Then men and officers started gathering around the tank, bursting with congratulations. Even Lammio nodded approvingly and said, ‘That’s the way. That decisiveness was exemplary.’
The only remarkable thing about his congratulations was that nothing about them really felt congratulatory. The aloofness and expressionlessness of his thin voice always felt a little offputting, regardless of what he happened to be saying. Even Sarastie turned up. He took Hietanen by the hand, squeezed it and said pointedly, ‘Having been aware of the previous state of affairs, I might understand better than anyone here just what you have accomplished. So first, many thanks. You’ll be receiving a Liberty Cross at the next ceremony, and I’ll get the paperwork moving pronto for your promotion to sergeant.’
Hietanen was a little perplexed. He still couldn’t quite make out all the Major’s words, but he got the general drift. Even if he was sincerely amazed at himself, he still found it rather embarrassing to be congratulated by everybody else. So, he just smiled and looked uneasily at the officers.
Sarastie resumed his battalion commander stance and downshifted to the most general variety of small talk. Tapping the tank with his stick, he said, ‘Ought to be a very successful model, this new one. But it looks like even their most skilled engineers are no match for Finnish courage and conviction.’
A moment ago, the Major had been praising Hietanen, but with these words he was already moving on to congratulating himself. The Major, like so many military commanders, considered the feats of his troops feats of his own. Failures, however, were the fault of cowards and adverse circumstances. To be sure, the Major had actually been in a state of anxiety that exceeded even that of his men. They had at least been ignorant of how critical their position really was. Amongst other things, the battalion commanders as well as the advanced company commanders had received strict orders not to move back their command posts under any circumstances – meaning that, were it to come down to it, they were to go down at their posts.
Now, however, the situation was improving. The failed attack had shaken the enemy’s confidence, and on top of that, the division had just sent word of its advance, so the artillery would be able to back them up as soon as they’d taken over the firing positions.
But Sarastie had just lived through a critical couple of minutes. Several of the automatic weapons had started to run low on ammunition. Every last reservist had been put into combat, and the men positioned on the far side of the swamp had been left with virtually no cover at all.
Following such an experience, there was reason to indulge in a moment’s good spirits. Sarastie straightened himself up, feeling his energy return and his capabilities strengthen as he stretched out to his full, towering height. Power and potency seemed to surge through him with the blood pumping through his veins.
The importance of this operation guaranteed that it would be followed with great interest all the way up to General Headquarters. The Marshal himself might even be listening to the news at this very moment: ‘An enemy attempt to break through from the west has been put down after heavy fighting by Battalion Sarastie. Other battalions have also repelled the enemy’s slightly weaker attacks attempting to bring relief from the north and the east.’
The Major turned to his men. A joke came to mind, which Sarastie had actually come up with the day before, but decided to save for the appropriate occasion – which, it seemed to him, was now. ‘Well, boys. Caught your breath now, have you? We got them right in the jaw this time. Let’s go and give it to them in the seat of their pants next. They’re after that nickel up in Petsamo … Well, you’re all generous fellows, aren’t you? Let’s go give them all the nickel they want.’
The good cheer spawned by the successful thwarting of the enemy attack made the men laugh all the more heartily at the Major’s joke, and Salo, who was standing nearby, exclaimed just loud enough for the Major to hear – or rather, just so that the Major would hear, ‘Let’s give it to ’em, let’s give it to ’em! Ain’t got no penny-pinchers here!’
IV
Lahtinen and Määttä didn’t have time to marvel over the tank. They were too busy scavenging ammunition from dead enemy soldiers, having nearly run out of their own in putting down the attack. Lahtinen was flipping a dead Russian onto his back so as to get at his pockets when he heard the Major shouting from across the road.
‘Oh, stop crowing,’ he grumbled. ‘We’re still here all right, but just barely. They’re a tough bunch, that’s for sure. Heading for us bolt upright, even after I sent four belts at ’em.’
Määttä was accustomed to Lahtinen’s grousing and didn’t ever take it too seriously. He just responded rather indifferently, ‘Seems pretty convenient to have ’em running upright if you’re tryin’ to shoot ’em down. Anyway, it’s a good thing we all got the same caliber weapons. They even thought of that.’
‘Humph … no. Nobody thought that far. The Whites stole weapons from the Russians back in the Civil War, that’s why they’re the same.’
‘Weren’t you the one who said it was the Germans who armed the Whites?’
‘Yeah, they armed ’em with the guns they stole from the Russians out here on the Eastern Front leading up to ’17. But hey, gimme that guy, the one still hangin’ onto his rifle there. Come on, buddy, let go, lemme see if you got any rounds left in that magazine a yours. God damn it. You’d think I’d be able to manage against a dead guy. Humph. Nothin’. Just one little sucker in there. But hey, let’s go over there behind that mound. That’s where their machine gun was.’
When they arrived, they saw that the enemy had left their machine gun behind. Four bodies lay behind it. They found five full belts and half of a sixth in the feeder. Lahtinen collected the belts, chatting away happily, ‘I’d say that belt was definitely worth it – one I shot over here, I mean. Paid us back nearly six times over! But wait, what am I talking about? These cloth belts have two hundred and fifty rounds in them and ours only have two hundred. We better give the other guys some. We can’t even carry all of these.’
‘That’s plenty. But look how old that guy is, the one sprawled out over there. Could they really be running low on men already?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Lahtinen grunted, though only out of habit, the bountifulness of their loot having stripped him of any real desire to get into a quarrel. His lips pursed in a contented smirk. He tossed the ammunition boxes over his shoulder and said as he headed off, ‘We better switch to steel belts. These cloth ones are just damn rags. Anyway, listen, they’re not gonna run out of men over there. When it comes to manpower and materials, that country’s pretty well stocked. Now, the only thing is that over there, I mean, they’ve been looking out a little bit about what the people have to eat, rather than investing everything they have into sending packs of scoundrels out shooting in the forest. Meanwhile we’ve just been throwing the people’s money to the winds! Guys spend their Sundays running around in the forest with rifles on their backs, and then come evening, they go around and give each other promotions. Over there, they’ve put some pressure on the fat cats so that all the people’s bacon doesn’t just disappear beneath the butcher’s apron! But what’s the use. Look, if they run out of men, they’ll send over a fleet of fifteen million women soldiers. They train everybody over there, and that includes the little old ladies.’
‘No way. Damn! Where’s this at?’ Rokka had caught the end of Lahtinen’s tirade and tossed in his question with a sly smile.
‘’Cross the way. Hey, if you need any ammo cartridges, take some of these.’
‘Would you look at that? I scrounged some, b
ut I could take a few more. Those damn fellas’s all huntin’ for bread and badges, never mind ’bout gittin’ any ammunition. But what were you sayin’ just now? Some lil’ ol’ Russian ladies’s gonna come fight us?’
‘You don’t know. It could happen.’ Lahtinen was already grumpy and irritable, suspecting what was coming. Nor were his instincts incorrect.
‘Well, if it comes to that, then you might say we’re …’
‘Well, at least we’d know where to aim! Got lots of practice,’ Rahikainen chimed in.
‘Might lead to some pretty intense hand-to-hand combat, heeheehee. Then even Rahikainen might win his Mannerheim Cross, heeheehee.’
Lahtinen turned away with lips pursed, looking up into the treetops as if to proclaim that he would not deign to continue conversing with such people.
Then Koskela and Hietanen arrived and informed them that they were advancing immediately. Koskela had ordered Hietanen to report to the field hospital to rest, at least until his hearing returned to normal. But such a passive role was beyond Hietanen’s powers in the wake of his great feat. Elation had made him too restless to lie still in one place. His joy was so earnest that no one really minded it. Even if Hietanen was still marveling at his own distinguished performance, there was a sufficient degree of comedy mixed up in the whole thing to make the men put up with just about anything. And Hietanen’s jubilation wasn’t just the product of his heroic feat. In reality it was the joy of having made it out alive. Now he was laughing again, talking about the shock he’d experienced behind the rock. ‘Then, when I threw all the camouflage on the mine!’
‘Move out!’
The joking and chattering ceased. Their carefree spirit vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. The men trudged on in silence, their faces tense and restless.
They ran up against the enemy again about half a mile later. The artillery had already caught up and so could prepare their attack, pushing the opposition back another hundred yards or so, but then the enemy stopped beside the clearing of a small village. They gave it one more push before darkness fell, but to no avail. Reluctance, darkness and exhaustion put an end to the offensive, and Sarastie decided it would be best to wait for the new day, even if it meant the wounded would have to hang on another night for proper care.
The battalion assumed its positions beside the village fields. There were some potato patches lying out in no-man’s-land, and under cover of darkness, Rokka and Rahikainen snuck out to do some harvesting. Their digging was audible from the enemy positions, however, so Rahikainen abandoned the mission halfway through, as soon as the bullets started raining down around them. Rokka, however, took cover in a ditch and got straight back to it as soon as the enemy had calmed down. He brought back enough potatoes to feed his whole platoon and Kariluoto’s besides.
They dug a hole in the ground behind their positions, started a fire and pretty soon potato soup was underway. They blanketed the fire in twigs and perched along its edge in the drizzly darkness. Only now did their nervous anxiety give way to hunger and exhaustion. The soup of the poorly washed potatoes oozed from the corners of their mouths as they ate greedily. Their three days’ dry rations had run out that morning, so they ate the potato soup plain – but even so it tasted wonderful. Once they had eaten, the men not on guard duty stumbled toward the roots of the spruces to sleep and, despite the cold rain, slept like the dead. They were not demanding. Vanhala even fell asleep in a puddle of water – having fallen into it, he gave up the search for a better spot.
But somewhere deep in their nervous systems, fear was still keeping watch. If shots struck at a rapid tempo, the startled sleepers would jerk up to a sitting position, listening for an anxious moment, and then, when the bangs fell silent, slip back to the ground, sound asleep by the time their bodies were horizontal.
V
The aid station tent was full. The dying men who had lost consciousness had been taken outside, as had the more lightly wounded. A low, plaintive moaning hummed through the spruce grove. The medics squatted – dazed – trying to make themselves immune to the surrounding misery. The worn-out doctor’s nerves were frayed. It was painful watching men die when he knew many of them could have been saved by a quick operation. But out here there was no way he could operate. All he could do was bind wounds and give morphine injections.
One of the wounded men was dying. He’d been injured the night before, when the battalion had advanced up onto the main road. He’d taken a bullet in the lower part of his stomach, and he’d been in severe pain until early this evening, when his state of intermittent consciousness had begun to grant him some relief. The doctor stooped down beside him and the man opened his eyes. They gleamed feverishly and gazed up at the roof of the tent, on which the doctor’s formless shadow spread, projected from the bright Petromax lantern behind him.
‘So, how are you doing?’ the doctor whispered, seeing that the man’s consciousness had returned. The man didn’t answer, but just kept staring at the shadow looming on the ceiling. Then his gaze turned toward the doctor. His lips moved, but no sound came. The doctor diverted his own gaze. He couldn’t look into those fearful, feverish eyes that seemed to burn straight through him. Then the man’s gaze turned back to the shadow. He started to mumble something and tried unsuccessfully to raise his head. He seemed to be in a state of overwhelming anxiety. The doctor pressed his ear to the man’s face and made out the words, ‘De-eath … Up on the ceiling … Lord … Jesus …’
The doctor pressed his hand down on the man’s forehead, as he was still struggling to lift up his head, without success. ‘Close your eyes. There’s nothing up there. Are you in pain?’
The man did not calm down and the doctor was becoming impatient. He was a bundle of nerves as he crawled out of the tent and said to the chaplain huddled under a nearby spruce, ‘Eerola hasn’t got much time left. Why don’t you go in there and try to do something for him? He’s restless again and I just can’t keep giving him endless amounts of morphine. He’s vomiting even without it. Oh for God’s sake, could they please get that main road open!’
The doctor’s nerves and exasperation gave his voice an angry tone as he addressed the chaplain. He was hesitant to send him into the tent to talk with the man, as it would be agonizing for the others to have to hear the whole thing. Listening to somebody prepare for the end wasn’t going to do any of them any good, lying there as they were, with fear in their hearts, awaiting their own deaths at any moment. This was why he generally tried to get the dying men out of the tent, as the two deaths inside had induced panic in the others. It was just that it seemed rather a gruesome task to carry them out into the rain, even if they were all bundled up and well past understanding anything about the world around them. Practically speaking, it was still better to bring them out. The doctor cursed the Third Battalion’s aid station, to whom he had lent his second tent, in deference to the fact that they had even more wounded men over there. One of their companies had ended up at the dead center of a terrible mortar barrage.
‘We half-killed ourselves carrying that tent out here and now we can’t even use it. Was it really necessary to halt the advance here?’
‘The Commander said the men were so exhausted that there was no way they’d be able to launch a successful attack before morning. By the way, did Eerola ask for me?’
‘No. But he’s afraid of death and I think he was praying. Just try to calm him down.’
The chaplain removed his black rubber raincoat and hung it on a tree branch. Then he cleared his throat and focused. He had a habit of saying a little prayer to himself before performing his du
ties. The act had already become so habitual that it was entirely devoid of any genuine spirit of piety. The operation was more like that of a reaper who sharpens his scythe on the whetstone a couple of times at the end of each row, just out of habit.
Then the chaplain crawled into the tent. He had to squint for a long time before he could see anything in the glare of the Petromax. The stove radiated warmth into the air, which reeked of disinfectant. A medic was huddled half-asleep beside the stove. Wounded men wrapped in blankets lay lined up along the side of the tent. Somebody gave a low moan.
The chaplain crawled over to Eerola. The wounded man looked at him with restless eyes dimmed by fever and nearing death. The chaplain saw that his face was covered in beads of sweat. In this kind of situation, it was an unfailing sign.
‘Brother, are you in pain?’
The man said something, but his voice got lost in his throat.
The face the chaplain looked upon was filthy and exhausted, already gleaming with a yellow sheen. There was something dark glimmering in the region around the man’s eyes, almost like a visible manifestation of his suffering. You could see a line on his neck where his suntan ended but his skin remained filthy, and his flannel shirt collar glistened with grime, peeking out from beneath his sweater. Eerola was twenty. He was thin and lanky, having been underfed his entire life. As a day laborer on a large farm and a member of a family of hired hands, he belonged to a social group below which there were only vagrants and inmates of the workhouse. Heavy labor and light sustenance had left their mark on his physical constitution, but even so, a tough resilience within him fought death long and tenaciously. This young man had had a goal in life, which he had pursued, but which was now doomed to remain unattained for all eternity. He would have liked a new suit and a new bicycle – that belonged to him from the start and were meant exclusively for his use. But he had been obliged to hand his meager salary over to his family, so he had had to do without. And it had made him bitter, for in the world of his tiny town, these two items were the rightful belongings of any grown man. But it was in plain trousers and a suede jacket that he had left for the army.