Вяйнё Линна - Unknown Soldiers

Jalovaara could see that Määttä took no interest in anything but the strictly practical side of things. The Ensign set off down the trench toward the others. They had gathered around Asumaniemi’s body, which the medics had lifted onto a stretcher.

‘He was good at gymnastics,’ a voice said. ‘He was always practicing at the training center ’cause they had bars there.’

‘He was always dangling from the tree branches here, too, whenever he had any time.’

Jalovaara ordered the body to be taken away so that it wouldn’t end up in the barrage.

When the medics had left, he said to Vanhala, ‘This means another stripe for you, Priha. It’s… just… too bad.’ Jalovaara’s voice trembled. ‘What a horrible reward for Asumaniemi.’

Then the Ensign looked at Honkajoki. ‘Well, you did quite all right too.’

The Ensign smiled. He was remembering Honkajoki’s hop-crawl. Honkajoki raised his eyes with a look of respectful earnestness, removed his cap and bowed.

Then they all laughed. A little too much, perhaps. The joy felt slightly hysterical as their anxiety began to wear off. Only Vanhala’s heehee-ing was just as it had been as he said, ‘So we’re gonna have a real live officer on our hands! Lots of blood, sweat and tears goes into a rise in the ranks. But a man’s rewarded in the end! Heeheehee…’

Then they ducked into the foxholes without being commanded. Back-clapping and heehee-ing stopped in a second. Booms sounded from the other side of the river, like potatoes dropping onto the floor. Stalin’s organs.

They lay curled up in the shelters dug into the walls of the trench. Fire, dirt, iron and smoke swirled up over the positions. Their terror was just the same as before. It hadn’t changed at all. Eyes closed, hearts thumping, bodies trembling, they tried to sink themselves into the very earth.

They might have been even more scared today than they had been before, though. They knew that the firing would end soon.

‘Stop, just stop.’

They had finished with the war the day before, but the enemy had yet to do so. It was as if might was flaunting its divinity, taunting them, even in these final moments.

Watchful, exhausted and beyond worn out, they waited for the blasts to cease. What use had their dogged stint by this river been? What use had the counter-attack a few days ago been? They were going to have to relinquish the positions.

Right. They had lost. Received their punishment. Why had it happened this way? Well, there would be many answers to that, no doubt. There was, at least, one consolation in it all. In handing them this whipping, fate had released them from all responsibility. What would victory have meant? Responsibility. Responsibility for deeds they would have been obliged to account for, sooner or later. Because as long as the history of humanity marches on, the cause of what follows will be what came before. And in cause lies responsibility. He who presides over the cause must answer for the consequences. And maybe it was just these exhausted men’s good fortune that neither they nor their descendants would be the ones obliged to answer. They had already atoned for their sins – paid for them with their own hides. They had but one hope left: to pull the shreds of their lives through these final minutes.

And after that, they would stand free, cleared, blameless. Happy.

The thunder continued. It roared in fantastic crashes far through the clear, autumn air. It churned on even in these final seconds, as if it were declaring, intoxicated by its own greatness: Woe to the vanquished!

But at least they did not have to fear the voice resounding in its echo: Woe to the victors!

Määttä opened his eyes. He saw dirt falling to the trench floor. A man appeared around the corner of the trench. It was some older guy who’d been called out of the reserves and who had seemed a bit off for a while now. He was bare-headed, and in the middle of his filthy face the whites of his eyes bulged out, round, wild and frightened.

‘Get under cover!’

The man heard Määttä yell, but instead of obeying, he remained standing in front of his shelter.

‘Get down!’

‘Would if it was any use.’ The man stared straight ahead as he spoke, paying no attention to Määttä. The latter emerged from his shelter and said, ‘Get down. Peace is coming.’

The man gazed wide-eyed at Määttä, and then, without further ado, started climbing up to the parapet. Määttä grabbed hold of him. The man started to wrench himself free, but Määttä yanked him to the trench floor, where a tough wrestling match ensued. Just then, the cannon fire ceased, and once it had fallen silent, the stillness was broken only by Määttä’s grunting and the shouts of the madman. ‘Get off! Goddamn parachutists! Lemme go! I’ll dictate… Land and peace for everybody… And I’ll give power to everybody… But lemme go for Christssake…’

Vanhala, Sihvonen, Rahikainen and Honkajoki hurried over to help. The man struggled and howled as he thrashed about beneath Määttä, who was trying to hold him still. They didn’t manage to get him under control until there was a man on each of his arms and each of his legs, in addition to Määttä, who was sitting on his chest. The man screamed and cursed, his teeth clenched and his mouth foaming. He muttered senseless words and phrases between wild howls.

Men emerged from the shelters. With tired faces, they followed in silence as the madman was led away.

The Finnish War was over.

Tins of ersatz coffee dangled from the ends of sticks. Mielonen walked along the road, calling out, ‘If anybody wants to hear, you can come listen to the rrradio at the command post. Some Secretary spoutin’ off.’

The men were lying about by the roadside, some sleeping, others making coffee.

‘We can hear it from here. Anyway, we know what’s coming. Old as the alphabet.’

‘Them and their goddamn speeches. Speeches won’t help anything. When you’re all out of gunpowder, you’re better off just keepin’ your trap shut. Now they’re gonna go dronin’ on about the rights of small nations. Dog’s cue to piss.’

It was Rahikainen.

‘Yup. That’s for sure. Losers get the shit kicked out of them. And that’s that.’

It was Sihvonen. Angry and exhausted, but somehow not quite certain who it was he was angry at.

‘…the establishment of good relations with our neighbors. May friendship and cooperation with other nations be our aim henceforth.’

It was the Secretary.

Honkajoki fished some bread out of his pack and came across a couple of pieces of wood carved into bizarre shapes. He tossed them to Vanhala and said, ‘Into the fire with them, Priha! I’ve lost my inspiration.’

Priha was on his knees beside the campfire. He blew into it and got a light flurry of ash in the eyes. He rubbed them with his fists. Then he looked at Honkajoki. Dirt and grime covered his face, which had lost much of its previous roundness. But the red, puffy corners of his eyes still crinkled with his smile as he shook with laughter and said, ‘If only we still had your bow… heeheehee!’

‘Alas. If only that damn Bushki, excuse me, that Soviet in the shrubbery, hadn’t made it into the position from the side… making me suffer the most distressing loss of this war.’

Priha turned toward the campfire again and said, blowing on the flames, ‘The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics won, but racing to the line for a strong second place came feisty little Finland.’

The ash swirled up. Heeheeheeheehee.

Soon, even the last of them had dropped off to sleep. A lone horse-cart made its way along the road, its rattle echoing through the forest. Tent tarps covered its load. A stiff hand clenched into a fist dangled down beneath one of the edges. The last of the casualties were heading home.