Unknown Soldiers

Chapter Seven

The platoon Lehto’s squad had been looking for hadn’t flanked the path to advance toward the road at all. As it turned out, it couldn’t spread out that far to the left without losing contact with the First Platoon, which, for its part, was bound to other squads of the Battalion, so Ensign Sarkola had had to alter the command on his own initiative and advance at a distance of one hundred yards to the right of the path. He had sent word of the change and received the go-ahead – which was perfectly understandable, since losing contact in the dark would have been too risky.

As soon as Koskela had received word, he’d sent a runner to inform Lehto. But the runner, fearful of the dark forest, had dawdled, and met up with the remaining members of the squad only upon their return.

Koskela was kneeling in a ditch by the roadside, aiming into the darkness in the direction of the rumbling of an enemy tank. Rahikainen crawled up behind him and said, ‘Lehto’s done for… And we couldn’t find anybody over there…’

Koskela glanced over his shoulder. Then he turned his head and resumed staring out into the darkness. After a long silence he said, as if only now realizing what had happened, ‘Yeah… I mean, no. There wasn’t anybody over there.’

‘There were some foreign chaps all right! Didn’t seem too fond of us, though.’ Rahikainen was feeling slightly uneasy, and so spoke with a rude defensiveness, as if in anticipation of the accusations to come. He thought Koskela’s silence seemed to imply some sort of judgement, and so, acting insulted, he tried to make it clear in his tone of voice that they were the ones who had been wronged. ‘Well, what did you expect? Of all the shitty places to send us… We were creeping along the path when those light machine guns just started cleaning up… took Lehto out straight away…’

‘Yeah… body still over there?’

‘Oh, it’s over there all right. Right under their noses. We barely managed to get the machine gun out.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘They’re over there in the back. But we don’t know where Riitaoja is. Didn’t he come back here?’

‘Haven’t seen him.’

‘He just disappeared back there. We searched for him and called out and all. But when we didn’t hear anything, we figured he must’ve come back here.’

‘He didn’t come here, and we haven’t sent any guys out searching for him, either. Rokka!’

‘What’ssa trouble?’ Rokka crawled down the ditch toward Koskela.

‘Lehto’s dead. You take charge of the first squad from here on out. Send Sihvonen back to his own squad and take Susi with you into the first.’

‘Works for me. How’d he go?’

‘Ran into the enemy.’ Koskela was still staring out into the darkness as he mumbled, ‘They shouldn’t have been sent out straight. It would have been better to curve around through the First Platoon…’

‘Well, there’s two sorts a luck, see. You can have the good or the bad. Now that Lehto boy, he had the bad. But goddamn it, would that tank just drive a lil’ closer! It’s mined over there, see.’

‘Get into position on the left. If it knows to avoid the mines, then just let it come and hold back the infantry.’

The main road had been cut off, and the enemy had instantly sent troops to the cut-off point. Under cover of darkness, both sides were preparing for action at daybreak, and any skirmishes in the meantime were just products of the men’s nervousness. Rokka had taken over Lehto’s squad, which was positioned on the side of the road. They were careful not to shoot, however, as the tank was rumbling out in front of them, firing occasional, random shots into the darkness.

‘Now, don’t waste your shots, fellas!’ Rokka whispered. ‘C’mere you lil’ devil! Not too much, now… just about three yards. Gaddamn it! Won’t budge. Now either I’m goin’ over there and tossin’ a satchel charge on his roof, or – hey, he’s movin’, he’s movin’! Hey fellas… that’s it… now!’

The ground shook and flames lit up the night as the mine exploded beneath the tank treads. The men’s tension erupted in a flurry of frantic shooting on both sides, and the fire blazed up wildly for a moment, before gradually receding into a low, steady burn. The low fire began to lick the sides of the tank, and soon it was engulfed in flames, glaring brightly through the early-morning darkness.

Rokka whispered in delight, ‘You just drove yourself right on’na that mine! I didn’t mean to order you around for real! I was just messin’ with you, and you, you fool, you thought I was serious! A fella hears all kindsa things in this world, but that don’t mean he’s gotta believe everything he hears!’

‘Shut up, pal. We don’t know what else is coming.’ Rahikainen still hadn’t entirely recovered from his shock. Vanhala, on the other hand, was in a great mood. He preferred his new squad leader, as Lehto had been wont to spoil his fun all too often, with a terse ‘Quit sniggering’. But Rokka kept up a pleasant chatter, and Vanhala thought the future under his leadership looked downright grand.

The tank chassis boomed and crackled as it burned, as the heat was beginning to make the ammunition explode. Rokka kept close watch to make sure no men tried to escape the flames, but they must have all lost consciousness when the mine went off, as nobody even tried to get out.

‘Ol’ fellas’ butt-fuzz is burnin’,’ Rokka announced, concluding that by now it was too late for anybody to escape.

Vanhala lay beside the machine gun, fiddling with his belt and repeating Rokka’s phrase, which had clearly struck his fancy. ‘Butt-fuzz… heehee!… Butt-fuzz.’

‘Lissen, Vanhala, don’t you giggle too much now. We’re gonna be in for it ourselves in’na mornin’.’

They watched the fire. Reflections of the flames lit up their faces, making them gleam against the darkness. Rokka’s eyes darted about furtively, like a cat’s. He was in good spirits, as the tank’s destruction meant a significant decrease in the danger awaiting them.

Susling watched the burning chassis in silence for a long time, and then he whispered, ‘Hell of a way to go.’

‘Now lissen here, Suslin’! Don’t you start pityin’ them! This ain’t no Sunday school, you hear? Out here you’re supposed’da kill, damn it. Like I always said, we ain’t out here to die, we’re out here to kill. Otherwise you ain’t comin’ out alive.’

Susling raised his gun to his cheek, sent a shot out into the darkness and said as he pulled out the cartridge, ‘I wasn’t talkin’ ’bout that… Those fellas ain’t out here all by their lonesome, neither. Seems a me I spotted sumpin’ in’nat bush. But I guess it’s empty.’

The darkness gradually gave way to a gray, dismal morning. The rain had ceased, but its over-abundant moisture still reigned over the landscape. The branches of the spruce trees dripped with rain and their trunks surged up black against the pale dawn. The grass drenched the men’s clothing. Each twig and leaf they brushed up against dropped a cold gush of rainwater onto them. Countless cobwebs hung between the shrubs and the tall grasses clung to their hands and faces.

The men shivered in their damp garments, trying to block out their misery, which gradually came to be drowned out by the knowledge that they would soon find themselves – yet again – experiencing that greatest of human anxieties: fear for their lives.

The enemy retreated backwards a little, as daybreak would have put them in a rather exposed position otherwise. This brought the men some relief, and the most gullible of them even wondered if perhaps the enemy might decide to surrender the main road voluntarily. Lucky for them, they were ignorant of the general situation. They did not know that the forest behind them was teeming with enemy soldiers, nor that their phone line had been cut, which meant that they were relying solely on a radio connection. They were also unaware of the fact that the division heading toward the main road had not been able to advance nearly far enough, so there was no way the artillery would be able to offer them any support.

They had to try to spread out quickly over a wider sector, as the ground they were covering was still too narrow. The battalion set out, advancing down both sides of the road. When they reached the spot where the path leading to the meadow turned off the main road, they found Lehto and Riitaoja’s bodies. Bit by bit they pieced together the details of the drama. Lehto’s mouth was smashed up and the back of his head had been blasted off almost completely.

‘Shot himself in the mouth. Looks like he was wounded pretty bad. Three bullets right under the heart. Look, guys, look how he dragged himself… his fingernails are totally torn up.’

‘So Lehto is dead, huh?’ Hietanen said, looking at Vanhala and Rahikainen. Vanhala shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, looking embarrassed, but Rahikainen said curtly, ‘I don’t know! We called and he didn’t answer. Whatta you starin’ at?’

‘Seems pre-tty damn strange, if you ask me. Looks like we got a real mystery on our hands, boys. Just like a real mystery play. Now, how can a dead man shoot himself? Well, I’ll be damned. I’ll be so goddamn damned that I don’t even know how damned I am.’

‘Well, damn you.’ Rahikainen threw his gun savagely over his shoulder.

Koskela looked at the bodies in silence. Then, to put the pointless quarrel to rest, he said, ‘Look, obviously he regained consciousness later. Anyway, it’s all the same now, whatever happened. What’s for sure in any case is that there’s no way you could have gotten him out of here. Whoever came to get him would have ended up lying here too.’ Then Koskela continued, as if to himself, ‘Lucky it was Lehto. Best man of any of us to endure a death like that.’

Riitaoja’s body aroused further curiosity. The men who had set out with him insisted that he could not have been there when they left. Vanhala even showed them the spot where he’d retrieved the gun-stand, pointing out the traces its two front legs had left on the ground, which were still carved into the surface of the path where he’d dragged it away. Koskela seemed quite convinced that Riitaoja must have returned to the scene later. The others found the story pretty implausible, though, because in order for it to hold, Riitaoja’s return would have had to have been voluntary.

They lifted the corpses onto the path and placed them side by side. Koskela removed the men’s coats and spread them over the bodies. The gesture was unnecessary, of course, but somehow or other it was undeniably beautiful. It was like a blessing. The men did not want to talk about death. Their gaunt, worn-out faces just wore a strange gravity. Carefully, with a gentle deference, they slipped the ammunition from their comrades’ pockets, as it wouldn’t have done to let even one cartridge go to waste. Then they hurried after the advancing company.

Three hundred yards later, the battalion ran up against formidable enemy forces and took up its defensive positions. A massive tank rumbled into view from round a bend in the road, followed by a second. Under cover of the two vehicles, a sizeable fleet of infantrymen were gathering in groups, preparing to attack.

‘Dig.’

‘With what? Our fingernails?’

‘What’d you guys do with your shovels? Well, now you’ll see what you get for lightening your load. You might be best to head back to Koirinoja to find yours, Aromäki. I think that’s about where I saw it flying by the wayside.’

The company’s shovel strength tended to vary greatly. It would gradually increase during periods of heavy fighting, since the men scrounged equipment from dead enemy soldiers, but even a short break or slightly longer march would prompt them to send their shovels flying by the wayside. There were at least a few shovels left, however, and they were already in heavy use. The men without tried to dig themselves some kind of shelter using anything they had, which, in some cases, was indeed their bare fingernails. Self-delusion can always rise to the occasion, when called upon. They positioned themselves behind small rises in the terrain, set some rotting tree branches on top, and built up the structure with a few chunks of moss. A bullet could sail straight through even a thick tree trunk, it’s true, but this shelter was really more for the soul than the body. A man felt a little more secure behind it.

The men were actually fairly calm and decisive. There was a sort of irrevocability about the situation that brought it about. Since there was no escaping the fix they were in, deciding how one felt about it was rather a straightforward matter.

Kariluoto and his platoon would defend the main road. The first and second machine-gun teams from Koskela’s platoon would join them, setting up one on either side of the road. Kariluoto crawled down the line. His own chest felt hollow, but he urged the other men on nevertheless. ‘Remember guys, nobody leaves his hole. Everyone stays put. No matter what.’

One of their own mortars shot off a pathetic barrage of their precious grenades. First, the men cursed its ineffectiveness, then the fact that it had been launched at all – for no sooner had it than the enemy started preparing to attack in what seemed to the men like an act of revenge for a few measly shells. When the first boom rang out in front of them, and the first grenades crashed down behind them, the men gave frightened, furious shouts of ‘Motherfuckers! Now you’ve done it. See what that gets us!’

Shells crashed down behind them, the majority of them, luckily, having been launched too long. When the crashing died down, they began to catch glimpses of men in brown uniforms darting between the trees, and then, resonating over a terrifyingly broad expanse, there came a long, hair-raising cry of ‘Uraa… aaa… raaa… aaaaaaaa!!’

And then it started. A constant, unbroken clamor dulled the men’s hearing. It was as if they were drunk on the rat-a-tat-tat of these endless, clattering waves that echoed endlessly through the air. In their midst, voices rose and fell, bellowing, ‘Uraaaaaa uraaaa… aaaaa… aaaaa!!!’

The enemy tanks started to advance. They were evidently aware that the anti-tank equipment had failed to reach the enemy troops flanking them in the dense forest, as they drove boldly up to the point where the Finnish sappers had mined the road, emptying their ammunition supply as if they were on a firing range.

Panicked cries came from the line. ‘Anti-tank rifle! Get the anti-tank rifle!’

The men with the anti-tank rifle crawled closer, making their way down the long ditch that ran beside the main road. On the other side, the ensign who had mined the road tried to yell over the shooting, ‘It won’t work! Hey! Guys! The rifle won’t work on those tanks. They’re KVs…’

The men couldn’t understand anything the Ensign was yelling and kept advancing. Three of them advanced with the rifle while the rest held further back down in the ditch. The anti-tank rifle managed to fire off two inconsequential rounds. Then, like the judging eye of God, the tank’s main gun turned toward them. When the shot was fired, the men and the rifle disappeared into a cloud of smoke. As the cloud dispersed, three dismembered bodies came into view, a bent, upturned gun barrel sticking up between them.

Cries of panic rang out from the line. ‘Get the short-range weapons!… Hey, satchel charges!… We gotta hit ’em up close…’

They knew that as soon as the tank commander conquered his fear and turned boldly off the road to advance alongside it, they would be done for.

Already the enemy infantrymen were less than a hundred yards off. A hunched man would suddenly appear out of the blue, darting into view for a moment before disappearing under cover again, or else falling mid-dash. The firing line’s barrels were hot from shooting. Silent, dazed from the tension and the clanging, the men loaded and shot, loaded and shot, and each time a hand grabbed a cartridge from a pocket, a panicked mind writhed with the thought, ‘Is that all I have left…?’

Here and there voices screamed, ‘Mediiics…’ and some guy shooting would notice that the weapon beside him had gone silent, then turn to see his neighbor lying still, his head sunk over the butt of his gun. But the man’s attention would not rest there long. The noise of their own shooting prevented them from hearing anything else, so they didn’t realize that the same clamor was underway in both the Second and Third Battalions’ sectors. Nor had they exactly managed to keep track of what going on around them. With blanched, strained faces and hoarse voices screaming out warnings and commands, they fought, literally, for their lives.

The enemy forces were clearly piling up as they edged ever closer. Gradually, the fighting settled into a shoot-out. But both tanks were rumbling back and forth along the road as their opponents watched, hearts frozen in fear, waiting for them to turn off into the forest.

Hietanen was lying behind a rock on the left side of the road. Rahikainen lay a little way to his right, Rokka having taken all the other men from the machine gun off to join the firing line. There was a patch of juniper trees situated about a hundred yards in front of Hietanen, and he could glimpse some sort of frantic movement inside it. He suspected they were dragging a machine gun in there, and soon a crackling filled his ears, confirming this suspicion.

When the hail of bullets came down around them, Rahikainen ducked his head behind the rock and fired away, aiming his gun almost directly upwards. The senseless squandering of ammunition infuriated Hietanen, who, tense with anxiety over the situation, exploded, ‘Aim, damn it! Don’t shoot into the clouds! That juniper patch over there is crawling with men!’

Rahikainen shot, but his head stayed just where it was behind the rock. In Hietanen, as in many brave men, fear expressed itself in the form of a restless will to action, in light of which Rahikainen’s hiding appeared all the more despicable. Hietanen was perfectly aware that destruction awaited them if they failed to stop the attack, as the enemy would have no trouble whatsoever steamrolling over a scattered mass of men. This fear threw him into a rage and he exploded, cursing, ‘Jesus Christ! Stop wasting cartridges! They’re not falling from the sky, you know!’

Rahikainen could feel his old aversion toward Hietanen surging up in him. He had hardly forgotten Hietanen’s words beside Lehto’s body, even if circumstances had now thrust them down another road. ‘Don’t you order me around, pal. Commander, my ass.’

‘I’m at least commander enough to know that you oughtta aim. Shoot into those bushes! There’s a machine gun in there with about as many jokers as can cram in there with it.’

Rahikainen ceremoniously lifted his head higher, shot and continued quarreling as he yanked the cartridge out of his gun. ‘Shut up. Goddamn corporal. Shit’s going to your head.’

Hietanen was so wound up that he was about to take a crack at Rahikainen, but just then the enemy started ramping up its fire, so he continued shooting. Nonetheless, he resumed yelling over the din, ‘You shut up! Or I’ll come over there and make you. You’re some kind of guy – I don’t even know what you are… What would I call you? You’re like a… a limp rag!’

Rahikainen stopped responding. The tank in front turned off the road and headed toward them. The second accelerated fire to its maximum capacity to keep the first tank under cover. Cries of infantrymen started up again, and again they caught glimpses of men darting ever nearer. The defensive forces’ fire slowed, just when it should have accelerated. It was clear that all it would take was a little shove for panic to take over. The ensign who had mined the road was lying in the ditch beside it. He rose to a hunched position and started running toward the tank with a mine in his hand. He made it a few steps forward before he spun around and fell a few yards from Hietanen.

Hietanen clearly saw the bullets strike the Ensign, as his shirt rippled with the impact. For two seconds, Hietanen hesitated. The occurrence of this death right before his eyes made it all the more difficult to make a decision. Hietanen didn’t really think. He just had some vague awareness that if he didn’t do something, the tank would crush him, and if he tried to make a break for it, he would die running. The latter option would at least postpone the terrifying moment, and Hietanen was tempted to take it. For two seconds, he hung suspended in the scales. And then they tipped.

The tank was about two dozen yards off. A few steps out in front of him lay a fallen tree, whose upturned roots the Ensign had clearly also been trying to reach. They might offer him some kind of protection from the enemy’s view. Hietanen quickly crawled over to the dead ensign and snatched the mine out of his hand. Moss flew up at his feet and angry squeals whizzed past his ears.

Hietanen’s breathing felt strangely constrained, as if he had just plunged into an ice-cold swimming hole. His lips were stiff with tension, fixed in a sort of horn-shape. It was as if his entire consciousness had been frozen. It refused to consider the significance of these angry blasts, as if shielding itself from the terror such considerations would induce. Hietanen darted quickly behind the upturned roots.

Just then he heard Rokka’s voice yelling, ‘Now shoot like hell!’

Hietanen was panicked and trembling with anxiety. The urgency ringing in Rokka’s cry struck his over-excited consciousness as a warning of some new, unknown danger. Then he realized that the call was intended for the others.

It occurred to him he did not know if the mine was functional or not. He didn’t know anything about it except that it was supposed to explode under pressure. It was a little late for sapper training, however. The time was now or never.

A vision of the tank tracks rolling beneath their fenders flashed through his mind. Right there… right there… And then he threw. The weight of the mine made aiming next to impossible, and a kind of prayer-like wish flickered through Hietanen’s consciousness as he hurled it. Then he hurriedly gathered up some moss and tossed it at the mine, to serve as some sort of camouflage. It seemed to catch a few bits of debris too. Then he glimpsed a sight that sent a shiver down his spine. It would have to fall under the right track. That much was already clear. Only then did the precariousness of his own position suddenly dawn on him. Would the tree base be enough to protect him from the force of the blast? He sank down behind it, opened his mouth and pressed his hands hard against his ears.

Two seconds later, it was as if the pressure of the whole world suddenly descended upon him. He didn’t experience the explosion as a sound, but rather as a numbing, thudding blast – and then his consciousness went dim.

When it returned, he saw that the vehicle was still, tilted slightly to one side. It was still obscured by dust and smoke. He saw that the men closest to him had their mouths open – but he couldn’t understand why, as he couldn’t hear the hysterical shrieks of joy bursting from the line. His head was still sort of numb, so he wasn’t sure what to do next. He just lay there, looking back and forth at the tank, then at the men, who were yelling at him, ‘Yes, Hietanen! Woo-hoo! Bravo, Hietanen!’ The praise was all wasted, however; Hietanen couldn’t hear a thing.

Then he saw a leg appear beneath the vehicle, then another, and gradually a man’s mid-section came into view. Suddenly it jerked and fell motionless. Hietanen looked back and saw Rahikainen’s exhilarated face, though he couldn’t hear him yelling, ‘Pull off the line! I’ll take care of the rest!’

Only then did Hietanen start to come to his senses. He leapt quickly back to his previous position and crouched to a squat behind the rock.

‘Stay under cover! I’ll finish him off.’ Rahikainen shot a few rounds into the tank’s hatches.

From the way he addressed Hietanen you’d have thought he was at least half responsible for the tank’s destruction. The squabble of just moments ago had left him in an uncomfortable position. It made Hietanen’s feat feel like a crushing comeback to his words, which was why he was now trying to restore his self-respect by adopting a caring, protective attitude toward his brother-in-arms.

Hietanen himself lay behind the rock, his body trembling through and through, as if from a severe chill. The more his senses returned to him, the more he was overcome by horror. It was as if he were now being forced to endure all the terror he’d blocked out during his dash. All his fear was concentrated into a single image that he couldn’t get out of his mind. He saw the tank tracks beneath the fender about to run him over. The image was so vivid and powerful that for a moment he thought it was real and very nearly made a break for it.

He stayed put, however, his reason exerting at least some power over his imagination. He dug out a cigarette and managed to stuff it into the holder with trembling hands. It wobbled in his mouth and he grabbed onto it so forcefully that the thing snapped in two. With the fourth match, he finally managed to get the end of the cigarette lit, and the tobacco oil rose to the surface of the rapidly burning paper as Hietanen drew on it with hollowed cheeks.

Little by little the shaking subsided. He was already beginning to hear the men’s shouting and shooting. For a little while he kept repeating, ‘Good God. Good God’, not even understanding himself what he meant by repeating it over and over. Then he remembered how he had thrown fistfuls of moss over the mine to camouflage it, and the childishness of the act made a smile creep over his face. And then it was accompanied by a strange joy rising up within him. Only now did he begin to understand what his action meant, and he exploded with laughter at the joy of victory. That was supposed to be camouflage?!

He laughed, and his laughter simultaneously released the previous moment’s horror and the euphoric delirium of having survived it: of having accomplished this daring feat that elevated him to savior of the battalion.

Meanwhile, the combat situation had altered considerably. The second tank had retreated and the enemy infantry had also stopped their advance. Soon they stopped answering fire as well. Cautiously, the men began to raise their heads, noticing that the enemy had ceased shooting. They had retreated further back.

Koskela hurried over to Hietanen. ‘How are you doing? My God! They oughtta give you leave for that. I couldn’t watch when all that moss went flying up, I had to shut my eyes. And right at your feet!’

Hietanen couldn’t really make out what Koskela was saying, though he was able to hear his voice now. So he just said, ‘I have no idea. I haven’t got the slightest idea. I just hurled it. It was just the grace of God that that ensign managed to get it all ready to blow. But I was scared all right! Holy bejesus was I scared! I didn’t think I’d ever get that cigarette lit. It’s just mind-boggling that a person can have a scare like that. But hey, we better go check it out.’

‘That does it. I finished ’em off!’ Rahikainen announced, coming to join them. He may have succeeded in deceiving himself, but he certainly didn’t fool Koskela, who paid him no attention whatsoever. The three of them cautiously approached the vehicle.

It was silent, and when they had waited a moment, Hietanen banged on the side of it with the butt of his gun. He had shaken off his shock now, and gave himself up to a state of euphoria. In a voice that declared it belonged to the vehicle’s destroyer, he bellowed, ‘If anybody’s still in there, now’s the time to come out! Otherwise I’m gonna give this roof a blast that’ll send you all the way to America! From now on, this tank is mine and I decide who drives it. Idzii surdaa! Ruskee soldaat! Come on out! Well, damn. I’m popping the hatches.’

Hietanen climbed up onto the roof and pried open the heavy hatch door. When he got it open, he looked inside and then called out to the others, ‘These guys all got blood comin’ out their ears. All’s quiet.’

‘Say, the one I finished off’s a lieutenant!’ Rahikainen shouted from underneath the tank, where he was cutting off the dead man’s badges. ‘That makes me as good as captain of the Russian army from now on. Now that I took down this lieutenant here.’

Hietanen had already forgotten their recent spat. He looked over the tank and exclaimed in sincere amazement, ‘Jesus Christ, guys! Am I something or am I something! I’m pre-tty damn impressed! Say now, what does all this make me? Hero of Finland! If only this damn buzzing in my head would stop. Nothin’ swollen up there I hope.’

‘Oh it’s swollen all right, but don’t worry, it won’t hurt’cha,’ Rahikainen smiled. It was like an olive branch, the way he said it – and it made Hietanen laugh, as indeed everything made him laugh just then.

Then men and officers started gathering around the tank, bursting with congratulations. Even Lammio nodded approvingly and said, ‘That’s the way. That decisiveness was exemplary.’

The only remarkable thing about his congratulations was that nothing about them really felt congratulatory. The aloofness and expressionlessness of his thin voice always felt a little offputting, regardless of what he happened to be saying. Even Sarastie turned up. He took Hietanen by the hand, squeezed it and said pointedly, ‘Having been aware of the previous state of affairs, I might understand better than anyone here just what you have accomplished. So first, many thanks. You’ll be receiving a Liberty Cross at the next ceremony, and I’ll get the paperwork moving pronto for your promotion to sergeant.’

Hietanen was a little perplexed. He still couldn’t quite make out all the Major’s words, but he got the general drift. Even if he was sincerely amazed at himself, he still found it rather embarrassing to be congratulated by everybody else. So, he just smiled and looked uneasily at the officers.

Sarastie resumed his battalion commander stance and downshifted to the most general variety of small talk. Tapping the tank with his stick, he said, ‘Ought to be a very successful model, this new one. But it looks like even their most skilled engineers are no match for Finnish courage and conviction.’

A moment ago, the Major had been praising Hietanen, but with these words he was already moving on to congratulating himself. The Major, like so many military commanders, considered the feats of his troops feats of his own. Failures, however, were the fault of cowards and adverse circumstances. To be sure, the Major had actually been in a state of anxiety that exceeded even that of his men. They had at least been ignorant of how critical their position really was. Amongst other things, the battalion commanders as well as the advanced company commanders had received strict orders not to move back their command posts under any circumstances – meaning that, were it to come down to it, they were to go down at their posts.

Now, however, the situation was improving. The failed attack had shaken the enemy’s confidence, and on top of that, the division had just sent word of its advance, so the artillery would be able to back them up as soon as they’d taken over the firing positions.

But Sarastie had just lived through a critical couple of minutes. Several of the automatic weapons had started to run low on ammunition. Every last reservist had been put into combat, and the men positioned on the far side of the swamp had been left with virtually no cover at all.

Following such an experience, there was reason to indulge in a moment’s good spirits. Sarastie straightened himself up, feeling his energy return and his capabilities strengthen as he stretched out to his full, towering height. Power and potency seemed to surge through him with the blood pumping through his veins.

The importance of this operation guaranteed that it would be followed with great interest all the way up to General Headquarters. The Marshal himself might even be listening to the news at this very moment: ‘An enemy attempt to break through from the west has been put down after heavy fighting by Battalion Sarastie. Other battalions have also repelled the enemy’s slightly weaker attacks attempting to bring relief from the north and the east.’

The Major turned to his men. A joke came to mind, which Sarastie had actually come up with the day before, but decided to save for the appropriate occasion – which, it seemed to him, was now. ‘Well, boys. Caught your breath now, have you? We got them right in the jaw this time. Let’s go and give it to them in the seat of their pants next. They’re after that nickel up in Petsamo… Well, you’re all generous fellows, aren’t you? Let’s go give them all the nickel they want.’

The good cheer spawned by the successful thwarting of the enemy attack made the men laugh all the more heartily at the Major’s joke, and Salo, who was standing nearby, exclaimed just loud enough for the Major to hear – or rather, just so that the Major would hear, ‘Let’s give it to ’em, let’s give it to ’em! Ain’t got no penny-pinchers here!’

Lahtinen and Määttä didn’t have time to marvel over the tank. They were too busy scavenging ammunition from dead enemy soldiers, having nearly run out of their own in putting down the attack. Lahtinen was flipping a dead Russian onto his back so as to get at his pockets when he heard the Major shouting from across the road.

‘Oh, stop crowing,’ he grumbled. ‘We’re still here all right, but just barely. They’re a tough bunch, that’s for sure. Heading for us bolt upright, even after I sent four belts at ’em.’

Määttä was accustomed to Lahtinen’s grousing and didn’t ever take it too seriously. He just responded rather indifferently, ‘Seems pretty convenient to have ’em running upright if you’re tryin’ to shoot ’em down. Anyway, it’s a good thing we all got the same caliber weapons. They even thought of that.’

‘Humph… no. Nobody thought that far. The Whites stole weapons from the Russians back in the Civil War, that’s why they’re the same.’

‘Weren’t you the one who said it was the Germans who armed the Whites?’

‘Yeah, they armed ’em with the guns they stole from the Russians out here on the Eastern Front leading up to ’17. But hey, gimme that guy, the one still hangin’ onto his rifle there. Come on, buddy, let go, lemme see if you got any rounds left in that magazine a yours. God damn it. You’d think I’d be able to manage against a dead guy. Humph. Nothin’. Just one little sucker in there. But hey, let’s go over there behind that mound. That’s where their machine gun was.’

When they arrived, they saw that the enemy had left its machine gun behind. Four bodies lay behind it. They found five full belts and half of a sixth in the feeder. Lahtinen collected the belts, chatting away happily, ‘I’d say that belt was definitely worth it – one I shot over here, I mean. Paid us back nearly six times over! But wait, what am I talking about? These cloth belts have two hundred and fifty rounds in them and ours only have two hundred. We better give the other guys some. We can’t even carry all of these.’

‘That’s plenty. But look how old that guy is, the one sprawled out over there. Could they really be running low on men already?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Lahtinen grunted, though only out of habit, the bountifulness of their loot having stripped him of any real desire to get into a quarrel. His lips pursed in a contented smirk. He tossed the ammunition boxes over his shoulder and said as he headed off, ‘We better switch to steel belts. These cloth ones are just damn rags. Anyway, listen, they’re not gonna run out of men over there. When it comes to manpower and materials, that country’s pretty well stocked. Now, the only thing is that over there, I mean, they’ve been looking out a little bit about what the people have to eat, rather than investing everything they have into sending packs of scoundrels out shooting in the forest. Meanwhile we’ve just been throwing the people’s money to the winds! Guys spend their Sundays running around in the forest with rifles on their backs, and then come evening, they go around and give each other promotions. Over there, they’ve put some pressure on the fat cats so that all the people’s bacon doesn’t just disappear beneath the butcher’s apron! But what’s the use. Look, if they run out of men, they’ll send over a fleet of fifteen million women soldiers. They train everybody over there, and that includes the little old ladies.’

‘No way. Damn! Where’s this at?’ Rokka had caught the end of Lahtinen’s tirade and tossed in his question with a sly smile.

‘’Cross the way. Hey, if you need any ammo cartridges, take some of these.’

‘Would you look at that? I scrounged some, but I could take a few more. Those damn fellas’s all huntin’ for bread and badges, never mind ’bout gittin’ any ammunition. But what were you sayin’ just now? Some lil’ ol’ Russian ladies’s gonna come fight us?’

‘You don’t know. It could happen.’ Lahtinen was already grumpy and irritable, suspecting what was coming. Nor were his instincts incorrect.

‘Well, if it comes to that, then you might say we’re…’

‘Well, at least we’d know where to aim! Got lots of practice,’ Rahikainen chimed in.

‘Might lead to some pretty intense hand-to-hand combat, heeheehee. Then even Rahikainen might win his Mannerheim Cross, heeheehee.’

Lahtinen turned away with lips pursed, looking up into the treetops as if to proclaim that he would not deign to continue conversing with such people.

Then Koskela and Hietanen arrived and informed them that they were advancing immediately. Koskela had ordered Hietanen to report to the field hospital to rest, at least until his hearing returned to normal. But such a passive role was beyond Hietanen’s powers in the wake of his great feat. Elation had made him too restless to lie still in one place. His joy was so earnest that no one really minded it. Even if Hietanen was still marveling at his own distinguished performance, there was a sufficient degree of comedy mixed up in the whole thing to make the men put up with just about anything. And Hietanen’s jubilation wasn’t just the product of his heroic feat. In reality it was the joy of having made it out alive. Now he was laughing again, talking about the shock he’d experienced behind the rock. ‘Then, when I threw all the camouflage on the mine!’

‘Move out!’

The joking and chattering ceased. Their carefree spirit vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. The men trudged on in silence, their faces tense and restless.

They ran up against the enemy again about half a mile later. The artillery had already caught up and so could prepare their attack, pushing the opposition back another hundred yards or so, but then the enemy stopped beside the clearing of a small village. They gave it one more push before darkness fell, but to no avail. Reluctance, darkness and exhaustion put an end to the offensive, and Sarastie decided it would be best to wait for the new day, even if it meant the wounded would have to hang on another night for proper care.

The battalion assumed its positions beside the village fields. There were some potato patches lying out in no-man’s-land, and under cover of darkness, Rokka and Rahikainen snuck out to do some harvesting. Their digging was audible from the enemy positions, however, so Rahikainen abandoned the mission halfway through, as soon as the bullets started raining down around them. Rokka, however, took cover in a ditch and got straight back to it as soon as the enemy had calmed down. He brought back enough potatoes to feed his whole platoon and Kariluoto’s besides.

They dug a hole in the ground behind their positions, started a fire and pretty soon potato soup was underway. They blanketed the fire in twigs and perched along its edge in the drizzly darkness. Only now did their nervous anxiety give way to hunger and exhaustion. The soup of the poorly washed potatoes oozed from the corners of their mouths as they ate greedily. Their three days’ dry rations had run out that morning, so they ate the potato soup plain – but even so it tasted wonderful. Once they had eaten, the men not on guard duty stumbled toward the roots of the spruces to sleep and, despite the cold rain, slept like the dead. They were not demanding. Vanhala even fell asleep in a puddle of water – having fallen into it, he gave up the search for a better spot.

But somewhere deep in their nervous systems, fear was still keeping watch. If shots struck at a rapid tempo, the startled sleepers would jerk up to a sitting position, listening for an anxious moment, and then, when the bangs fell silent, slip back to the ground, sound asleep by the time their bodies were horizontal.

The aid station tent was full. The dying men who had lost consciousness had been taken outside, as had the more lightly wounded. A low, plaintive moaning hummed through the spruce grove. The medics squatted – dazed – trying to make themselves immune to the surrounding misery. The worn-out doctor’s nerves were frayed. It was painful watching men die when he knew many of them could have been saved by a quick operation. But out here there was no way he could operate. All he could do was bind wounds and give morphine injections.

One of the wounded men was dying. He’d been injured the night before, when the battalion had advanced up onto the main road. He’d taken a bullet in the lower part of his stomach, and he’d been in severe pain until early this evening, when his state of intermittent consciousness had begun to grant him some relief. The doctor stooped down beside him and the man opened his eyes. They gleamed feverishly and gazed up at the roof of the tent, on which the doctor’s formless shadow spread, projected from the bright Petromax lantern behind him.

‘So, how are you doing?’ the doctor whispered, seeing that the man’s consciousness had returned. The man didn’t answer, but just kept staring at the shadow looming on the ceiling. Then his gaze turned toward the doctor. His lips moved, but no sound came. The doctor diverted his own gaze. He couldn’t look into those fearful, feverish eyes that seemed to burn straight through him. Then the man’s gaze turned back to the shadow. He started to mumble something and tried unsuccessfully to raise his head. He seemed to be in a state of overwhelming anxiety. The doctor pressed his ear to the man’s face and made out the words, ‘De-eath… Up on the ceiling… Lord… Jesus…’

The doctor pressed his hand down on the man’s forehead, as he was still struggling to lift up his head, without success. ‘Close your eyes. There’s nothing up there. Are you in pain?’

The man did not calm down and the doctor was becoming impatient. He was a bundle of nerves as he crawled out of the tent and said to the chaplain huddled under a nearby spruce, ‘Eerola hasn’t got much time left. Why don’t you go in there and try to do something for him? He’s restless again and I just can’t keep giving him endless amounts of morphine. He’s vomiting even without it. Oh for God’s sake, could they please get that main road open!’

The doctor’s nerves and exasperation gave his voice an angry tone as he addressed the chaplain. He was hesitant to send him into the tent to talk with the man, as it would be agonizing for the others to have to hear the whole thing. Listening to somebody prepare for the end wasn’t going to do any of them any good, lying there as they were, with fear in their hearts, awaiting their own deaths at any moment. This was why he generally tried to get the dying men out of the tent, as the two deaths inside had induced panic in the others. It was just that it seemed rather a gruesome task to carry them out into the rain, even if they were all bundled up and well past understanding anything about the world around them. Practically speaking, it was still better to bring them out. The doctor cursed the Third Battalion’s aid station, to whom he had lent his second tent, in deference to the fact that they had even more wounded men over there. One of their companies had ended up at the dead center of a terrible mortar barrage.

‘We half-killed ourselves carrying that tent out here and now we can’t even use it. Was it really necessary to halt the advance here?’

‘The Commander said the men were so exhausted that there was no way they’d be able to launch a successful attack before morning. By the way, did Eerola ask for me?’

‘No. But he’s afraid of death and I think he was praying. Just try to calm him down.’

The chaplain removed his black rubber raincoat and hung it on a tree branch. Then he cleared his throat and focused. He had a habit of saying a little prayer to himself before performing his duties. The act had already become so habitual that it was entirely devoid of any genuine spirit of piety. The operation was more like that of a reaper who sharpens his scythe on the whetstone a couple of times at the end of each row, just out of habit.

Then the chaplain crawled into the tent. He had to squint for a long time before he could see anything in the glare of the Petromax. The stove radiated warmth into the air, which reeked of disinfectant. A medic was huddled half-asleep beside the stove. Wounded men wrapped in blankets lay lined up along the side of the tent. Somebody gave a low moan.

The chaplain crawled over to Eerola. The wounded man looked at him with restless eyes dimmed by fever and nearing death. The chaplain saw that his face was covered in beads of sweat. In this kind of situation, it was an unfailing sign.

‘Brother, are you in pain?’

The man said something, but his voice got lost in his throat.

The face the chaplain looked upon was filthy and exhausted, already gleaming with a yellow sheen. There was something dark glimmering in the region around the man’s eyes, almost like a visible manifestation of his suffering. You could see a line on his neck where his suntan ended but his skin remained filthy, and his flannel shirt collar glistened with grime, peeking out from beneath his sweater. Eerola was twenty. He was thin and lanky, having been underfed his entire life. As a day laborer on a large farm and a member of a family of hired hands who fed livestock, he belonged to a social group below which there were only vagrants and inmates of the workhouse. Heavy labor and light sustenance had left their mark on his physical constitution, but even so, a tough resilience within him fought death long and tenaciously. This young man had had a goal in life, which he had pursued, but which was now doomed to remain unattained for all eternity. He would have liked a new suit and a new bicycle – that belonged to him from the start and were meant exclusively for his use. But he had been obliged to hand his meager salary over to his family, so he had had to do without. And it had made him bitter, for in the world of his tiny town, these two items were the rightful belongings of any grown man. But it was in plain trousers and a suede jacket that he had left for the army.

The chaplain watched as the life that had cherished these dreams slipped away, little by little. He put his ear to the boy’s mouth just as the doctor had done and made out a hoarse, wheezing whisper. ‘Jesus… Jesus… take me… deliver me from here…’

‘Brother, be calm. He will help you. Jesus will not forsake any of us. He will deliver us all to safety. Do not be afraid, brother. You are His. He has redeemed you as He has redeemed all of us. You have borne your burden faithfully and Jesus will not forget that…’

The man’s restless breathing evened out and began to grow faint. The chaplain whispered quietly into the dying man’s ear, ‘Jesus has forgiven your sins. He will grant you everlasting rest and peace.’

A brief, gentle shudder shook the dying man, two soft sighs escaped him, and the chaplain pressed his mouth closed and whispered, ‘Amen’.

Over on the other side of the tent, somebody pulled a blanket over his head and muffled sobs began to emerge from underneath it. The chaplain was just about to head over to him when the wounded man who’d been lying unconscious beside Eerola suddenly started to speak. He had been stirring restlessly the whole time, obviously disturbed by the chaplain’s whispering. The man, who was high on morphine, grunted almost incoherently, ‘Jesus… Jesus…’

The chaplain bent down beside him, thinking he was praying. Actually, the man had lost contact with reality entirely. He was a tall, broad-faced youth. His wide, brutal-looking mouth revealed tobacco-stained teeth.

‘Jesus, Jesus,’ the man repeated over and over, the word from the chaplain’s speech clearly having fixed itself in his mind.

Quietly, the chaplain said to him, ‘Brother, shall we pray?’

‘Jesus, Jesus,’ the man repeated, only to himself. Then he suddenly burst out into a harsh, piercing howl.

‘Shh, shhhh, calm now,’ the chaplain whispered, but the man went on howling, foaming at the mouth as his eyes rolled back in his head. From underneath the blanket that had been muffling sobs just moments ago, there now came a shriek of ‘Stop it, stop it!’ as the man burst into a hysterical fit of tears.

‘Ah-ha, oh dear! Oh, what a world! Please, dear people, please!’

The doctor crawled quickly into the tent and hurried over to the crying man, trying to calm him. The chaplain was completely at a loss for what to do and decided it was best to leave the tent. As he emerged outside, he heard a medic saying in a pained voice verging on tears, ‘How much more can they suffer? Can’t they at least be left to die in peace?’

The chaplain took his raincoat from the branch and crouched down to a squat. He prayed, half crying, that God would let the main road open and save the wounded men. The sobs died down within the tent, the doctor having managed to calm the man. The medics carried out Eerola’s body and set it in the grove of trees behind the tent, the last in a long row.

Rain drizzled from the sky. The Petromax hummed quietly in the tent and now and again a tired, hopeless wail would emerge from its tarped awnings.

Guards stood in the darkness surrounding the aid station, keeping watch over this miserable grove, where the cost of the flanking operation was being paid out in pain.

During the night, the enemy retreated through the forest behind the point where the road had been cut off. They had abandoned their heavy artillery. Amongst other things, the second KV, or ‘Klim’, as they called them, engaged in the earlier attack had been driven into a swamp. The men were still skirmishing with the last of the enemy soldiers along the roadside when the ambulances arrived to evacuate the wounded. Many of them had been awaiting rescue minute by minute, hour by hour, for twenty-four hours. Slow, torturous waiting, unrelenting pain and the fear that the regiment wouldn’t be able to defend that crucial stretch of conquered road had been steadily wearing them down. And, in the grip of this fear, they had watched the medics carry those who hadn’t made it out to the line of corpses.

The vehicles’ arrival prompted a surge of hysterical joy in the minds of the wounded. Even the weakest of them endeavored to demonstrate this with whatever strength he had. The prospect of delivery washed the recent hours of torture from their minds. Moans and wails receded into the silence of the dark spruce grove, to be forgotten there for ever. The dead could no longer bear witness to their pain, and anyway, no one particularly wanted to inquire. Their suffering was theirs alone. They had given up everything else. They had been coerced out of everything, down to the last shred; but their suffering they were permitted to keep for themselves. It was of no use to anybody.

At daybreak, Sarastie’s battalion reconnoitered the surrounding area. Kariluoto’s platoon and the men from Koskela’s who’d been attached to it were ordered to search the village on whose flank the previous evening’s attack had been halted. The ambulances had already driven through it, of course, but the village hadn’t yet been scoured.

One resident had been left behind. A man as old as the hills – a starikka, as the Karelians called them – who was nothing but a burden to anybody at this point, and had been allowed to remain behind for precisely that reason. He lived in a small cabin on the edge of town, and was gazing out of the window when gray-clad men began to flash between the buildings. There came one – crouching, lying in wait with his gun under his arm. He walked into the neighboring building and then reappeared in the courtyard. Others followed further behind and when their leader gestured to them with his arm, they threw their guns over their shoulders and calmly joined him. The starikka watched as each of them yanked off a stake from the courtyard fence. He was beginning to be frightened. What were they going to do with those stakes?

Then he gave a sigh of relief. The men threw their packs and guns to the ground and raced off to the potato patch.

When the men had dug up the potatoes, they washed them in a ditch with a speed only hunger can induce. Rokka scrounged a table from one of the buildings, along with a couple of chairs and a long bench, which he then proceeded to chop into firewood. They started up three or four campfires and soon potato-filled mess kits were boiling above them.

Major Sarastie strode down the main street of the village. He gave the Eastern Karelian buildings the once-over as he walked. He considered it his duty to have some appreciation for the beauty of their gable ornaments, even if – to be perfectly frank – he didn’t understand the first thing about them. But paying attention to them was somehow part of the whole tribal spirit of the war, and Sarastie was a true herd animal, his occupation aside. So, once he realized that all the reports about Eastern Karelia described the local building style and gable ornamentation, Sarastie had to make sure he noted them as well.

His actual, and very matter-of-fact, opinion of these houses, however, was that they were not suitable for human habitation. Then he glimpsed something that genuinely intrigued him. A spring chicken just about perfectly ripe for slaughter was padding around the corner of some building. Sarastie was just about to call for his orderly when he caught sight of a block of wood somersaulting toward the chicken and whacking it in the neck. The chicken squawked and staggered a few steps, stunned. A private appeared from behind the building, nabbed the chicken by the legs, and – knick-knack! – snapped its neck.

‘Hey, Private!’

The man started, looked at the Major and sprang to attention, the chicken still in his hand.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Private Rahikainen, Major, sir.’

‘And is Private Rahikainen aware that violating residents’ property in these villages is strictly forbidden?’

‘Major, sir, with all due respect. There aren’t any residents. I conducted a full investigation.’

‘I believe you are aware that in that case all property defaults to the state. I understand that has been made clear. They’ve certainly discussed the issue enough.’

Rahikainen stood with the chicken still dangling from his hand, dawdling his way through a response while trying to concoct some sort of cover-up. ‘Major, sir. Indeed, I was aware of that. I haven’t violated any property. This fellow here was damaged already. Hobbling on his feet. Probably got injured or something during all the fighting. He was definitely done for. I just thought that it’d be a waste to leave him. When he was about to die anyway.’

Sarastie thought this explanation was about as superb as anyone could have come up with in such a situation. He glanced rather wistfully at the chicken, and then began to chuckle at Rahikainen’s phony, puppy-dog face. ‘All right, take him this time. But let it be the last. Such a whopper as you just whipped up deserves some kind of prize.’

Rahikainen played his role right through to the end. ‘Yes sir, Major, sir! Better cut him open quick. So the meat doesn’t spoil, huh?’ And with that, Rahikainen was off. The others demanded that the chicken be cooked in the potato soup, and Rahikainen concurred. There was no soup pot to be found, but they made do with a bucket.

The only thing missing was salt, and Rahikainen decided to go and see if any had been left behind in the houses. After a few unsuccessful searches, he stepped into the cabin. The starikka was sitting on a bench at the back of the room, frightened and staring uneasily at Rahikainen. The sight of another person gave Rahikainen himself a start, but he calmed down upon observing how old the man was.

‘Well! What kinda antique Finn are you?’

The starikka didn’t reply, but stared mutely back at Rahikainen.

‘Hey guys, come see! We got a prehistoric Finn in here. Beard, fur cap and all.’

The starikka blinked his eyes, watching the men as they stepped into the cabin.

‘Well, hello there, grampaw!’ Rokka exclaimed, taking a seat beside him. The old man leaned over toward him and answered softly, his voice wavering, ‘Helo, helo.’

‘Left ya behind, did they?’

‘Ah, levd me here.’

‘They leave you any salt, pops?’ Rahikainen asked. ‘We need some for our soup.’

‘Ah, nodzing.’ The old man was becoming anxious. He recrossed his legs the other way, glancing around uneasily.

‘Didn’t they leave you anything to eat?’ Salo asked, moving in closer.

‘Took everydzing. Levd me alone here.’

‘Here’s some bread for starters… I ain’t got no more, but the supply crew ain’t far behind us. They’ll be sure to look after you. You’re gonna have a chance to eat your fill for once. Who knows the last time you had anything to eat.’

The old man took Salo’s bread with a trembling hand and looked at him hesitatingly for a moment, as though he might even give it back, but then tucked it into the chest of his quilted coat.

‘Lissen, grampaw, you know if there’s any other folks left in this town?’

‘No. All dza people gone.’

‘Too bad for them,’ Salo said. ‘We’re just gettin’ things set up around here. They weren’t too rough with you now, were they?’

‘Ah, rough, very rough.’

Rokka was scanning the room without listening to the old man. The rest of them, on the other hand, were prying the guy for every possible scrap of information about life in Eastern Karelia. He said almost nothing of his own initiative, but he answered their questions, concentrating primarily on figuring out what it was they wanted to hear. Salo was chief examiner.

‘You had any parsons around these parts?’

‘Ah, bevore, dzere vaz parzon in Pryazha.’

‘They killed him, didn’t they?’

‘Killed, killed…’

‘You got kids?’

‘Ah, had two boyz. One killed, and odzer one beaten and taken…’

‘Why’d they kill him?’

‘Ah, did not go kolkhoz.’

‘Did you have a house?’

‘Had a houze. All taken avay.’ The old man had caught on to his questioner’s delight at hearing of people being killed or mistreated, and so started steering all his responses into this same general vein.

‘Killed, killed. All killed.’

‘You’ll get that house back all right. And the churches won’t be used as stables from now on, either. Gonna be a new start around here.’

‘No more. No uzeing churchez like ztablez. Ah, dzat iz good. Dzat iz good.’

‘But where are we gonna find salt?’ Rahikainen demanded, vexed over the issue.

Rokka looked at the old man out of the corner of his eye for a moment. Then he clapped him on the back with a laugh and said, ‘You sure know how to play ’em, grampaw. You’re one crafty fella, lyin’ ’bout this, that and the other. Well, lissen, serves ’em right for pryin’ ’bout every damn thing…’

‘I thought the old geezer was taking us for pre-tty wild ride…’

Salo looked almost hurt as he said, ‘Lies? Maybe that’s what you think. But that’s what life has been like back here. And now he’ll have a chance to see a better life, in his old age…’

‘Personally I don’t see what business we have with these kinds of folks. Seems pre-tty pointless liberating them or taking them prisoner, if you ask me.’

Rokka walked over to the stove. There was a stool sitting beside it with a basket on top, covered in a sack. Rokka pulled off the sack and the old man started and stood up.

‘Lissen here, grampaw! Looks like you was cursin’ those fellas over nothin’! They left you a whole basket a bread! See? Here, take a look. Guess they must’ta forgotten’na tell you.’

The old man was trembling, but Rokka burst out in a reassuring tone, ‘Don’t you worry. We won’t take ’em from you. But if I find that salt I’m takin’ me a pinch.’

They found some up on the shelf – coarse, brown salt.

‘In’nat case, I’m takin’ my pinch. Lissen, grampaw, we’ll give you some a our soup in exchange. You can have some cigarettes too. Give ’im some, fellas.’

The men pressed some cigarettes into the old man’s trembling hands. Rokka watched Salo, laughing, ‘Lissen, let ’im keep that scrap a bread you gave ’im earlier, too. He gave you a whole song and dance for it!’

Salo tried to save face by joining in the others’ sniggering. Forcing a laugh, he said, ‘Old man sure does know how to pull a fellow’s leg. He’s studied up all right.’

They left the old man in peace and set off to cook their soup.

A column drove down the main road and Sihvonen exclaimed excitedly, ‘Must be new troops! Maybe we get some time off the line.’

New troops had been a perennial source of hope for some time now. If ever the men so much as glimpsed an unfamiliar squad, they eagerly inquired after its regiment number. The others took no interest, having been disappointed far too many times already, but Sihvonen headed over to the roadside and asked, ‘What unit?’

‘Weapons company transport.’

‘Which weapons company?’

‘First. Don’t you know your own company’s drivers?’

‘Huh… oh, right. I didn’t mean that…’

‘Well then, what did you mean?’

‘Aw, go to hell!’

‘You messin’ with me?’

‘Just go… go!’

Then Mielonen came from the command post. ‘All rrrighty, boys, we’re heading out on the offensive.’

No one said a single word. Dejected heads hung low. The soup was half-cooked. They tied the bucket to the end of a pole and carried it over their shoulders. Maybe there would be enough time to let it cook through on the next break.