all he knew was that he was in severe pain. Then darkness took mercy on him again. But the force of life within him was fierce and stubborn and, unwilling to surrender so easily, it woke him again. At first he couldn’t remember anything; he had no idea where he was, nor what had happened to him. He felt a raging, burning pain somewhere around his chest and his stomach. Then he remembered walking along a path, which led him to the realization of where he was. Same path.

At the cost of severe pain, he ran his hands over his body. The area just below his chest was bloody, and his back felt similarly warm and wet. When he moved, it felt as if somebody were twisting a knife through his mid-section. He could feel nothing in his legs, and his whole lower body refused to move. Little by little he began to realize that his spine had been damaged and his legs were paralysed.

And then he also realized that this was the end.

He gave a quiet moan and lay for a moment in hopeless apathy.

For the first time in his life, for one brief moment, he gave in – but then, a fierce shooting pain wrenched him awake again. Even now, he didn’t harbor any of that irrational hope of rescue people often cling to. Lehto looked upon his own situation with the same brutal clarity with which he looked upon everything else. He remembered his squad, but he didn’t call for help straight away, as anybody else would have. He knew it would just drag out death’s arrival, as he was sure that, in any case, he had no more than a few hours to live. On their way out across the swamp, they had talked about the injured, and what their fate would be on a campaign like this: to be doped up with morphine and left to the mercy of their own luck and the feeble prayers of that impoverished soul, the battalion chaplain.

When he determined that the upper portion of his stomach had been shot through with more than one bullet, Lehto was certain he was going to die. He was aware of some nearby enemy presence as well, since he could clearly make out some low coughing and whispering just across the main road. There was but one conclusion to be drawn from the situation, and Lehto reached it quickly: Where is my gun?

He groped around with his hands, but to no avail. The machine-gunners hadn’t taken along any hand grenades on account of the extra ammunition, and he had already considered his hand-knife, but that seemed too difficult, especially when he considered what kind of botched job was likely to result from his present lack of strength. He kept groping. Even the smallest movement added to the already unbearable pain, and he lost consciousness again.

Upon waking, he found his strength had diminished further still, though the pain had not lessened. A plaintive moan tinged with some kind of sob tightened in his throat, and although he was sure that the others were no longer nearby, he spat the blood from his mouth and called out in a strangled voice, ‘Vanhala…’

Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa… pa, pa, pa, pa… pa, papa.

‘Rahikainen…’

Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa.

‘Vanhala, aa… aa…’

Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa.

The hail of bullets sailed overhead, as he was lying in a blind spot created by the bank beside the path. Had he thrown himself to the ground instantly upon hearing the enemy shout, it would have saved him. Now it just prolonged his agony. Gathering his forces, he managed to infuse his voice with all his previous rage as he yelled, ‘Lower… aim lower… fucking cross-eyed bastards… aim lower!’

Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa.

‘First machine gun! Vanhala…’

Pa, pa, pa, pa.

‘Are you motherfuckers deaf? Shoot here… down here… follow my voice… my gun… aaahh…’

Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa.

In pain and fury, Lehto cried. It came out in a combination of curses and sobs, as if some wild animal were wheezing in pain. ‘Aa… aah… hah… haa. Can’t you motherfuckers kill anything? Toss a fucking hand grenade! Fu—’

Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa.

Lehto rolled onto his other side. The pain the movement brought on made his eyes black out, but just as they did he glimpsed something that restored his strength. Less than two yards away, the bolt of his gun was gleaming. His fall had sent it flying that far.

Now the painful journey began. It progressed no more than an inch at a time, as he dug his fingernails into the ground and dragged his paralyzed body forward. His nails bent back and his lips were in shreds, as he gnashed through them, biting down in pain. He fainted a couple of times, though each blackout lasted only a few seconds. He no longer had thoughts. There was nothing but that gleaming bolt, so close and yet so far away. He focused all efforts on that point, and finally the gun strap was in his hand. He pulled the weapon beside him. First he raised the gun barrel and set it in his mouth. Gritting his teeth, he bit down on the cold metal flecked with gunpowder, as if he were afraid somebody might still wrest it from his mouth. Then he twisted his neck so that the mouth of the gun pointed toward the roof of his mouth. Noiselessly, he eased his hand into the grip and curled his finger around the trigger. With no settling of accounts and not a shred of fear, he pulled it.

The shot frightened the enemy. A light machine gun rattled off a few rounds and a hand grenade thudded onto the road. Then all was quiet. And one more Finnish hero’s story drew to a close.

Riitaoja crouched in a corner of the dilapidated barn in the meadow, sobbing softly and trying to muffle the sound of his sniffles. At first, the nearness of the building had been reassuring. At least it was made by human hands. In the middle of all this danger and darkness, it seemed to radiate the comforting presence of other people. But then its ominous silence grew downright terrifying. There might even be enemy soldiers in there. Tonight it seemed like ambushes lay in wait everywhere. And Lehto’s cry. What in the world could have happened? What horrific force reigning over this darkness could have made that maniacal god make a sound like that?

As far as his crippling fear would allow, he steered his thoughts toward various scenarios of how he might get out of this situation. There were Finns in the direction of the crackling, but there was also Lammio. Yes – and he didn’t have the ammunition cases. A rock and a hard place. The path was certain death. The whole first machine-gun team might be lying there dead.

A gentle gust of wind blew into a corner of the barn and rustled the hay. Riitaoja could endure it no longer. He walked quietly toward the path. If he could retrieve the cases of ammunition, he could go back and rejoin the others. He was only five minutes late, as Vanhala, Rahikainen and Sihvonen had just left the meadow’s edge when he arrived.

The path stretched before him, dark and menacing. Sniffling and stopping frequently, Riitaoja advanced. In between, he called out the others’ names. His legs did not want to obey. He had no idea how far it was from the meadow to the road, which was why he kept pausing every other second, expecting something terrible to happen.

Then he heard Lehto’s voice out in front of him: ‘Vanhala.’

When the light machine gun opened fire, Riitaoja threw himself to the ground and lay there trembling, unable to answer Lehto’s cries. The shouts of Vanhala and Rahikainen’s names misled him into thinking that they were over there too. Wild with panic, he didn’t understand what was happening until he heard Lehto’s terrifying cursing and moaning. Then, for a long time, silence reigned – the same silence in which Lehto was crawling toward his gun – and it gave Riitaoja the courage to crawl a short distance forward.

The shower Lehto’s suicidal shot provoked crackled all around him. He rose in terror at the hand grenade’s explosion and started sprinting toward the rear. Hysterically, he stammered, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I didn’t do anything!’

The bullet struck the back of his head, so he was spared the realization of the end.