Вяйнё Линна - Unknown Soldiers

As we all know, the Lord is almighty – he knows all and sees far. And so, one day, he let a forest fire burn a good swath of state land, laying waste to acres of the dry, pine forest around the town of Joensuu. The people did everything in their power to put a stop to his work, as they always did, but he burned the forest undeterred, just as far as it suited him. He had his own plans.

A certain colonel was the first to appreciate just how far the Almighty’s gaze had extended. Chief of staff of an army corps at the time, he noticed that the fire had opened up first-rate sites for his returning men to set up camp. Finland’s Winter War had ended: the war that was, of all wars up to then, the best – seeing as both sides won. The Finns, however, won a bit less, in that they were obliged to cede some land to their opponents and retreat behind a new border.

What was left of the troops was sent home, and a younger set was called up in replacement. And so the clearing found itself beset with a battalion of infantry. The older men set off in the warmth of the spring – in fur caps, coats, felt boots and thick, wool sweaters. They returned without any ‘difficulties of reintegration’. First, a good, old-fashioned Finnish dousing – then, back to work. Were all of our sacrifices in vain? Well, that was a question reserved for people without spring planting to do – and those people might well wonder whether their sacrifices had been so terribly great after all.

For the most part, they were a solid crop. The spiritual difficulties of re-entry into civilian life? They couldn’t afford to invent stumbling blocks like that. People in the winter of life may have souls, but a soldier has nothing of the kind. Anybody who had such a thing would have had it anaesthetized as quickly as possible. No, the deep-set eyes above their chapped, stubbly cheeks revealed only animals, sly and ferocious, trying to hang onto two things: their positions and their dear lives.

The younger troops assumed their ranks.

There they stood, bumbling into lines with a bit of difficulty: Mother Finland’s chosen sacrifice to world history. Farmers in coarse, sturdy clothes – day-laborers in flimsy jackets, ties sticking out from underneath their cheap, milled collars – and even some clueless city slicker with a wool ‘ulster’ on, who has ‘like, no idea what happened on the trip out here. Like, seriously, none.’

Mäkinen was a bit hesitant, at first. A bundle under his arm, he had his best clothes on and his last wood-chopping pay tucked into his pocket. He had a picture of the neighbors’ daughter too. Mäkinen wasn’t actually in love with the girl, any more than she was with him, but he’d heard that looking at girls’ pictures was something you did in the army. They were just neighbors, having lived down the road from each other their whole blessed lives, but when he was leaving, Mäkinen had taken the picture, awkwardly half-joking, ‘Remember to write!’

What was his relationship to the great tides of world history, ripples of which had reached his ears one way or another? Adolf was raising a ruckus. That much he knew. And he knew what a ruckus would mean, too. It had already happened, at the dances, that some ‘chest-beater’ would climb up onto a chair, yank the lamps from the ceiling, and roar, ‘Everybody out, goddamn it!’ Finns are fierce – and we didn’t start this. It’s our right. That was just what Mäkinen thought as well. And if anybody comes over here again, then by God, we’ll meet iron with iron.

‘ What greater honor than dying in battle, valiant guardian of your nation’s land …’ That was how the Finnish schools tried to cultivate the chest-beating bravado into something a bit more respectable. The future looked brighter if you considered it from a developmental point of view. But ditties dreamed up by some hobbling old man weren’t quite the thing to spark these men’s imaginations. ‘ Back in old Hellas! I mean, way, way back, fellas, when there was no Finland, yet… alas… ’

Trumped-up tunes were fine for gents – the average Finnish male having none too high an opinion of whatever it is that knocks around in the mind of a gentleman. More to his taste were tales of men who jumped on tanks and banged iron bars down machine guns to knock them out of plumb. Those guys were more in line with the heroes from the stories he knew.

So, their Finnishness was ennobled. Duly cast into the model of patriotism. Truth be told, their spirit could not have been better suited to the task for which they’d been assembled.

A year went by. Barracks rose along the edges of the clearing, which itself had been leveled into a training area. There the men ran, shouted and gradually grew into a lazy lot of confirmed ‘old-timers’. Mäkinen was a soldier now too – or would have to suffice. He hadn’t turned out quite the way his makers had intended, but he would have to do. The gaping jaws of world history were waiting.

The machine-gunners were training on a separate side of the clearing. The afternoon was sweltering, and the heat, combined with the meal they’d just eaten, made the men so sluggish that their drills became even more slack than usual. Even the drill leaders had been NCOs too long to have any of that sharpness of ambition about them. This was particularly true after they realized that a conscript with the rank of corporal could consider himself at the highest peak his military career was going to afford him. The officers lingering further off weren’t particularly keen to back them up either, should they manage to muster up more than the minimum amount of effort required. Enthusiasm of that variety would be shot down immediately by murmurs of mutiny from the ranks.

‘Stop screaming, you fucking war horse!’

Listless orders rang out through the clanging of the guns the men lifted and lowered, going through the motions of their even more listless pivots.

‘Boys, this is it! What’cha gotta know in war is how to pivot. Just bust out one of these little doozies, and that’ll clear everything right up. In the bag.’

‘What’s that fellow Rahikainen muttering over there? Shut your traps in the ranks!’

‘Soon as you shut yours, pal…’

Suddenly, the drill sprang to life. Clangs sharpened and steps quickened and the officers loitering further off hurried briskly toward their platoons. Prompting all of this was a thin-blooded little man who had emerged from the barracks headquarters and was now heading for the training area. It was Captain Kaarna, formerly of the renowned Finnish Jaeger Battalion trained in Germany, and presently commander of the company. Fifty-something, clean-cut and straight as a ramrod, he cut a compelling figure, despite his small stature. The Captain was a swift and nimble fellow, but even so, something in his present step signaled exceptional urgency. Kaarna kept his eyes fixed on the company as he walked, as if, in his impatience, he might will himself to his destination. And so he stumbled on a burnt tree root, regaining his balance quickly, though not before sputtering, ‘Yee-aach! Mother f—’

Turning around to look for the root, the Captain promptly tripped on another, this time only barely managing to remain upright. ‘ Whaaoah! Son of a bitch!’ All his bottled-up tension erupted in an impromptu soliloquy that fizzled out into series of disgruntled coughs. ‘Achem. Hmm.’

Upon reaching the company, he paused for a deep breath. Then, sitting on each syllable, he yelled, his voice cracking mid-command: ‘Ma-chiii-hi-iine Gu-nnaaars!’