by Väinö Linna
Coffee was brewing on the stove over the crackling waste paper. A rough-hewn, wooden table sat beneath the window. The Captain was seated beside it, gazing out. He twirled a pencil in his slim, sinewy fingers. A faint smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as he noticed Master Sergeant Korsumäki slowly making his way down the path to the office. Korsumäki had been a master sergeant with the Border Patrol before being transferred to the company on account of his age. A ’36 field cap sat on his head, perfectly straight, pressing down slightly over his eyes so that the top of the cap just covered the smooth crown of his head. He wore carded-wool trousers and tall army boots, and the red-on-gray stripes of his thick, wool socks peeked out over their tops. The Master Sergeant moved slowly, scanning the ground around him as he walked. Then, spotting a wooden stick on the ground, he bent down, picked it up, and stuck it in the crook of his elbow with two sticks that were already there.
Soon his soft footfalls reached the porch, and he walked over to the stove, the three sticks still in the crook of his arm. Setting the wood on the fire, he lamented, ‘There’s bits of firewood strewn all along the paths. Funny how these things work. We’re like a pack of spoiled brats out here. Nobody would stand for this kind of wastefulness at home, but out here we all act like it doesn’t matter at all.’
He lifted the lid off the coffee pot, saw that the coffee wasn’t ready, and sat down at the table opposite the Captain. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Then, glancing at the phone, he asked, ‘Any word on the convoy?’
The Captain roused himself from his silence and quickly resumed his customary rapid retort. ‘No, no. Nothing at all. They don’t even know themselves. I told them it was one hell of a way to run an army. You’d think they could at least keep us informed. Strange how we can’t even get a straight answer about where the convoy is. They say there’s some large-scale reorganizing going on higher up. I think it means new troops. It looks like the rumors of mobilization may be true. They’re forming divisions. We’ll be the seed for one of them. The other two regiments will come out of the reserves … Orderlyyy … the kettle …’
They fell silent as the orderly made up the coffee and returned to the porch, where he and the company secretary were packing their bags. Then the Master Sergeant resumed, somewhat dejectedly, ‘That means war.’
‘I don’t know. I’d say it depends on Germany. Theoretically it depends on three parties: Germany, Russia and ourselves. Germany could attack Russia – and I don’t doubt for a second that she will – and demand that we enter the war. The importance of the Murmansk railway supports that possibility. On the other hand, Russia might try to simplify matters by taking us out right away, or at least moving the war onto our territory. She’s hardly going to sit back and wait for us to decide whether we want to let this opportunity pass us by or not. Then there’s a third possibility, which is that we might not let this opportunity pass us by. To hell with the peace agreement. We’re going to have to take sides one way or the other, and anyone can see which way it’s going to go.’
‘Of course. It’s just a question of how it’s all going to play out for us.’
‘Afraid we’re in for a whipping?’ The Captain gave a short laugh and then continued, ‘We’ll never have another opportunity like this. As far as I’m concerned, we should go for a bold offensive. Justice has always followed the sword of the victor. As it will now. The losers are in the wrong. But take whatever position you like, one thing is clear. Our fate is bound to Germany’s success. And that’s why it’s our job to do everything we can to make sure the Germans succeed. The way I see it, central Europe is the center of power, and Finland’s fate hinges upon the degree of force it exerts at any given moment. German pressure is directed outwards, and when it’s strong, eastern power declines. If it weakens, then everything along the peripheries draws in toward the center and we’re snuffed out in the process. That’s just how it is – strange as it may seem from our usual perspective on things, by which we consider France and England our friends, when in truth they’re our worst enemies. Their defeat is Germany’s victory, and Germany’s victory is also our victory. If we’re defeated, then we’re six feet under and that’s the end of it, but the thing to do now is hit Russia with everything we’ve got and take her out – preferably permanently.’
The Master Sergeant stared at the floor and said, ‘So I should keep my family where they are.’
The Captain realized that Korsumäki hadn’t been following his train of thought in the least, but had been preoccupied with his own affairs the whole time. Age and the Winter War had stripped the Sergeant of all idealism – assuming he’d had any to begin with – and so, with a sigh, he thought of the suffering and hardship to come, which he had already known intimately once before. Kaarna could appreciate Korsumäki’s frame of mind, though it was utterly foreign to him personally. He hoped there would be a war. More than that, he hoped it would be a tough war. His career demanded it. He had had to leave the army some twenty years earlier, as a lieutenant, after having taken part in the controversial campaign in the Olonets. That, anybody could guess, was the reason he maintained a permanent state of war between himself and his superiors, even now. For his men he had not a mean word, but even the battalion commander was liable to be given hell. Kaarna was a difficult subordinate, no question – exceptionally talented and smart as a whip. He didn’t hide his light under a bushel either, but shone it ruthlessly upon any issue that provoked controversy. Despite his superior rank and position, even the Major had difficulty holding his own against the man who, on top of everything else, had enough medals to outweigh a two-pound sack of potatoes. He had been promoted to captain during the Winter War and commanded his own battalion. Then he’d remained in the service yet again when the war was over, but only as a company commander, demobilization having freed up too many majors and lieutenant colonels for the higher command positions. Even now, he still wasn’t going to get a battalion. Not even an infantry company! And what use were machine-gunners, least of all in an offensive attack? Well, death and duty would weed out the ranks, and his turn would come. His whole body itched for a chance to exercise its prowess. He had taken on death’s challenge enough times to know that he could face it down. It was as if the world war had reignited all his drive and ambition, making them flare up with new life. And he was patriotic, besides. He cultivated the sentiment actively because it fired him up with vigor and a desire for action.
Whole and powerful – that was him. His gaze betrayed none of the soul’s weaker points, vulnerabilities that might bring him to his knees.
The Master Sergeant called to the orderly to pour more coffee and the Captain resumed where they’d left off. ‘Yes, better leave your family where they are. We won’t be turning back. It’s not like last time. By the way, the supply vehicles will only meet up with the company once we reach our destination. They have to load them up first. And the supply train isn’t assigned just to the company, it’s arranged in conjunction with the whole battalion.’
Well, that’s a relief, the Master Sergeant thought. So we don’t have to worry about that. ‘But this smells a heck of a lot like war. Whole lot of hurry up and wait.’
The Captain laughed. ‘That’s it all right. It’ll be time to head out pretty soon. Say, whatever happened to supper? Or did they take the field kitchen in advance? Oh well, that’s their business.’
They drank their coffee in silence. The Master Sergeant was lost in thought, gazing out at the porch, where the company secretary was combing his hair. The man was making faces at himself in the mirror, adjusting its distance from his
head as he pressed down on his wavy hair. The Master Sergeant sighed, as if to expel his rather melancholy state of mind, and said, ‘Takes all sorts.’
Kaarna gave a dry, cutting laugh and said, ‘The history of the world’s made up of all kinds of deeds. Some fellow in Berlin may be looking at a map of Russia and laying plans. This guy here, he’s combing his hair. But he comes along for the ride, too.’
The Captain set his cup on the table and, trying to cheer up the Sergeant, said confidently, ‘Well, we’re all in this together. All in for the long haul, wherever the devil it takes us. So it goes … Hmm … hmm … dum-dee-dum. Orderly! Fetch some razor blades from the canteen, will you? Get a bunch of packs. Pick up some bread rolls with the rest of the money – you can finish the coffee … Ah-ha. Moment I leave that damn phone, it rings … hmmm … hmm.’
V
The local branch of the Lotta Svärd, the women’s auxiliary, held a nightly canteen in one of the empty barracks. It was crammed with soldiers when the orderly arrived. The place sold coffee mixed with substitute, rock-hard bread rolls, tobacco, razors, envelopes and notepads. The notepads featured a stylized drawing of a soldier on the front. There he stood: helmeted, creases running down the front of his trousers, the blue cross of the Finnish flag billowing in the background. Some fantasy image or other. Just never, under any circumstances, reality. Reality was crowding around the canteen counter in a sort of mob, shouting, ‘Damn it! Don’t push in, you dickhead! Go to the back of the line!’
There was not a creased trouser-leg in sight. One guy had brown hand-me-downs from the charitable nation of England, somebody else had civilian trousers, somebody else, gray military slacks. The only articles of clothing they had been uniformly issued with were a cap, a light button-down shirt, and a belt.
There was just one Lotta behind the counter. The men were cracking jokes up and down the line – whatever jokes anybody happened to know, as they had to attract her attention somehow. Of course, they knew none of them stood much of a chance with Lieutenant Lammio sitting over at the end of the counter. But Rahikainen was one of those guys who refuse to recognize any opportunity as hopeless, on principle. He strutted up to the counter and said gallantly, ‘Now, what does the pretty girl have for Rahikainen today? Before we must part for ever! Ah, well. Cuppa coffee, of course. And a bread roll.’
‘Tonight we’re selling as many rolls as you want. We’re closing down the canteen.’
‘So that’s how it is. War’s comin’, huh? Signs of it in the air. Before we only got one per cup. What grave misfortune awaits us! I may never look into this little lady’s beautiful eyes again.’
The Lotta flushed with pleasure and glanced at Lammio, who was sitting at the end of the counter. Because it was for him – the radiance emanating from her. Even the flicker Rahikainen had sparked. Lammio was irritated at Rahikainen’s gallantry. First, for the general reason that he couldn’t stand the presence of another rooster on the roof, and second, because he had already arranged to profit by this particular Lotta’s presence in the barracks. Who knew when he’d see a woman again? And there wasn’t enough time to make it to the city. But if the convoy was slow enough coming, he could see this Lotta home and try his luck.
There was, of course, a clear division separating the Helsinki lieutenant from the North Karelian private, which was indeed so great that Lammio was not concerned, even if he knew Rahikainen to be a ladies’ man, and a successful one. Rahikainen was a tall, handsome fellow, well built, with a curly mop, a rich singing voice, and an everlasting motor-mouth that typically ran on empty. The last was Rahikainen’s primary vehicle for advancing his cause, but this time he hit a wall.
‘Finish your business so the others can have a chance, please.’ Lammio was suddenly very concerned on behalf of the other men in line, though he himself had dawdled for no less than twenty minutes making his own purchases. Rahikainen, however, was not the born-yesterday type. You couldn’t scare him with stripes and buttons, and Lammio’s power did not extend so far as to govern his canteen purchasing practices.
‘Oh, but Lieutenant, sir, let’s not be too hasty. If we’ve got a long trip ahead of us, we’d better have some provisions. How much of that tobacco am I allowed?’
‘How much would you like?’
‘Let’s say that pack there. And toss in about ten of those bread rolls.’ Rahikainen paid slowly and made a few more passes at the girl before being supplanted by the next fellow in line. Gathering up his purchases, he moved out of the way and found a seat at the table by the door, where some guys from the Third Platoon were already seated. Seeing as the Lotta was the communal center of attention, Rahikainen’s little enterprise had not gone unnoticed.
‘Looks like that girl ain’t gonna be the mother of your children,’ Hietanen smirked. ‘Need a few more pins on your collar.’
‘I don’t have any need for her services at the moment.’
‘Now you’re just tellin’ whoppers. Guy like you – why I’ll take you out to our neck of the woods and use you as a stud if you make it out of this alive!’
Just then the orderly came in to announce that the convoy would arrive at ten o’clock. For Lammio, the announcement meant the possibility that his hopes would be realized, but for the rest of them it just meant more waiting around. The canteen closed and Lammio set off with the Lotta, walking her bicycle. The men wandered back to the barracks, their excitement at departure souring.
‘What are they dawdling for? What kind of numbskulls do they have up there running this show? We’re not really going to just keep milling around the empty barracks, are we?’
The bed frames sat in their spots, empty. The beds and the narrow spaces between them had grown familiar to the men, and the blue-stained boards seemed strangely dreary now that they had been stripped bare. An inscription had already appeared at the head of one of the beds: ‘This bed belonged to Pentti Niemi, who slept here during his service to the Finnish army and departed 16 June 1941 for an unknown destination. Recruit, rookie, FNG: when you come near this bed, take your boots off, because this bed was a sacred spot to some guy once.’
VI
They were blessed, however, before departure. Since there was time, the battalion’s chaplain came round to hold evening prayer services in each of the companies. The duty officer rounded up the men, and this time both the officers and the utilities platoon took part as well.
The Captain stood a little way off, awaiting his cue, and the Master Sergeant followed at the tail end of the company, looking very grave. The duty officer wasn’t sure whom he was supposed to cue to bring the company, since the officers’ presence eliminated the possibility of the Master Sergeant’s serving this role. Koskela was the oldest officer present, but he was just walking along at the head of his platoon, and clearly had no intention of getting involved. Luckily, just then Lammio rushed onto the scene. His plans had been seriously thwarted. He had been pinning his hopes on this Lotta, knowing that she was a country girl, but this very fact had turned out to be the cause of his downfall.
Lammio took over the company from the duty officer and presented it to the Captain. Kaarna had observed Lammio’s entrance but averted his gaze. He had no patience with men who went absent without leave, officers included, and it was even more irritating in this case because it was Lammio. Keeping his voice low, so that the company would not hear, the Captain murmured, ‘The company is on alert, which means no absences are permitted. As far as I know, the Lieutenant is still a member of the company.’
‘Yes I am, Captain, sir.’
‘Well then. Assume your position.’
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The scolding didn’t ruffle Lammio in the least. He walked calmly to the head of his platoon. The haughty expression of his face was just slightly stronger than usual, reinforced by the stiff flair of his nostrils. It was his typical response to any and all criticisms directed his way.
The Captain was pacing back and forth in front of the company. He muttered something to himself and kept glancing at his watch. Once he stopped, turned to the company and said, ‘OK. Now we should … Well, no, no, let’s not.’
Resuming his pacing, he reasoned with himself, ‘There’s no need. It’ll work out without … hmm … hmmm …’
The chaplain came across the clearing on his bicycle.
‘The crow has landed,’ Rahikainen whispered, as the others suppressed their smiles. ‘The crow’ was their nickname for the chaplain. It drew its inspiration from the fact that the chaplain was a frail, dark-skinned, narrow-shouldered type. A prime target for tuberculosis bacteria.
The Captain’s orders rang out. The men removed their caps, allowing their bristly hair to stick out in whatever direction it pleased. Or directions, rather, as even within just one head there seemed to be aspirations in several directions.
