‘We push on,’ Jussi said.
And, ‘We kill the horses,’ said Kaarlo, in all but the same breath.
The two men exchanged a swift, amused smile that held in its sudden gleam the recklessness of camaraderie. ‘We push on,’ Jussi repeated, and grinned. ‘And as soon as they’re close enough – we kill the horses.’
‘But then what?’ The man with the frightened eyes was not so easily calmed.
‘Jesus, Vannemo, do shut up,’ one of the other men said, shortly, his own uncertainty betrayed only by the slight tremor in his voice.
Jussi thought for a moment, his eyes narrowed upon the small, oncoming figures. ‘We have two rifles,’ he said.
‘Three,’ said another voice, quietly. A tall young man in a sleeveless wolf-skin jacket unslung his long bundle from his shoulder. ‘I wasn’t sure if I could bring it. I’m a hunter. My rifle and I are good friends. We didn’t take kindly to being parted.’
‘You said you had snowshoes in there!’ another voice said, aggrievedly.
The tall young man smiled. ‘So I did. And so I have. And the rifle.’
Jussi nodded. ‘Right. Three rifles. Between nine of us.’
‘There are only seven of them,’ someone pointed out, hopefully.
‘All armed to the teeth.’ Kaarlo hefted his rifle in his hand. ‘And two of them mounted. Officers at a guess.’
Jussi was watching the oncoming group, eyes narrowed against the light. ‘Kaarlo’s right. The horses are the thing. So. We push on. We find a defensible position – an ice-wall, perhaps, it doesn’t take much – and those of us that are armed will stay behind to hold up our friends out there. The others push on to the camp. It isn’t far now. We kill the horses, to slow them to our own pace.’
‘And as many sodding Russians as we can manage as well,’ put in Kaarlo, equably.
‘And then, hopefully, we’ll catch you up. There are some weapons at the camp – I’m not sure what, they come and go. But there’s always something. We can make a stand there if necessary. Give our Russian friends something of a surprise. Agreed?’
There was a mumble that could have meant anything.
‘Right.’ Pleasantly Jussi smiled into each pair of anxious eyes. ‘Well done. Now, come on – the further we can go before they’re in range the better chance we have.’
* * *
‘They’ll break,’ Kaarlo said, conversationally, as they settled themselves behind a rearing outcrop of ice that was embedded in the vast white plain of the frozen gulf. ‘Not the best packages we’ve ever delivered.’
Jussi glanced quickly at their silent companion, crouched near them, his long rifle leaning beside him.
‘Don’t mind me,’ the young man said, and almost responded to Jussi’s quick smile, albeit with no more than an answering twitch of his lips.
‘They’ll be all right.’ Jussi lifted a hand to shield his eyes against the painful glare of the light and focused upon the figures that moved in the slanting sunshine, implacably closer with every second. ‘Wait till they meet Max.’
Kaarlo snorted with what might have been laughter.
‘Who’s Max?’ their companion asked, mildly.
‘The best damned commander any Finn could ask for,’ Jussi said. He had unslung his rifle, taken out his puukko, the sharp dagger-like knife they all carried, and was chipping with calm concentration at an ice ledge. ‘Major Maximillian Bayer. The best bloody Finn of us all. Except that he’s German. They’re coming.’ He levelled the rifle, steadied by the niche in the ice wall.
Kaarlo had narrowed keen, long-sighted eyes. ‘Now,’ he said.
One horse went down in the first staccato volley. The other reared, stung, and danced upon the ice. Its rider flung himself from the saddle. Kaarlo picked him off as he ran. ‘Take the other horse,’ Jussi said to their unknown companion, and calmly the young man stood, steadied his weapon.
‘Down, you silly bastard!’ Kaarlo shouted.
The one shot and then the other sounded in one long echo. The second horse fell, as if poleaxed. The young rifleman was flung yards by the bullet that caught him, to lie spread-eagled, bloody, lifeless in the snow.
‘Shit,’ Kaarlo said.
Jussi said nothing.
There was a moment’s charged silence. Then Kaarlo moved a little. ‘Two down,’ he said, calmly. ‘At least one an officer.’
‘And the horses gone.’ Jussi settled himself as best as he was able, crouched uncomfortably behind the dubious shelter of the ice.
‘At least now they can’t move any faster than we can.’ Kaarlo was reloading his rifle. A bullet rebounded, singing, a few inches from his face. ‘Fucking Russians,’ he muttered, more viciously than usual.
Jussi was looking to the west. In the distance their charges ploughed through the difficult terrain, dark, distant specks in that merciless brightness. ‘At least they’re getting a move on.’
The yellow grin again, subversive, derisive. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
There was a moment’s deceptive silence. The stillness of the icy wastes was absolute. Then a frenzy of shots shattered it.
Kaarlo was swearing, steadily, his voice low. His rifle was rock-still. ‘Got you!’ he said, undisguised satisfaction in his voice.
‘They’re outflanking us.’ Jussi was sliding back from the ice wall. ‘There may only be four of them left, but they’re not stupid and they’re much better armed.’ As if to prove his point a bullet sang close to his head and instinctively he ducked.
‘How far are we from the camp, would you say?’
‘Not far. The others must be there by now.’
‘Sun’s going. It’ll be dark soon. Best to make a run for it?’
The sharp, stained grin was the only answer.
Almost they made it. So close that a minute, perhaps two, would have made the difference. It was in the last dash that Jussi, who had stayed back to cover Kaarlo’s final retreat to the camp, was caught in the sharp and crackling hail of bullets that sent him jerking into the air like a ghoulish puppet to land sprawled in an ungainly heap on the suddenly hideously stained ice.
Kaarlo, howling, turned. Charged back across the ice to where Jussi lay. A volley of wildly discharged bullets from the camp kept the pursuit at bay. ‘Holy Mother,’ Kaarlo said as he hauled the shrieking Jussi upright. ‘We’d do better to deliver these stupid bastards to the Russians! I’d rather have them on their side than ours! Hold on, man! Hold on!’
As Kaarlo began to haul him to safety Jussi gave one more animal-like scream, and fainted. Blood marked their scrambling path back to where the others waited; blood fresh and bright, and in terrible quantity. In the tent Kaarlo worked, ripping the material from the shattered legs, tearing open the shirt to reveal the bubbling, bloody chest. Jussi made a small sound. His eyes flickered open.
‘I’ll take him.’ One of the recruits, a small man muffled in sheepskin, knelt beside him. ‘You go and help the others. They need you. I’ve had training. Let me try.’
‘Try?’ Kaarlo’s face was tight with shock and with pain. ‘You’d better do bloody better than try.’
The other man eyed the groaning Jussi and said nothing. Kaarlo grabbed his rifle and went outside.
For the moment all was quiet. He sidled up beside one of the young recruits. The man was steadying a heavy Russian revolver – one of the captured weapons that had been left at the camp in case of just such an emergency – against an outcrop of ice.
‘Where are they?’ Kaarlo asked.
‘Two over there – behind that low ice wall, see? And the others over to the right. I think we might have got another of them. Injured at least.’ The man’s voice was commendably cool. ‘We’ve managed to pin them down for the moment.’
‘Right.’ Kaarlo eyed the darkening sky. ‘If we can keep them there while your mate in the tent patches Jussi up then we might have a chance.’
The other man, who had seen Jussi’s wounds, as they all had, as Kaarlo had dragged him in, eyed his companion doubt
fully, but said nothing.
Something moved next to the ice wall. Unhurriedly, Kaarlo took aim. The crack of his rifle echoed across the ice.
‘Got him!’ the other man said, excitedly. ‘By God, you got him!’
Kaarlo said nothing.
‘Three left.’ The words were spoken almost like a prayer.
Quiet minutes passed.
‘Kaarlo?’
Kaarlo turned. The man who had offered to attend to Jussi had crawled to his side. ‘He wants to see you.’
Jussi was propped against a packing case. His face was bleached and drawn with pain, his eyes heavy with it. His rough jacket had been draped about his shoulders to keep the cold out, almost hiding the bandages that covered his chest, bandages through which the bright blood was already seeping. A blanket covered his shattered legs.
From outside the canvas tent came the sound of a shot, and then another.
‘We’re holding them off?’ Jussi asked.
Kaarlo swallowed, blinked rapidly. ‘Yes. There are three, maybe four of them left. If we can hold them until dark –’
Jussi shifted a little, took a shallow, painful breath. ‘Yes. That was what I wanted to talk to you about.’
* * *
‘You mean, they left him there?’ Katya stared at Heimo in horror. ‘Kaarlo – he left Jussi there?’
‘Katya, he had no alternative.’
‘What do you mean, no alternative?’ Katya’s voice was rising, outraged, edged with hysteria. ‘Of course he had an alternative! He left a wounded man – his friend, or so he always pretended – alone – in the middle of the ice – surrounded by Russian soldiers – Heimo, I don’t believe what you’re saying. I don’t believe it!’
Heimo, exhausted, dangerously close to tears himself, took an uncertain breath and cleared his throat. ‘Katya – please – calm yourself. Listen to me –’
‘Listen? Listen to what?’ Her voice was suddenly, caustically calm. ‘Listen to your excuses? To Kaarlo’s excuses? There are none. What he did was inexcusable. I’ll never forgive him. I pray God he’ll never forgive himself.’
‘He won’t,’ Heimo said, quietly.
‘Then why? Why did he do it?’
‘Katya, listen to me! Kaarlo was on active duty. His commanding officer – Jussi – gave him a direct order. He couldn’t disobey it. Don’t you see that? He couldn’t!’
‘Playing at soldiers,’ Katya said, bitterly.
There was a long moment’s silence. ‘Is that what you think we’re doing?’ Heimo asked, at last.
Katya had turned away from him. She did not for a moment reply, but stood, head bowed, arms crossed tightly over her breast, as if in some way to contain the pain. At last she shook her head, briefly. ‘No. Of course not. I’m sorry. It’s just –’ She stopped, shoulders hunched, her teeth clamped into her lip.
Heimo watched her in helpless sympathy. He lifted a hand, dropped it again. Every tense line of her body rejected any such advance. ‘He tried,’ he said, after a moment, grimly continuing the tale he had set himself to tell. ‘The men who were with them testified to that. Please believe it, Katya. He flatly refused the order.’ He waited. She gave no sign she had heard. ‘Jussi threatened to shoot him where he stood.’
Still she said nothing.
‘Night was closing in. Jussi insisted – and he was right – that their duty was to get the men they had with them to safety. He ordered Kaarlo to take them on, to leave him to defend the camp, to hold up the pursuit. Kaarlo offered to stay with him. Jussi refused. The recruits would never have made it on to Sweden without a guide. Katya, he was right. It was the only way.’
‘They should never have left him,’ Katya said quietly, stubbornly. ‘They should have taken him with them.’
‘No.’ This time Heimo stepped across to her, turned her gently to face him, his hands on her shoulders, his kindly face stricken with a grief almost as great as hers, a grief he made no attempt to hide. ‘He was too badly injured, Katya. Jussi knew it. Kaarlo knew it. He’d lost an enormous amount of blood. His legs –’ He stopped. ‘They had no sledge. Even if they had, the journey would probably have killed him. And the Russians were hunting them. Katya – they couldn’t have saved him. It would simply have meant that they would all have died, or been taken. Jussi gave the only order possible. And Kaarlo had no option but to obey. And it worked. They all got through. Thanks to Jussi.’
‘I should be happy about that?’ Katya pulled herself free of his hands, walked to the table, sat, elbows on the table, staring into space with eyes that were wide and unblinking. Then with a sudden movement she dropped her face into her cupped hands. Yet still there were no tears; just the dreadful tension of grief that held her in a grip of iron, relentless and harsh.
‘I’m so very, very sorry.’ The pitifully inadequate words were very quiet.
‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said coldly, lifting her head.
‘Kaarlo –’ He hesitated.
‘Where is he?’
‘Still at Lockstedt, with the battalion. He wanted to come himself.’
‘Tell him not to.’ The words were brusque. ‘Not now. Not ever. I don’t want to see him.’
‘Katya –’
Fiercely she flung up her head to look at him. Her face blazed. ‘I tell you I don’t want to see him! Tell him to stay away. You hear me, Heimo? I won’t see him! You say that Jussi threatened to kill him if he didn’t leave? Well tell him this – if he comes near me I’ll kill him, for doing it. I swear it.’
‘Katya, that simply isn’t fair –’
‘Fair?’ Bleakly she grimaced. ‘What’s fair, Heimo? That Kaarlo’s alive and Jussi’s dead? That I’ll never see my husband again? That he died without ever knowing that I’m carrying his child?’ Her voice choked suddenly in her throat.
‘God in heaven,’ Heimo said.
‘Is he? I doubt it. At the moment – I doubt it.’ She took a long breath, closing her eyes, which stung and burned and yet still remained dry as the sands of the desert. She rubbed the tips of her fingers against her aching brow.
‘Is there something I can get you? Someone I can call?’
‘No. Thank you. I’m all right.’ She sighed again, and at last relaxed. ‘I’m sorry, Heimo. I know how bad this is for you. And I’m sorry I lost my temper –’
He made a small, dismissive gesture. ‘Katya –’
‘– but please, I’d like to be alone now. Quite alone. I have to think.’
He hesitated. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ She came to him, lifted her face to his, kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you.’
He hugged her to him for a moment, suddenly and fiercely. She felt the sobs that wracked his huge frame; and even that did not break through the chill, silent wall of shock that girded her own heart. Quiet at last, he let her go. She stood calm as he palmed the tears from his face with the heels of his hands, groped in his pocket for a handkerchief. Then, ‘Just one thing?’ she said.
‘Yes?’
Her eyes were very bright and very steady upon his face. ‘You are – absolutely sure? There can be no mistake? If Kaarlo and the others left?’ She let the sentence hang in mid-air.
He shook his head. ‘No. Don’t think it, Katya. He was terribly injured. Even if the patrol captured him – if they didn’t kill him – Kaarlo’s convinced he could not have survived the journey back across the ice. And anyway –’
‘And anyway, Jussi would not have allowed himself to be captured. I know.’ Katya nodded.
He took his leave, kissing her again, squeezing her hand. She leaned tiredly for a long time against the door she closed behind him. ‘Jussi,’ she said, very quietly. ‘Jussi.’
And still, strangely, the relief of tears was denied her.
* * *
The long, overcrowded train crawled through the bitter winter’s night. The railway line ran through white-cloaked forests, empty and still, frozen into a brittle landscape that gleamed with an eerie beauty in
the bright, chill light of the moon. The air, sharp as a knife, fairly glittered with cold.
Within the filthy carriages the walls and windows ran with condensation, and the air was foul. Sasha huddled into his corner, his aching head turned to the crack in the blind, beyond which he could see the blank and streaming window. He could catch no glimpse of the passing countryside. He was sweating beneath his clothes, his skin itched, his bladder was filled to bursting. There could be no question of trying to use the lavatory; as was the case throughout the train, the one provided within this carriage had long become so unendurably clogged with filth as to be unusable. The more hardy souls – or perhaps the more desperate – had taken to making for the front of the train, waiting until its crawling pace slowed almost to a stop – an all too frequent event – jumping into the snow in order to use the cover of the forest to relieve themselves, then scrambling back aboard before the battered, overstrained monster picked up speed again. Sasha slid his hand behind the blind, rubbed at the streaming window. For a second, blurred by the ice on the outside of the glass, he caught a smudged glimpse of the frozen world through which they passed. Those who did not make it back aboard the train – and there must have been some – would be lucky to survive the night. And the halt, the lame and the sick who made up most of the passenger complement lay or sat in their own ordure, with no help, no hope and no pity offered them. The stench was intolerable; it clogged the nostrils and clung to the tongue.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d have to risk it. Petrograd was still many hours away.
Even as he thought it the train shuddered and slowed, brakes grinding. ‘Suffering Son of God.’ A man in the bloodied uniform of a cavalryman laid his head back against the seat, shutting his one good eye. ‘Not again?’ The patch over his other eye had slipped, revealing the edge of a raw and empty gash. Sasha gritted his teeth and looked away.
The train slowed, carriages clanking, and stopped, the distant engine hissing steam. Outside, someone shouted.
‘Open the window,’ someone said.
Happy to breathe clear air, Sasha stood, opened the window, stuck his head out into the biting, literally breathtaking cold.
Strange Are the Ways Page 44
