Unknown Soldiers

Chapter Eight

‘That’s how far it is to Petroskoi.’ A dirty, black-stained finger traced the road leading to the city on a map of Eastern Karelia purchased back at the canteen.

‘Matrusa’s around here. Then there’s Polovina, then Vilka.’

‘And Pos Rudan, heehee! And the Village of the Decisive Third Kolkhoz, heehee! And Red Plowmensville.’ Vanhala was endlessly amused by the Eastern Karelian place names, which sounded strange to his ears. The new communist names were particularly hilarious, and made him laugh almost as much as the slogans in their own Information Bureau pamphlets.

‘Once we make it to Petroskoi, I’m not moving a goddamn muscle for two weeks,’ Rahikainen declared.

‘War ain’t gonna stop there,’ Rokka said. ‘You think that town’s so important Russia’s gonna collapse soon as we take it? You better not. There’s a whole lotta globe back there behind Petroskoi.’

‘Well, let there be whatever. I’m not going.’

‘No, no. No way.’

‘No.’

‘No.’

‘No.’

‘No.’

‘Well, no. Not further than that.’

Pow, pow, pow, pow… oooo… oooooo…

‘Advaaance…’

Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa…

‘Medii-iiics…’

Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa…

Their clothes were full of holes, as were their shoes. The creases in their faces had deepened into furrows, and their sprouting, adolescent beards made their filthy skin look even darker. Somehow or other they had been hardened against everything now. Grumbling and griping were rare. Solemnly, silently, they listened as each new assignment was explained, their bodies still trembling with exhaustion from the last one. Somewhere out in front of them lay Petroskoi. That was their final destination. All questions would be resolved as soon as they reached it. And even if they weren’t, they still weren’t going beyond that point. They rallied the last of their energy on the basis of this general understanding. Petroskoi, Petroskoi, the golden city, toward which they strove, through pain and suffering, like pilgrims.

They considered it almost like the right of their regiment to remain in the city once it had been captured. All the regiments advancing toward it probably nurtured the same thought, for the same reasons: ‘We’ve been in all of the worst fighting, and besides, our strength’s run out.’

The opposition grew ever fiercer the nearer they drew to the city. The more exhausted they became, the more demanding the tasks that confronted them, and they were continually obliged to push the limits of their physical capacities. But it was becoming apparent that the bow had been stretched to the breaking point. Even the weakest counter-attacks set them back now. Their frayed nerves couldn’t withstand situations they would have dismissed as skirmishes before.

When they were about four miles from the city, the Third Company’s Commander, Lieutenant Autio, fell, shot by eleven bullets. Which is to say, that is how many bullets managed to strike him upright, before he collapsed to the ground. It was one of the most beautiful deaths they had witnessed. The men had begun to falter in an attempt to repel a counter-attack. Some had started disappearing from the line when, in an effort to restore their courage, Autio rose to his feet and yelled, ‘Remember who you are! Not one step backwards!’

His body literally rippled as a hail of light-machine-gun fire punched straight through it. Kariluoto took over command. Autio’s death brought Kaarna’s demise flooding back to him, and for a moment he was thrown back into his old, rather theatrical state of mind. The scene felt like a repetition of the first, and the likeness compelled Kariluoto to prove to himself that some difference in him set the two scenes apart. The alder branches rustled in his ears, but he rose and yelled, ‘The Third Company is now under my command and is to remain in position!’ Who would dare abandon his post after that?

One of the soldiers nearby did. He was just starting to crawl backwards when Kariluoto’s shouting prompted the enemy to increase fire in their direction.

‘Where are you going?’

The man didn’t answer, but cast his eyes furtively to the ground, and Kariluoto’s high-minded spirit evaporated. He started cursing at the man and humiliated him into returning to his post, but the incident left Kariluoto with a bitter taste in his mouth. No, there was absolutely no room out here for a man’s solemn, spiritual side. This was a place of base, bare-faced brutality. Even Kariluoto had sometimes wondered what endowed him with the moral right to drive other men to their deaths. To deride and humiliate them, to strip them of all honor and manhood if they failed to obey his command.

But these were thoughts of a moment, thoughts he himself dismissed as the product of over-exhaustion. The nearness of Petroskoi filled him with excitement in anticipation of its conquest.

On the last evening of September, they reached the outskirts of the city.

They lay out in the dusky twilight before the fortifications at Suollusmäki, contemplating the enemy dens and positions reinforced with barbed-wire fencing.

‘Snuffin’ out a hell of a lot of lives over there.’

‘Well, not ours, far as I know,’ Koskela said. ‘We won’t be attacking over there. Some other units are coming in to attack and we’re turning off to the north.’

‘Fuck. Of course. Of course they’re not letting us into the city.’

The conversation went no further. It was too bitter a discussion to continue. They watched solemnly as the sky lit up behind them and listened to the howling shells soaring overhead.

‘How in the world are the people going to pay for all that damage?’ Lahtinen asked.

‘I don’t know. But that looks like a pre-tty shitty place to be,’ Hietanen said.

‘Damn assholes, shooting everything to bits. There won’t be anything left!’ Rahikainen grumbled.

‘Maybe we ain’t headin’ in there at all,’ Rokka said.

‘Awful lot of force in those shells,’ said Määttä.

‘Offensive Operation Underway! Heeheehee. The deafening voice of Finland’s artillery makes itself heard! Heehee,’ Vanhala giggled. He sat down on a tree stump and nibbled on a piece of bread he’d scrounged from a dead enemy soldier. He’d scraped off the bloody part.

The first morning of October was clear and beautiful. The sky was a cloudless, transparent blue. If you looked upwards, so you couldn’t see the autumn landscape, you might have thought it was the middle of summer.

The men advanced through the thicket, following the power lines. They weren’t directed northward after all, but received orders to cut off the roads leading north from the city. A rocky, forested ridge in front of them still blocked the city from view, but everything around them signaled its nearness. Small footpaths crisscrossed through the thicket, and the whole landscape had an ‘inhabited’ feel to it, between the wood boards, paper scraps and other bits of garbage people tend to leave behind.

The first to glimpse over the ridge was a fellow named Viirilä, a beast of a man, with a large head and quite a mouth on him. This boorish creature was the eternal thorn in the officers’ sides and he had regularly spent time in confinement during peacetime. But since they’d been at war, Viirilä had demonstrated a bravery verging on lunacy – often, as now, voluntarily walking out in front as a scout. Were it not for this intrepid fearlessness, the man would hardly have been forgiven for the obscene parody he made of the whole blessed war.

He stopped as he reached the top of the ridge. ‘Hey, Finnskis! Petrozavodski gleams in the dawning light of the homeland.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, and there’s smoke coming from it. Looting little Finnskis are already having a field day down there.’

They climbed hurriedly up the ridge. An airstrip opened up in front of them, and behind it rose the clustered buildings of Petroskoi. The wide, open surface of Lake Onega stretched off into the blue-gray horizon. Columns of smoke rose from the city and the odd shot still rang out here and there.

‘There she is.’

‘So that’s the shantytown we’ve been killing ourselves over.’

The city’s gray, ramshackle appearance came as something of a shock. There were a few white, stone buildings mixed in with the collection of shacks, but that was it. That was the whole city – what a disappointment! The landscape itself was beautiful, though. The smoke-tinged air shimmered blue above the glinting lake, and further off in the steel-blue haze you could just make out some landmasses jutting out into Lake Onega.

‘Haa… alt!’

The company came to a halt and sat on the ground to admire the view. Undeniably, they were overcome with a sense of fulfillment. There she was: the city for which they had persevered through all those obstacles and misery. Now they had reached their destination, and here their war would end. For some reason, they believed such a thing was possible.

Rahikainen was impatient. ‘What are we standin’ round here for? The other units are gonna snatch up all the good stuff before we get there!’

Rokka leaned on his gun and said, ‘I don’t give a damn ’bout all’at. Oh, but if that town were Käksalmi!’

‘Hear hear,’ Susling replied wistfully, though it was more hometown pride than genuine yearning that drove him to say it.

Koskela didn’t say anything. He sat on a rock with his face to the sun. Had he said something, it would have been, ‘Sun feels awfully good.’

Hietanen was on his knees. He was silent for a long time at first, but then he launched into an extravagant address. ‘Hello, Petroskoi! You object of our most fervent hopes! If only all the boys were here to see you. All the guys who kicked the bucket trying to make it out here. Here we are, even though they tried to hold us back at every turn. Boys, this is a historic moment. One day they’re gonna write war songs about this. One day the kids’ll be singing about the day we came crawling on our hands and knees to Petroskoi. Mm-hmm. It’s a kind of thing that doesn’t happen every day. There lies Finland’s newest city… I bet they’ve got saunas over there too. Say, I itch like hell. I get a good four or five lice every time I take a swat under my arm.’

‘Are you complaining about your lice?’ Rahikainen scoffed. ‘I’ve had one on a leash round my belly button for a couple of weeks now. Name’s Oscar. No lie, he’s about a quarter-inch long, with a Liberty Cross on his back. But what are they having us hang around here for? I sure hope they aren’t plannin’ on sendin’ us out to Suoju. I heard the reserve units refused to go any further. Which makes us the ones they’re gonna shove out into the next mess.’

‘I’m not going up to Suoju.’ Määttä was sitting on a boulder with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring thoughtfully out over the city.

‘Yeah, and if they send you?’ Sihvonen asked.

‘Won’t send me alive.’

‘Lissen, Koskela, you hear what these fools are sayin’? It’s mutiny they’re talkin’ ’bout! Say, what the hell you got goin’ on over there?’

Koskela was lying belly-down on a rock, using a twig to bait ants into attacking one another. Two ants hurled themselves into battle just as Rokka was speaking, so Koskela just said, ‘Not now!’ He was smiling – that curious, private smile of his, evident only in and around his eyes.

Kariluoto walked over. He had taken off his cap and the wind was ruffling his hair. He walked with his head held high, cutting a stiff, noble profile. He felt unwittingly like the blond, conquering knight of the West, standing atop his hill and gazing out over the conquered city. Even his face had taken on a look of cast steel, though Kariluoto wasn’t aware of it. One of the greatest moments of his life had just taken place. A company commander of the Finnish infantry, he had watched as the blue crosses of the Finnish flag rose up onto the flagpoles of the tallest buildings of Petroskoi. Whatever the journey out had cost, for that moment it was forgotten. There he stood, son of the independent Finland, the young crusader, with a strange lump caught in his throat. He was moved.

Then he cleared his throat, pulled up his holster so his belt wouldn’t sag, took a deep breath, and said, ‘Well, men. There she is. The Jaeger Brigade and troops from the First Division have manned the city from the south and southwest. As it went, we were not called upon to carry out that mission. But let whoever should march in first, march – the fact remains that we were the ones who opened the road. And if history tells it otherwise, then history lies. There are still a few patrols cleaning up down there, but that will all be over soon. We are to remain here and make sure no one is permitted to escape. So, take a breather, but keep your eyes peeled.’

‘Are we going to get some time off the line?’

‘I don’t know, but let’s hope so. All right, men. Our company was the first to see the city. I mean, the first of the troops advancing from this direction.’

‘Yeah, and Viirilä saw it first!’

‘Me first, mpaahaahaahaa… mpaahahahaha! I saw it first!’

Kariluoto managed a weak smile. While he had to recognize that Viirilä was the bravest man in the company, he still felt a kind of aversion toward him. It felt blasphemous, somehow, to think of this large-headed ape at a moment like this. Even just the man’s outward appearance was repulsive. The hunched back, bowed legs and that massive head. His clothes were always half falling off. And as for his pack, the man didn’t even have one. He just let his filthy mess kit dangle from the belt loop of his jacket. His pockets bulged with various belongings, and there was a spoon poking out from the bottom of his trouser-leg. Sometimes Kariluoto seriously wondered if the man was insane. Grunting and laughing and muttering things that rarely contained anything that made sense – just as he was doing now. Blurting things out and then bursting into grunts of laughter, shaking his head. ‘Mpaahaahaahaahaa! Private Viirilä… mpaahaahaahaahaa! Guard of the Homeland mpaahaahaahaahaa…’

Kariluoto walked off to the side in embarrassment. It was too difficult trying to find anything in this man that would be appropriate to the moment Kariluoto had just experienced.

Time passed. The shooting in the city had ceased, and they could discern movement within it.

‘Snatched right out from under our noses. Won’t be anything left over there,’ Rahikainen lamented, gazing longingly out over the airstrip.

At first it looked as though they weren’t going to enter the city at all. But at dusk they received an urgent order to march in and take up positions as an occupying battalion. Apparently, somebody had found a massive keg of liquor – which may have been left there intentionally – and the previous occupying battalion was now rip-roaring drunk and looting the city.

They advanced down the ‘May First Road’, at some point coming across a large tractor stuck in the mud. Random, drunken shots rang out all along the streets, whistling past their ears and frequently forcing them to take cover. The descendants of the Hakkapeliittas, Finland’s fabled war heroes, were celebrating their victory, three centuries later.

On turning one corner, they found themselves facing a party of four: a captain and three privates. Two of the privates were dragging the Captain by the armpits, his body having gone entirely limp, and the third was walking out in front playing a mandolin. The Captain’s legs trailed along the ground and his head hung down over his chest, though he would occasionally raise it up to bellow out some garbled exclamation.

‘Damn it, why don’t you try to walk by yourself for a while,’ one of the guys said to the Captain he was dragging. ‘We drank just as much as you did, but you’re like a wet dishrag.’

‘Play “Hessu”…’ the Captain blurted out. ‘Play With swords we draw the dividing line… From Ladoga straight to the White Sea!… Not we to be shaken, though fate should present… dadada deeda dee dee da da!’

‘Here, you try walking a bit…’

‘Walky walk walk. Deedeedadadadadeedeeda…’

The Captain swung his head and bellowed, ‘Not we to be shaken, though fate should present… Roads arduous, we will prevail… Not one tribe of Finland from us shall be rent… Our bonds are too great to assail!…Well, looky there, what unit’s that?’

The Captain noticed the approaching battalion and started bellowing, ‘Welcome to Camp Finland! Howdy do… what units are you? Present yourselves! I am Captain Usko Antero Lautsalo… but you can call me the Wrath of God. Terror of the Russkis, Number One… seeing as the Wrath rolled right over them… Play “Hessu” so these guys can hear the great Captain Lautsalo’s approach…’

Lammio ordered the Captain’s entourage to get him out of sight, but received only brazen responses of, ‘Go to hell! We’re in the Captain’s command and no lil’ loo-tenint’s gonna tell us what to do.’

It was clear that the men had decided to take advantage of their drunken fraternity with the Captain, thus rendering Lammio powerless, as he couldn’t actually arrest a superior officer. It was a bitter pill to swallow. They were like the servants who usurp their master’s power in his moment of weakness. ‘Listen Usko… Hey, Usko…’

The Captain noticed Lammio. He tried to stand up on his own legs and put on an absurdly comical sternness. His head swerved indecisively from one shoulder to the other, and the energy he was expending to keep himself imposingly upright was fast petering out.

‘Lieutenant… I ask you… I am Captain Usko Antero Lautsalo… and I am asking you, I, who earned the name the Wrath of God in the Winter War, I am asking you, what right do you have to order my men around…’ Then the Captain shook his head, hiccuped, and forgot both Lammio and whatever it was he had been talking about, bellowing, ‘Maaa-ay the na-aation of Finland forever be faith—hick!… hick!… faithful and valiant…’

‘I consider it within my rights to alert your men to the inappropriateness of their behavior,’ Lammio said.

‘Hick!… hick!… I do the commanding… hick!… and I command you to advance, my brave boys. We’ve still got half a bucket of booze… don’t we?’ The Captain stared at his men searchingly for a moment, awaiting their assurance, and when they offered it, he continued, ‘Play “Hessu”… Everyone should hear the arrival of the great Usko Antero Lautsalo, Captain of the Army of the Republic of Finland… hick!… Advance. We’ve taken Petroskoi. Made the dreams of centuries come true… hick!… Play “Hessu”… Hee… hee… advance… Lit with flaaaaames of desire, we are burning with rage. He who thiiinks he can last, let him stand in our way… Once a Northern man has set out to wage… War, be afraid! Hick!…’

No sooner had the drinking party disappeared around the corner than the bellowing vocals started up again, accompanied by strains of the mandolin…

Then they came upon two privates.

‘The oldest guys in the group… but I mean, they’ve had us spearheading… out in Vieljärvi, fuck… He chickened out, the Sarge, I mean, but I said gimme that goddamn submachine gun… sent in eighteen rounds…’

Then they saw their first civilian resident. It was a woman, dragging her mattress God knows where, looking harried and frightened. She was an old woman, wearing all thirty of her handkerchiefs on her head, boots on her feet and a quilted overcoat tied with a woolen sash. The woman frantically quickened her step as some drunk who had been walking toward her from the opposite direction started walking beside her, slurring strangely, ‘Maatuska… maatuska… Russki mama, babydoll. Kuksitnaataa… Finski kuksitnaataa… Liepuska… finski bread for you… yepatnaataa me need fuck you… yeputtaa yeputtaa…’

The frightened woman sped up, but the man persisted by her side, repeating his words over and over. He took the woman by her wrist and patted her bottom, ‘Russki Maatuska… Good Bessie… yeputtaa…’

The woman slipped inside some building, leaving the baffled forest warrior to stand in the street and recover from his disappointment. He was a large man and big-boned. A reddish beard covered his face. His shirt glistened with grime and half of its buttons were open, the other half being absent entirely. A large triangular swath of fabric was torn out of the knee of his cargo trousers. He’d rolled his trouser-legs up twice and his wool socks peeked out from underneath.

The man shoved his powerful fists into his pockets and started to stagger away, bellowing, ‘Onward! Marshal Mannerheim cries… aim between the Russki’s eyes…’

Kariluoto had already taken a few steps toward the man when the latter had taken hold the woman, but he abandoned the effort once he saw her escape into the building. He felt ashamed, and angry. These people… these people… where did these people come from?

But the sight of the woman had brought Sirkka to mind. This woman was already on the older side, and looked a little Santa Claus-esque with all those clothes wrapped around her, but the sight of her had made Kariluoto’s thoughts drift to women nonetheless, and thus, quite naturally, to Sirkka. So exquisite was his relationship with the girl that he could think of nothing ugly in connection with it. In his mind’s eye, he saw only that lovely, slender face, those slim shoulders and bosom, which he had occasionally brushed up against, by accident. His whole body shuddered as a sharp longing flooded through him. When, oh when would they grant leave?

What a marvelous thought. Home – a conqueror of Petroskoi. He knew he would be promoted soon. Lieutenant Kariluoto. A youth of twenty who had taken over command when the Company Commander fell and succeeded in putting down the enemy attack. Yes, this was Petroskoi. Maybe they already knew, back home.

Kariluoto looked back. The company was marching double-file behind him. ‘Finns March into Petroskoi.’ How many times had he heard his father and his friends talking about Eastern Karelia, even when he was a child? Of these kindred people, sighing beneath the yoke of foreign rule, whose liberation was the duty of the Finnish nation – a duty that should never leave their thoughts. They ought to think about it at mealtimes, at work, ponder it while preparing for bed; and during the night, visions of it ought to fill their dreams. And now it was here.

They were liberating Karelia.

A rowdy group of men carrying boxes and bundles on their backs came around the street corner. Kariluoto was so absorbed in his thoughts, however, that he didn’t pay any attention to them. His battalion hadn’t yet taken over the guarding of the city, anyway, so it wasn’t their responsibility to arrest drunks just yet.

Shots and yells rang out. Bonfires were still ablaze over in Ukkossalmi, lighting up the autumn sky with bloody curls of light.

Petroskoi descended into the darkness of her first night as a Finnish city.

‘Laadaadaa dee daadaallalalaallaa… daa deedeedaadeedeedaadada… and I’m saying to the doctor… you take a piss in those bottles, mister…’

The keg had been destroyed, but the men had managed to get the liquor into buckets, which they were now lugging toward their lodgings.

Life was good as an occupation unit. A fellow could explore the city at will and amass all kinds of fascinating experiences – such as rounding up all the city’s madmen after some drunken soldier released them all from the mental hospital, for example. If they were liberating the city, he protested, they were supposed to free everybody behind bars! That was his story, and what could you do? The explanation was perfectly logical. Walking the streets, they were amazed to encounter young Russian men wearing civilian overcoats over their army uniforms: fellows who had abandoned their units and taken it upon themselves to resume life as civilians. The Finns couldn’t really hold it against them – seeing as they would happily have done the same.

The men had been explicitly ordered to protect the houses against theft, but what difference did it make who owned each old vinyl record, Russian string instrument, button and knick-knack these thieves rounded up? There wasn’t anything decent to be found in the whole town. They had to protect the residents, but once the keg of liquor had been destroyed and almost all the other units had left the city, life was so quiet that even that wasn’t much of a burden. They tried to make friends with the local residents, who took a little while to get over their initial shyness, but then began interacting with them quite freely.

One or two of the men had already found himself a girl – Rahikainen first, obviously. His urban existence was like a chapter unto itself. It was as if everything in that conquered city had been made expressly for him – scraps, hungry residents, women, labyrinths, massive army depots. He played the businessman to a T. Not so much because it would get him anything in particular as because it was just his mode of operation. He didn’t know what to do with himself unless he had some scheme or other in the works. And here, where greater opportunities presented themselves to the enterprising entrepreneur, well – he pounced. His principal operation consisted of procuring food for the hungry inhabitants, generally against payment in the form of young women’s services. He scrounged up some icons for some art-connoisseur military official, even if he did think the man was nutty to give him money for those mildewy pictures. The older and less entrepreneurial privates could safely turn to him with their needs regarding women, as he already knew all the ones willing to sell themselves for bread. He sold the mother of his own seventeen-year-old ladyfriend to some guy from the veterinarian unit in exchange for two packs of cigarettes.

They enjoyed life. They had no duties to perform, save the occasional round on guard duty. And the fact that they were cleaning out a Russian barracks for their housing indicated that this state of bliss was likely to continue.

The city was no longer Petrozavodsk, nor even Petroskoi – it was now Fort Onega, Finland. Lenin’s statue had been replaced by a Finnish field cannon, and their ownership was established throughout the town in every possible way.

Rokka, Hietanen and Vanhala were walking the streets shoulder to shoulder, routinely failing to salute the officers they happened across. All sorts of occupying units had turned up in the city, and admittedly their general comportment was such that our friends would have happily been thrown in the brig before demonstrating their respect toward such individuals. They had passed by several officers without incident when a certain captain approached them from the opposite direction, having spotted them from quite a way off. When the trio pretended not to notice him, he stopped and said, ‘What’s this? Why don’t you salute?’

The Captain was wearing a peaked cap, shiny boots and spurs. He’d pulled the brim of his cap down slightly over his eyes, so its edge cut a ‘menacing military line’ across the upper half of his face. His self-important air seemed to center around his pursed lips, which emanated a kind of pinched, forced militarism.

The man’s formality and gruff, military air exacerbated the men’s already hostile attitude. At first they said nothing, so the Captain repeated, with increasing irritation, ‘Answer me! For what reason do you fail to salute your superior?’

Rokka started to smile. It was that same subtle, shifty smile that signaled he was feeling mischievous. And indeed, it made the Captain fly into a rage, particularly when Rokka replied, ‘We didn’t notice ya.’

‘What are you grinning at? Notice! In that case, it’s a matter of even greater concern! An NCO who can’t see a superior officer in the same street! How are you going to see the enemy out on the terrain?’

Rokka’s face fell. He tilted his head to the side and, holding up his finger in a performance of utmost seriousness, began, ‘Now you lissen here, Cap’n. We got this situation here that rides on colors. Now me, I don’t see shades a gray so well. But brown, well, brown’s no problem, so I git on just fine with the enemy. But our own officers’s all dressed in gray, so you see, I don’t always notice ’em. That’ssa root of it all. Now shiny things I do see, so I spotted those spurs a yours right off – don’t you worry ’bout that. I sure done noticed how spankin’ sparklin’ you are, Cap’n, yesssiree.’

‘What’s your unit? What is your unit? Name! Tell me your name!’ The Captain was suffocating with such fury that he couldn’t properly formulate the command he was trying to issue, and instead just kept repeating, ‘Unit! Unit!’

‘Kuopio Kicksled Company! Heeheehee!’ Vanhala wasn’t typically one to be so bold, but Rokka’s example had inspired him to slacken the reins a bit and anyway the opportunity was just too tempting to resist.

‘I’m placing all three of you under arrest. To the main guard station. March!’

‘We’re gonna make a run for it, fellas. Vanhala… gimme the records.’

Vanhala was carrying a gramophone and a packet of records, so Rokka snatched the latter to lighten his load. Hietanen and Vanhala realized that Rokka wasn’t joking, and that they were about to make a break for it. A few yards up ahead, a tumble-down alleyway turned off the street, as if made to order. They disappeared down it, leaving the Captain in the street screaming, ‘Stop them! Stop them! Haaaa… alt!’

The trio dashed down the block, crossed the next street, turned a couple of corners, and figured they were safe. Breathless and panting, Rokka declared, ‘Shame to run out on a fella like that, but I sure ain’t takin’ an arrest for sumpin’ as stupid as’sat. Would’a grown into such a stink, we’d a been two weeks tryin’na git out of it.’

They stole backward glances now and again as they continued on, but there was no sign of anybody on their tail.

The Captain himself hadn’t attempted to chase them, and the privates walking in the streets made themselves scarce on hearing his shout. There was no question that they sided with the trio and were not about to turn them in, even if they feigned trying for the sake of appearances.

Vanhala giggled with delight. It was the first time he’d pulled one over on an officer. ‘Diversion operation successful! Heeheehee!’

‘But what are we gonna do about this fellow?’ Hietanen gestured toward the Lieutenant Colonel heading toward them, sitting astride his thoroughbred horse and looking around him, evidently enjoying the splendor of his own magnificence.

‘This round, we pass,’ Rokka said, slipping into the jargon of the card-player as he ducked through an archway. Hietanen and Vanhala followed and together the three of them watched as the Lieutenant Colonel rode by.

Continuing on their way, they found themselves walking behind two army officials and an army chaplain who were chatting away animatedly as they walked in front of them. ‘…but at first glance it would appear that the Vepsians have been best at retaining their national character…’

‘The most reasonable thing to do would be to let the Orthodox faith die. Since Bolshevism has worn it down so much already. All efforts at resuscitating religious life should be carried out along Lutheran lines. From now on, all children’s baptisms should be left to the evangelical faith. Of course, it’s not a question of religious persecution, just managing things in a natural way…’

‘You have to distinguish between different kinds of Russians. The whole resettlement issue will probably be resolved very quickly once the Germans take control of all of European Russia.’

The army chaplain and the military officials turned down another street. There was some sort of Army Bureau in the building on the corner, and a private was standing in the courtyard holding a horse harnessed to a church buggy. A lieutenant and a beautiful Lotta emerged from the building, and the Lieutenant bowed to the Lotta in a rather exaggerated display of cordiality, saying, ‘If your graciousness would deign to step in? I would like to request the honor of showing you Fort Onega, Finland, from the height of a church buggy.’

The Lotta laughed as she stepped into the buggy and said, ‘You’re hopeless… Oh, wouldn’t I?’ The driver clicked his heels to attention and handed the reins to the Lieutenant, then they set off on their drive, the buggy jerking about on its springs.

‘Well, I’ll be darned…’ Rokka said, chuckling. He sniffed love in the air, and the whole thing gave him a hearty laugh.

Then they stopped and stared at a sight that quickened the metabolic functions of their whole bodies. A Finnish cleaning unit of young women was coming down the street toward them. They were a group of student volunteers who had come to clean the city. They moved as a group, and even attempted to march in step with one another, though without much success. They managed to get it just close enough so that you could tell what they were trying to do. The girls wore brown overalls, wooden shoes and garrison caps that didn’t quite cover the ‘wildly unruly’ locks of hair peeking out around the edges. Their clear, girlish voices sang, ‘Russkis won’t stink up Finland for long…’

The trio watched them wistfully, in so far as men of their nature can accommodate feelings of wistfulness. Even Rokka gazed keenly after the girls, though he was the father of three.

‘Let’s go see Veerukka, fellas. We got our ladies too,’ Rokka said, and the others were happy to follow.

There was one place they went to meet girls. It was entirely innocent, though, as the girls there did not tolerate advances of any sort. There were three of them: one Russian and two Karelians. The men would come and play Vanhala’s gramophone for the girls, who would in turn perform Russian dances for them, which they were more than happy to watch.

‘But hey, wouldja let me go get some bread first? I’ve still got a few pieces. I wanna take ’em to Tanya and Alexei.’

There were two orphans living in the same building as the girls, whom Hietanen had taken under his wing like adopted children. The children would rush out to meet him whenever they saw him coming, and Hietanen was in the habit of bringing them whatever food he could get his hands on. Which was why he now wanted to go and get something to bring, so he wouldn’t have to disappoint them. Rokka and Vanhala understood the whole thing very well and readily agreed.

When they got back to their lodgings, Hietanen realized that he actually had very little bread left, so he decided to go ask Mäkilä for the next day’s rations in advance. A spat between Rahikainen and Mäkilä was underway in the storeroom when he got there, as Mäkilä had accused Rahikainen of snitching sugar from his supply.

‘Aw, please, Pops. I couldn’t care less about your storeroom. I got bigger bags to dip into round here if I want.’

‘Chuh… well, that’s no secret.’

‘Hey, listen,’ Hietanen broke in. ‘Gimme my rations for tomorrow, wouldja? I need ’em.’

‘It is not distribution time right now. And besides, there’s too much bread floating around this city.’

‘Look, I’m just asking for my own rations.’

Mäkilä forked them over, mumbling about bread and women so pointedly that Rahikainen thought it a splendid opportunity to take matters into his own hands. ‘’Fit’s makin’ ya jealous, Pops, I can help you out. I’ve got just the girl. Only speaks Russian, but you don’t need much language for that. And knockers like you’ve never seen.’

Mäkilä didn’t respond. He just cleared his throat and retreated into his storage cupboard looking mortally offended. But Rahikainen hurried after Hietanen, asking ‘What kind ya got?’

Hietanen smiled mysteriously and whispered, ‘By God, there’s not another girl like her! Used to be some kind of big cheese in these parts. Part of the Young Communists’ League, or something like that.’

‘Naw… I got one just like that too. But it’s true, what I was telling Mäkilä. If you’re ever in need, or you know somebody who is, I’m happy to take care of it. Not askin’ much in return, either. She’s a little roly-poly maybe, but whew! those knockers. Like two little piggies with their backsides in the air.’

‘Holy… well, look, I’m good. See ya!’ Hietanen shot off and Rahikainen started dreaming up other schemes.

As Rokka, Vanhala and Hietanen were approaching the girls’ building, Tanya and Alexei ran out to meet them, shouting, ‘Heroo!! Heroo!!’

That was their convoluted rendition of Hietanen’s first name, ‘Urho’, and it never failed to crack him up. Alexei was eight and Tanya was six. Their father had been killed right at the start of the war, making them war orphans. They never asked for anything, they just watched Hietanen closely, waiting for him to reach into his bread bag. Hietanen would purposely dawdle awhile, keeping the children dangling in suspense. Not until they reached the courtyard did he pull out the bread and give it to them. They both thanked him in Finnish, though neither of them actually understood a word of the language. They clasped the bread to their chests, as their mother had instructed them to bring home anything anybody gave them. Hietanen glanced at them and yelled, ‘Alexei! Down with the Russkis!’

‘Down viz da Russkii!’ Alexei shouted, laughing, without a clue what he was saying.

There was a third child in the courtyard as well. He was a boy of maybe six or so, wearing a grown man’s shirt and trousers, the legs of which had been rolled up so they wouldn’t drag on the ground. On his head he had one of those pointed, so-called ‘Budenovka’ caps of the Red Army. The boy watched the men closely and silently retreated further away the closer they came.

‘Alexei and Tanya!’ Hietanen called to the children, who were on their way up the stairs. They stopped and Hietanen gestured them to come back. ‘Give him some of the bread. I’ll be sure to bring more next time.’

The children didn’t really understand what he was saying, but they gathered he was talking about the boy and said, ‘Grisha’.

‘C’mere, Chris-ka!’ Hietanen called, but the boy just looked at him, hesitating. Only when Hietanen pulled out the bread did the boy cautiously start toward him. As soon as Hietanen placed the piece of bread in his hand, the boy spun around and bolted off as if he were running for dear life. Hietanen gave a hearty laugh. ‘Wouldja look at that little one go!’

Then they headed toward the girls’ quarters. Hietanen had happened upon them right away that first morning they were in the city. He had stepped in to check the building, his gun poised under his arm, and had suddenly gone red with embarrassment on realizing that he was staring into a pair of beautiful eyes belonging to a girl staring down the barrel of his gun.

The girl was Vera, an Eastern Karelian schoolteacher. After the city had fallen, she’d taken in two of her friends to live with her. Right from the start Hietanen felt some sort of bashful subservience in Vera’s company. He didn’t dare visit her alone, but always brought Rokka and Vanhala along for moral support. And no wonder. Vera was the kind of girl who would have made just about any man a bit uncertain of himself. First of all, she was exceptionally beautiful, and on top of that she had a calm, proud way about her. Her sharp features were expressive, but strong and stately at the same time. She looked upon the occupiers kindly, but from a decidedly elevated vantage point – perhaps because she was a committed communist, but above all because she was aware of her spiritual superiority over the three of them. But she frequently chatted animatedly with them, and she loved to dance. Little by little, Hietanen had become her favorite, as well as that of her housemates. They knew Hietanen brought bread for the children in the building, and they demonstrated their appreciation for this in their own spontaneous way.

The girls were making tea. Vanhala had a few dirty sugar cubes that had been rolling around in his pockets for quite some time, which he now fished out and offered to the girls. The humble offering was accepted – seeing as when the Russians pulled out, the girls had been left with next to nothing. It hadn’t occurred to them to stock up on anything in advance, so they were out of just about everything within a day or two.

Vera was practically silent. She sat staring into a corner of the room, and Hietanen gazed at her profile, whose even regularity was so beautiful it downright frightened him. He had never seen girls like her before, save a passing glance as some fancy car sped by his milk route back home.

‘What’ssa matter, Veerukka?’ asked Rokka, who was not fond of reflective types. ‘C’mon, why don’t you start dancin’? That’ll send your worries whirlin’ away.’

‘Be quiet! She misses her fiancé,’ Hietanen said, blushing.

‘Verotshka doesn’t have a fiancé,’ Nina, the other Karelian girl, said.

Vera smiled, but her face fell quickly and she said, ‘Why did you come? Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?’

‘Now lissen, Vera, don’t you start in on’nat,’ said Rokka. ‘You’re the ones started the damn thing. Took m’farm! You think we’ve wrecked things here, you oughdda go see what kinda state Kannas is in! We wouldn’t be here if you all’d just left us alone.’

‘Ah, listen… who came… Hitler came… But he will be made to pay.’ Vera spoke boldly, particularly once she realized that it didn’t set off these men’s tempers. She never fawned over them, nor did she soften any of her positions, or demonstrate the least deference toward them.

Hietanen was somehow ill at ease. It seemed rather awkward to oppose Vera, even if he knew that she was a communist, and thus the victim of propaganda. He tried to steer a middle road, granting that Hitler was an aggressor, but pointing out that in the Finnish situation, things had been different.

‘Then why did you point your riffle at me?’ Vera asked, smiling.

Vera’s ‘riffle’ made them all laugh, because although she spoke near perfect Finnish, being a schoolteacher, she didn’t quite know how to pronounce all the Finnish terms properly.

‘How was I supposed to know who I was going to find?’ Hietanen asked, continuing in all seriousness, ‘I recognize that war is nothin’ but trouble for both sides, no matter who started it. Brings a whole lot of misery on all kinds of people who never did anybody any harm. Like all the kids, for example.’

‘And you bring ’em bread. Lissen here, Veerukka, you say we’re all a bunch a troublemakers, but Hietanen here took out his own rations for tomorrow so he could bring ’em to Tanya and Alexei.’

Hietanen flushed red with pleasure at Rokka’s praise in Vera’s presence, but his insides turned upside down when Vera then rose and, without a word, kissed him on the cheek.

He tried to laugh, but couldn’t quite manage it, and failing, directed his energies angrily toward Vanhala, who giggled as he gasped, ‘Our boys are sharing their own rations with the children of the kindred nations, who have been suffering from undernourishment under Bolshevik rule…’

Hietanen hadn’t managed to say anything before Vera flared up on his behalf. Vanhala practically froze in terror when those beautiful eyes flashed angrily at him, accompanied by a rapid fire of words uttered in a voice nearly trembling with rage. ‘You don’t give anything to children. You obviously eat everything yourself, or you wouldn’t be such a great sangia priha.’

‘A great sankia priha? What’ssat?’ Rokka asked, laughing, and Vera made a rounded movement with her hands to indicate Vanhala’s plumpness. With this, Hietanen finally regained his footing and burst out laughing loudest of all. Vanhala’s own laugh was heartiest, however, as he repeated, giggling, as if practicing the pronunciation of his new name, ‘Great sankia priha… heehee… Sankia Priha the Great!’

Hietanen boisterously started demanding music, and Vanhala began fiddling around with his gramophone, getting it ready to play.

‘What’ll we play? Should I put on Stalin’s speech?’ Vanhala had several large records of Stalin’s speeches. He played them frequently, repeating some of the more clearly distinguishable Russian words over and over to himself.

‘Hell, no. Play “Yokkantee”!’ Rokka cried, campaigning for his favorite.

‘Nah, let’s have “Army Battalyon”!’ said Hietanen, a fan of marches.

Vanhala did not reveal whose wish would be granted. Then, strains of ‘Yokkantee’ filled the air. It was a Russian-style rhythm that girls often danced to, and it was indeed with this hope in mind that Vanhala selected it just now. No sooner did the first notes reach his ears than Rokka’s whole body came alive, moving in time with the music. ‘Lissen, Vera,’ he said, ‘you dance alone. Those legs a yours move so goddamn fast.’

Vera hesitated at first, but then began. Through the slower, opening measures, it was as if she were focusing, concentrating her forces into the fast, feral movements that eventually accelerated into such a dizzying crescendo that the three of them could no longer follow what was going on at all.

For Rokka, this fiery finish was the most interesting of all, and he waited for it, exclaiming, ‘Not like that, not like that. Like last time! Quick like that!’

When Vera’s dance began to accelerate, Rokka clapped his hands and every part of him came to life, moving in time with the music.

‘That’s it, that’s it! You see, fellas, see how this girl can dance? That’s it, Veerukka! Holy Mother a God, that girl is fast.’

Vera danced. Perform she did not – rather, everything about her seemed to declare that she danced for herself alone. The music filled her entire body, which responded to its tiniest nuances, and it thrilled her, propelling her in some kind of ecstatic trance. When the dance ended, a restrained smile emerged on her face, as if proceeding from some internal satisfaction that the dance had given her.

The three crusaders sat dazed in astonishment. They didn’t understand the beauty and precision of Vera’s dance, which would have afforded her easy passage from this sitting room to the most demanding of public arenas. They were just amazed at how fast she was.

As they were leaving, Hietanen lingered by the door as Vera came to shut it. He reached out, playfully unclasping the Youth League pin from its resting place on her blouse, sitting upon her impressive breast. His little finger experienced the trembling pleasure of pressing slightly against it, and then, practically petrified, he said, trying to make his voice sound playful, ‘Think I might take this, to remember you by?’

‘Take it!’

Hietanen was immediately embarrassed at the awkwardness of his flirtation and turned to follow the others. Vera looked after him for a long time, her eyes full of compassion, but there was something in her gaze that made Hietanen sense that this could not continue. He could not quite attain Vera, and he understood that, vaguely and indistinctly. And besides, what could ever have come of it anyway?

He was feeling rather wistful and mixed up when he caught up with the others, though uppermost in his confused emotions was the tiny, minute joy of having touched Vera with his little finger. And it was this feeling that prompted him to blurt out, ‘I have to say, the women here are something else…’

‘And they kiss you on the cheek. You should’ve stayed! The tribes of Finland unite!’

Hietanen was so swept up in his own emotions that he didn’t quite grasp Sankia Priha’s joke. But it nonetheless prompted him to limit his praise of Vera to her dancing, in order to demonstrate to everybody that there was no silly sentimentality in his admiration of the girl.

‘Man! It’s crazy how a person can turn like that! Only time I ever danced, trying to turn those girls was like, I don’t know – moving one of those heavyweight plows they make over in Fiskars.’

‘Lissen here, Sankia Priha the Great!’ Rokka said, laughing. ‘We ain’t takin’ Hietanen there any more. He might git all heartsick on us and then he’d be no use at all.’

‘Heehee! The children of Kaleva reunite… Heehee! No longer lost strands blowing in the wind… Heeheehee!’

Only now did Hietanen realize that they were mocking his most sacred emotions, and he flew into a rage, vehemently attempting to defend his masculinity by making it clear that his soul certainly didn’t have anything like goodness or beauty in it. ‘Now don’t you go thinking I’m the one who’s gonna start getting all gushy first here. I don’t go in for that kind of thing at all… No way… I’m just a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. I don’t give a shit, damn it!’

Then he fell silent, figuring that he had convinced the others he was guilty of nothing so shameful as taking pity on hungry children or falling for a girl in any way that exceeded commonplace flirting.

Near to their lodgings, they came upon a group of small boys asking for bread and cigarettes. They tossed over a few smokes, figuring the children would take them back to their fathers. The boys expressed their thanks by counting off down the line all the Finnish curse words they knew. They had obviously figured out how to earn cigarettes from the soldiers, and supposed that the same trick would work as payment too. One little fellow emerged from the scuffle without any cigarettes, and so chased after them quite a way, attempting to win them over by yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Sheeeet! Sheeet!’

Vanhala found this hilarious and tossed the kid a cigarette. As they neared their lodgings, they heard strains of an evening prayer service underway. Strains of the company’s hymns echoed through the dark city: ‘…miiiighty fo-o-ortress is our God… A buuulwark never faa-a-ailing…’

They turned cautiously down a back road so as to avoid being seen.

That evening Hietanen sat gazing out of the window, singing off-key, ‘…even in the fiercest fighting…’

The next day there was a parade. They didn’t have to do anything for it but maintain order in the city. A few men from their battalion had been selected to take part in the parade, but nobody from Koskela’s platoon. They did receive medals and promotions, though. Koskela was promoted to the rank of lieutenant, Hietanen received the sergeant’s stripe the Major had promised him, and Määttä was promoted to corporal. Just about every man was awarded a medal of some sort, and admittedly, the Second Class medals were starting to be rather like prizes for participation.

That evening they moved into the barracks. After a hell of a lot of work, they had finally managed to make it suitable for habitation. They were not pleased about the move, as they sensed that the old buildings had permitted a freer lifestyle in every way. Nor were their instincts incorrect. As soon as they were in the barracks, Sinkkonen, who had also been promoted in the recent sweep, to master sergeant, ordered the company to fall in by rank into four lines. It was as if the old army brat was suddenly possessed by the devil from the moment he set foot in a barracks. After having been put in his place upon his first presentation to the company, he had kept quiet, but now it was clear that he had decided to settle the score.

He strutted self-importantly in front of the company, clearing his throat, stretching out his neck, and ordering the men to count off.

‘One… two… three… four…’ The men counted off lethargically, as if expressing their opinion of the exercise by making their voices even more apathetic than usual. When the count-off was over, nobody called out any absences, though Sinkkonen could obviously see that neither the third nor fourth row was complete.

‘How many absences? Are you men sleeping or what? Why didn’t you call out the absences?’

‘Who’s had time to count ’em all?’ a voice yelled from the back.

Sinkkonen ordered whoever was yelling to keep his mouth shut, but then somebody else shouted, ‘We lost seven guys from our platoon. Twelve were wounded, but eight of ’em came back.’

‘What, what… what kind of talk is this?’ Sinkkonen was struggling against the pressure of the crowd. His self-assurance had abandoned him, and to mask its loss he began lashing out at the company. ‘Clearly, there are certain men here who imagine the army is no longer able to maintain discipline. That is a serious mistake. Men in the back, report the number of absences from count-off.’

‘All right, all right, two,’ somebody said, and the Master Sergeant considered victory his. A moment ago he had been feeling very pleased to stand before the company, as he had been planning to give a speech about various issues relating to their move into the barracks. Speaking before ranks like these was one of his greatest pleasures – and now it had been spoiled. Nevertheless, he began. ‘Now that the company is being housed here in the barracks, I would like to call your attention to a few matters regarding routine chores and responsibilities. Impeccable cleanliness and order are to be strictly maintained. Every article of the barracks duty regulations is to be observed. In light of the circumstances, we will permit one exception, which is that you are not required to salute NCOs upon their entry. Only the Company Master Sergeant need be saluted as usual. And then, esteemed NCOs…’ (A few muffled sniggers emanated from the ranks, and even the NCOs laughed, with the exception of one or two men.) ‘Quiet in the ranks! The NCOs will lodge separately in designated NCO quarters. You are to ensure that your quarters are kept thoroughly in order.’

Just then Rokka’s booming voice interrupted Sinkkonen’s speech. ‘Well, shit, no. That don’t work for me at all. Suslin’n I take our tea together and everything else together too. Either I bunk with him or he comes over in’na NCO section with me.’

Sinkkonen had not forgotten Rokka’s spoon-wagging nor his lecture. His composure abandoned him and he nearly screamed, ‘Silence! Keep your mouth shut over there. You will go where I order you. Is that clear?’

Rokka smiled. But there was a menacing note behind the customary, playful calmness of his voice as he replied, ‘Now lissen, don’t you start talkin’ big with me. You know what happens when you start tryin’nat. You really think you can just slap those reins and make me jump for you like a new recruit?’

Without a word, Sinkkonen set off for the Company Command Post and returned with Lammio in tow. Lammio waited for the silence to intensify, and then said with frosty authority, ‘Corporal Rokka.’

‘What’ssa trouble, friend?’ His voice rang out with such wholesome innocence that the whole company had to laugh. Lammio glared at the men and said pointedly to Rokka, ‘You will stay in the NCO barracks just like the others. Is that clear?’

‘We’ll see ’bout that this evenin’. Now lissen, I don’t needa git into too much of a tizzy ’bout this here, but you wouldn’t happen’na know when we’re gonna git some leave now, would you, Louie? Here I am a family man and I been out here months already. Would you back me up if I put in a request?’

Lammio was once again uncertain whether Rokka was being direct with him or making fun of him. In any case, he was offended by the man’s disrespectful tone and said, ‘Corporal Rokka. As far as I am aware we have made no agreement to dispense with the customary formalities of address between an NCO and his commanding officer.’

‘Nope, we ain’t, but there ain’t no time like the present. Antero’s m’name. You can use it any time you like. I’ll just call you Louie ’stead a Lieutenant, since you’re a bit younger’n me, n’all.’

A low snickering rustled through the company. For the first time in his career, Lammio was at a loss. Threats of the court martial flashed through his head, but as pathetic as his instincts were, even he could tell that this time there was nothing more he could do. Rokka’s arrogance was so unshakeable that Lammio had taken it to be the product of pure simple-mindedness. But when he realized that Rokka understood precisely what he was doing, Lammio also gathered that the man wasn’t going to back down, even when faced with the strongest of military punishments: the death penalty. The issue was further complicated by the fact that the man in question was one of their best soldiers – and where would that leave them? Lammio still thought Rokka was trying to get away with bravado on account of his bravery, failing to grasp that these were two sides of the same coin.

Now Lammio was just looking for the best way out. He ordered the men to attention and rattled off, ‘I sentence Corporal Rokka to four days’ labor without relief as punishment for disrespecting a superior officer. The punishment is to be carried out in the form of four extra days of guard duty. At ease.’

Lammio rushed off, for fear that Rokka would do something to exacerbate the situation further.

Sinkkonen ordered the company to disperse and endeavored, unsuccessfully, to slip out of Rokka’s sight. Rokka grabbed hold of his shoulder strap and held it so tightly that the Master Sergeant was forced to halt. Rokka laughed, but it was precisely his laugh that Sinkkonen feared, for behind it lurked the menace of utter indifference. Sinkkonen sensed that, once the customary fear of disciplinary measures ceased to protect him, nothing, in fact, did.

‘Hear that, Master Sarge? I’m punished. Four days without relief. I’ll be damned if we didn’t do months and months without relief to git us out here in’na first place. You wanna tell me what I was bein’ punished for in’na Winner War when they kept me out in Taipale for three months without relief? You tell me that, Master Sarge!’

Sinkkonen stiffly muttered something about the necessity of discipline and Rokka shoved him away in contempt, laughing as he said, ‘Oh, we got discipline like you never dreamed of, Master Sarge. But hey, lissen here, you go your way and I go mine. We don’t git on so well the two of us, see?’

Sinkkonen hurried away, relieved to have got off so lightly. Rokka didn’t move into the NCO lodgings or perform any extra guard duty, and no one attempted to make him. The issue hadn’t actually been so important to him as all that, but they had certainly managed to make it important, so obviously he couldn’t back down. And so the Finnish soldier emerged victorious from one more struggle for independence.

The incident provoked restlessness within the company. There was a great deal of discussion about it that night, and then, to top it off, a rumor began circulating that they were going to be sent to the front. The men were feeling irritable, as the return to formal barracks living and boot camp-style discipline felt like an insult, particularly in light of their achievements that summer.

Lahtinen thought his moment had come, and started spouting off again about how everything would turn out in the end. ‘I mean, Timoshenko’s giving it to the SS over there in Rostov-on-Don, that’s all I’m sayin’. And you know how it goes: when the falls freeze, the ducks are fucked.’

‘I dunno,’ said Salo, who had also acquired a medal in the recent handout and so was in a mood to salute even the Master Sergeant. ‘As soon as summer comes back round, they’ll start drivin’ in those wedges with the tanks again.’

At three o’clock in the morning, the company was called to alert. The men awoke to see the officers moving about in full uniform, and immediately suspected what was afoot.

‘The company is preparing for departure. Vehicles arrive in one hour.’

Then came the cursing, followed by murmurs and whispers. ‘We’re not leaving.’

Lammio heard their murmuring, but pretended not take the least note of it. He ordered the men to hurry up. Some of them lethargically started gathering up their clothes, but most of them looked like they had no intention of going anywhere.

‘Hurry up, hurry up. We’ve only got one hour.’

‘We’re not leaving.’

Now even Lammio could no longer pretend not to hear. ‘Who said that?’

‘We’re not leaving.’

Murmurs rose here and there.

‘Is that so? I disagree. Anyone who is not ready for departure in one hour will present his case before the court martial.’

The men gathered in their quarters, urging one another not to leave. They appealed to the fact that they had been promised a long period of rest once the city had been taken. Actually, they hadn’t officially been promised anything. They had just harbored this hope themselves, and hope had given rise to rumor. The fact was, life in the city was good – too good, and it came as a sharp blow, suddenly, to have to leave it.

As usual, the majority of the group remained undecided, waiting to see which way the scales would tip. Lammio turned to the NCOs and ordered them to prepare for departure. He managed to get them moving, but the men did not follow. Time passed and Lammio was beginning to grow irritated. ‘I am saying this for the last time. Prepare to head out! Anyone who fails to follow orders will do well to remember that the maximum sentence for such an offense is the death penalty.’

‘Fuck it… our fire don’t hurt any worse than the Russkis’. Bring it on!’

‘Bring it on! Send the whole goddamn circus up in flames.’

‘Anyway, we’re not leaving without a change of company commander.’

‘Koskela for company commander! Then we’ll go.’

Lammio didn’t find this insulting in the least. It was genuinely inconceivable to him that he himself should be the object of the men’s distrust. ‘This is not some kind of Red Guard that elects its company commanders by shouting out votes. Is that clear? I am ordering you for the last time. After that I will advance to other measures.’

Koskela had remained silent the whole time, standing off to the side. Now he went over to his bed. Calmly, as if nothing had happened, he said, ‘Better get moving, I guess. The convoy’ll probably be late just like every other time, but anyway. Don’t take too much extra junk with you. The instruments are pretty nice to have around… I guess we can manage to take ’em along somehow or other.’

Slowly the men of the Third Platoon began to pack up their belongings. No one made a sound. The quiet lieutenant standing in the middle of the room was like some sort of solid, stilling force, draining them of all desire to protest. The most remarkable thing of all was that, in spite of everything, the men sensed that Koskela was on their side. The weight of his presence – of him, personally – compelled them to action, but it aroused no bitterness in them. It just felt evident and natural that they should leave, once Koskela had commanded it.

The men from the other platoons skulked by, hissing quietly so Koskela couldn’t hear, ‘You mean you’re leaving? Don’t back down now, damn it!’

‘What else are we supposed to do?’

The men in the Third Platoon were angry, as it felt rather awful to be the source of the splintering – still, it did not occur to any of them to go against Koskela. And with that, the whole company began preparing for departure. Backing down was easy for the rest of them. ‘What does it matter? If the Third Platoon’s going…’

Koskela was silent. His face was expressionless as he paced back and forth, but he was following the tenor of the company the whole time. He knew that the others would follow the Third Platoon; he was only a little afraid that Lammio would open his mouth again and turn the tide on the whole matter. But, luckily, even he remained silent.

This time, the convoy was prompt. They loaded up quickly, and the battalion set out. The first snow had fallen overnight and the vehicles roared through the city in its weak, glittering light, turning onto the south-bound road.

‘Where are they taking us?’ somebody asked Koskela.

‘The Svir. Sounds like they’ve crossed the river.’

‘Hey, Rokka! Cheer up! Looks like we’re all doin’ duty without relief – for who knows how many days!’ Hietanen wasn’t thinking of Vera. Their departure had banished any such thoughts from his mind. Only her Youth League pin remained, tucked in his wallet.

Rokka seemed the least bothered by the departure. ‘Sankia Priha the Great! Play us sumpin’ on’nat record-player a yours. It’ll work sittin’ in your lap, won’t it?’

Vanhala’s new name had been established. He set the gramophone in his lap and it started to play, skipping and jiggling. Rokka clapped his hands together, swayed his shoulders and sang, ‘Yokkantee and Yokkantee and yommaiyyaa…’

The silent, dusky forest flashed by along the roadside.