by Väinö Linna
The men choked back their laughter at Rahikainen’s plea, all the more outrageous for having been addressed directly to the Captain. But even the corners of Kaarna’s lips betrayed the trace of a dry smile as he said, ‘Well, well. Listen to this. Listen to this man! Won’t oblige, he says. Naaw … nah. If she takes after her mother, she will, and if she takes after her father, she’ll downright beg you for it. All right, let me see. Those boots – trade ’em in for new ones. They won’t last the march … hee, hee. Lay on the love songs. So that’s what it is. Well, well. This boy’s going to conquer the ladies with his pen … his pen, he says! Hietanen! The NCOs appear to have taken advantage of their friendly relations with weapons supply to get some shoddy rifles for themselves. Well, that’s one way to get out of cleaning and greasing your gun barrels … sneaky business … sneaky business. But if anyone in the platoon is still hanging on to one of those, have him go and trade it in immediately. Is that clear? OK, all right. With his pen, he says. Hmm. Ha! Well. Lah-dee-dah … da-dee-dum-dada.’
The whole time, the Captain’s sharp eyes had been surveying the men’s gear. The running monologue and constant humming were typical of his general mode of operation – outlets for his excess energy.
Without even standing at attention, the first squad leader, Corporal Lehto, suddenly asked, ‘Captain, sir, I’m not a boy scout, so I don’t know what we’re supposed to be prepared for. It’s not war, is it?’
‘Nooo … no …’ The Captain kept his composure. ‘You don’t go to war just like that. The war’s pretty far off. All the way in the Balkans.’
‘Captain, sir,’ Rahikainen piped up, ‘it seems to move pretty quick these days! You know … uh, “Blitzkrieg”, so to speak.’
Kaarna looked at Rahikainen and laughed. ‘Well, if it comes, it comes! War comes, you fight!’
‘Oh, we’ll fight all right. And once we get started, there’s no telling how far we’ll go.’
‘That’s the way, that’s the way!’ Private Salo, the guy from Ostrobothnia, was eager to chip in a word.
A ripple of disdain flashed across the Captain’s face. Salo’s ingratiating zeal clearly nauseated him, but his voice remained businesslike as he turned to Lehto. ‘By the way. It seems you may have to do without that coffee.’
‘Makes no difference to me,’ Lehto replied flatly.
Lehto had taken on a position of trust with the Captain, having recently moved the latter’s family into a new apartment in town. The lady of the house hadn’t been able to offer him the customary coffee during the move, so Lehto had been promised it at some later date. This corporal from the outskirts of the working-class town of Tampere had taken a rather curious route to becoming the Captain’s favorite – namely, by returning late from leave. Lehto had been without his parents since he was a little boy, and so was accustomed to fending for himself. There was something shady, even sinister about him, and the others all sensed it, though they wouldn’t have been able to put it into words. They were all about the same age, but Lehto seemed older. His terse, surly manner never betrayed the slightest hint of warmth, and he became visibly irritated when confronted with sentimental situations. Homeland, family, faith, the Glorious Finnish Army and anything at all that smacked of ‘spirituality’ – Lehto had one swift answer to all of it: ‘Cut the crap! Let’s see who’s got cash. Who’s playing?’
As a civilian he’d ridden shotgun for a truck driver, but beyond that no one had managed to squeeze any information out of him about his previous life. Marches and other heavy-duty exercises never seemed to tire him. His face alone would take on a stony cast, and his thin-lipped mouth would stretch tight into an almost savage expression.
He’d been a full week late returning from leave, and in response to the Captain’s questioning, he had replied flatly, ‘Didn’t feel like it.’
‘Feel like it!’ Kaarna fairly trembled with rage. ‘Are you aware of the consequences?’
‘I know the Disciplinary Code, Captain, sir.’
The Captain paused for a moment, staring out of the window. He tapped his fingers on the corner of the table and finally said quietly, ‘If that’s the road you want to take, you’d better be prepared to see it to the end. A man can take his own will for the law only on the condition that he forfeit all rights. You set yourself outside the tribe, outside of its jurisdiction, and you are an outlaw.’
For just one moment the Captain had tested Lehto’s willpower. But Lehto’s eyes were level with the Captain’s, cold and expressionless. His gaze entertained not the slightest distraction – no diversions, no evasion.
‘At its extreme, it means your life is always on the table. Do you think you would play with those stakes, if this incident had escalated to those dimensions? Now we’re just talking about a couple of weeks’ confinement, which is nothing. But if push came to shove, and it was your will against that of the army with every security it offers you at stake, do you think you’d hold your ground?’
Lehto hadn’t actually looked at it from so high a vantage point. In his mind it was more of a private affair. ‘Long as they don’t torture you before they kill you,’ he replied, ‘then why not?’
‘Fine. If that’s how it is, listen: everything great that man has ever done has depended on that conviction. There’s no use wasting it on petty insubordination. Strength and determination come to nothing if you squander them on just being defiant – they lose all their value, and then they just look ridiculous. I have no ethical right to punish you, only a right conferred by power. You ask nothing, so you owe nothing. I don’t think your position is any more incorrect than my use of power. But if you waste your energy on stunts like this, I will consider you a fool. Aim higher. Every man’s got a shot in this game – it’s a battle of wills and the field is wide open. But winning is not easy, and it requires more intelligence than you’ve just demonstrated. Just being able to muddle through trivial incidents as they come up isn’t going to cut it. You need a broader field of vision. Find it.’
A brief silence ensued before the Captain shook himself back to reality and said, ‘Very well. You’re dismissed.’
No disciplinary measures were taken, but Lehto was entrusted with various private tasks instead, including this whole moving business. And one evening, for no apparent reason, the Captain said in passing, ‘It’s never too late to start studying, you know. There’s always more worth knowing. Start with history.’
The suggestion bore no fruit. Lehto didn’t acquire any books, but the men did learn that the Captain himself read voraciously.
Otherwise, Lehto passed the test Kaarna’s favors presented. His attitude toward the Captain himself remained gruff and non-committal, but his work was always meticulously and carefully done.
‘Makes no difference to me,’ he said flatly, tossing his pack onto the bed as if the Captain weren’t there at all.
‘Right, right. So it goes,’ the Captain replied, matching the Corporal’s work-a-day nonchalance. And with that, he resumed his game face, calling out, ‘Hurry up, then!’ and strode swiftly from the barracks.
III
The exhortation was unnecessary. The men were already heading out. Where to they did not know, but that was what made it exciting – not to mention the truck transport, which meant that there would be no onerous foot-march to kill their mood. Truck transport, in the Finnish army! What on earth could such extravagance possibly foretell? It seemed wildly out of keeping with the whole enterprise.
They lugged their blankets and mattresses to the storeroom, where chaos reigned as never before. The quartermaster was beside himself. Co
rporal Mäkilä hailed from Laihia, a town renowned as Finland’s stingiest – and he had not been raised there for nothing. Thriftiness was Mäkilä’s passion – to such a degree that the term ‘pathological’ would not have been out of place, had the men been aware of such fine psychological distinctions. He kept the shelves in impeccable order, stocked with all the finest equipment, unmarred by any worn-out items – which he distributed to the company. He even spent his free time in the storeroom, checking the inventory against his account book over and over again. An ongoing feud prevailed between Mäkilä and the company. The men coming to trade in their equipment made their clamoring demands, only to be met with Mäkilä’s low-voiced – and thus, all the more stubborn – refusal, which he typically checked only upon receiving express orders from the Captain. The most excruciating moments of his military career were those in which he was obliged to stand by and watch, turning red and clearing his throat, as the officers cherry-picked the best equipment for themselves, enjoying the privilege of their rank. A low muttering would emanate from the storeroom for a long time after such an incident, and any man who dared enter would be met with a reception even more offputting than usual.
Unlike most quartermasters, Mäkilä dressed himself in the shabbiest garments to be found in the storeroom. He was quick to point to his own scarecrowesque attire as grounds for his refusal. ‘Of course, everyone wants to walk around dressed like a brigadier general. But we have to make do with what’s left, when the actual officers keep snatching everything right out of my hands. You all want riding breeches and patent-leather boots, but then where will they be when you actually need them?’
Such ‘actual need’ as would induce Mäkilä to surrender gear voluntarily was not likely ever to arise. As the son of a big farm-owner in Laihia, Mäkilä often received packages from home, which he would furtively sneak off to the storeroom so he wouldn’t have to share them. Once the mail arrived so late that Mäkilä had already undressed for bed. His package was dispatched to the corporals’ barracks, putting him in a tight spot. He didn’t dare get dressed again to take the package away, but if he kept it in the barracks he would be forced to share its contents. Mäkilä fended off the men temporarily by mumbling something about sharing things in the morning, and hid the package under his pillow.
That night, a cautious rustling of paper began to issue from Mäkilä’s bed, prompting the lights to flood back on as Hietanen’s voice boomed through the barracks, ‘Guys, wake up! Mäkilä’s sharing his package!’
Suspecting that Mäkilä might try to pull something during the night, the others had organized a rota to stand watch, just in case – and now they descended upon the package’s luckless owner by the dozen. Mäkilä sat on his bed, blinking his eyes and gripping his package to his chest, concealing it beneath the corner of his felt blanket. No physical blows were dealt, but every possible psychological pressure was applied in full. All in vain, however – for, as Mäkilä assured them, ‘It’s just clothes. There’s nothing to eat but a couple of rye crackers. And those aren’t even worth trying to divide up. It’s just the underwear I wrote home for – there’s nothing to eat.’
Not so much as a crumb made it into the men’s clutches, and for weeks afterwards their jeering and abuse fell on Mäkilä’s deaf ears.
The men did recognize that Mäkilä had his merits, however. The machine-gunners faced none of the usual supply-chain thievery that usually diverted chunks of the soldiers’ spartan rations to a circle of insiders, and this was due solely to the fact that Mäkilä was scrupulously honest in performing his duties. Once, one of the squad leaders from Mäkilä’s barracks had appealed to his sense of camaraderie to try to get something from the storeroom, but that turned out to be a mistake. Mäkilä just stared at the ceiling, going red, blinking his eyes and clearing his throat in his typical fashion. Then he indignantly declared, ‘You should be aware that all rations are shared on the mess hall table. The provisions I receive from the battalion are set according to company headcount, and I weigh them on scales and divide them up for meals. The only way to get extra food in the army is by stealing.’
The company’s unexpected departure presented a severe trial for Mäkilä. It pained him to watch the men detailed to help him carelessly rolling up blankets and mattresses into unruly bundles, but his book-keeping prevented him from getting mixed up in the matter. It was equally distressing for him to watch men dumping their equipment all over the floor in their impatience to be off.
‘There’s all the gear for Old Lady Rahikainen’s boy! Gimme a receipt, now, huh?’
Mäkilä was beet-red. Beet-red and clearing his throat. And it says a lot that this man, who had never sworn in his life, who clasped his hands in prayer furtively under the table at meals so the others wouldn’t see, now sputtered, ‘My God, what a sorry state of affairs this world is in! Sure, just drop your gear wherever you want, like a dog drops shit. Nobody gets a receipt until I’ve taken an inventory!’
Just then a fellow from the Third Platoon walked in, the guy the Captain had ordered to trade in his boots. He was turned away, and so had to fetch Hietanen to come and back him up. Hietanen had already managed to get himself into a card game, and so, annoyed at the interruption, he hurried to the doorway and hollered, ‘Boots for Salonen on the double! Cap’n’s orders.’
‘I do not have time to give out boots. And that Cap’n gives orders as if we were in America, where there’s more stuff than anybody needs. Just go crying to your Cap’n and he’ll order me to give out whatever it is you’re hankering after!’
Now Hietanen was hacked off, too. ‘Jesus! It will never cease to amaze me how you hoard all that garbage back there. How in the hell anybody can love those ratty, tatty rags so goddamn much is beyond me. Some pretty, affectionate girl, well, sure, I can understand that just fine, but Christ! Plain old rags? Nah, you got me on that one, I’m stumped. Pre-tty damn strange if you ask me. Just thinking about it makes me feel like somebody dropped an anvil on my head.’
Even Mäkilä’s patience had its limits. He stammered for a moment before the words came. ‘Take it all. Take whatever you want. Here, clear the place out. Call over the whole platoon and deck yourselves out. We’re clean out of those spurs with the nice clink, but we’ll divvy up the best we’ve got.’
‘Look, I don’t need any jingle bells, but I am taking boots for Salonen. Those, grab those ones there. Just swap your old ones and let’s go.’
Salonen exchanged his boots and they left, but Hietanen was so tickled with amusement at the whole situation, and particularly his victory, that he couldn’t resist hollering from the door, ‘Don’t you give up hope, now! There’s enough ratty tatty rags to go around!’
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, t
herefore, 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.
IV
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.