Вяйнё Линна - Unknown Soldiers

Mäkilä moved a pair of gloves onto a different shelf and seized a pile of mattresses, then lowered it back down to the ground. His voice cracked as he said bitterly, sulking, ‘Just take a-anything you need. It’s not worth keeping track of anything around here anymore. Call in the whole battalion so they can stock up on riding breeches – and seam-stripes, too. The machine-gunners are going to set out dressed like real gentlemen. Just got to dig up some of those patent-leather boots…’

One of the men opted to take Mäkilä’s speech at face value and, pulling a new shirt out of the bundle, started taking off his old one. Mäkilä watched for a moment, racking his brain for the most vindictive possible punishment. His shrill voice cracked as he screamed, ‘Ge-et down!’

Mäkilä had always avoided taking any kind of managerial stance in relation to the men, and was even fairly embarrassed whenever he had to give them orders. His outburst was, therefore, all the more jarring, and the stunned man cowered in obedience. Then he scrambled to his feet and slipped in behind the others, trying to save face by muttering, ‘Now the son of a bitch has lost it completely!’

From that point on, the distribution of equipment went more smoothly, however. Mäkilä seemed to suffer at least a few pangs of conscience, and proceeded somewhat shame-faced. He even took the initiative to give some men new items when he saw the state their equipment was in. Wordlessly, he passed out gear, clearing his throat quietly as splotches of red burned on his cheeks.

At last all the gear was packed and loaded into carts. Mäkilä followed the carts toward the battalion, his account book under his arm. As they were leaving, the driver offered him a ride, but Mäkilä turned him down, saying with an insinuation the driver pretended not to grasp, ‘Horses are just fine for transporting equipment. There is no need to start transporting legs good enough for walking.’

The uneven cart tracks through the sandy forest were riddled with roots and potholes, and a deep one jolted the cart to a complete stop. The driver slapped his reins and shouted, ‘C’mon! Goddamn it… git!’

Mäkilä raised his arm in disapproval, cleared his throat and offered the driver a word of advice. ‘You should use the reins to direct the horse. It is not difficult to avoid the potholes if you just pull a little on the lines.’

‘Damn it!… This way…’

The horse braced itself, leaned into its harness, and yanked the wheel loose. The journey continued across the burnt clearing, the tall pine trunks along its rim already reddish in the sinking sun.

Preparations for departure were underway in the barracks headquarters as well. The bed in the Captain’s room had been stripped, and the last, yellowed shreds of the paper shades had been tossed into the fire. The orderly and the company secretary had already packed the archives into a wooden crate and were now loading up their own packs. These gentlemen could take along whatever they wanted, not having to worry about the strain the weight would put on their shoulders. The company secretary had packed ‘parade boots’ and a pair of civilian slacks. He was a curious creature, in a way – a real quirk of nature. A child of the people, but excessively refined; he was a bit feminine and spoke with a sort of lisp. He had a long cigarette-holder as well, which he used to smoke North State cigarettes, imported from America. Only the best would do.

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.’