by Väinö Linna
Koskela knew Rokka’s singing was just for show. He knew their effort hardly stood any chance of success, but there he went nonetheless, humming away – humming to say that he was ready for anything, hopeless as things might be. In other words, the song meant: Come what may – no time to worry about that now.
V
‘Move out!’
A faint creaking sounded in the forest. No one said a single word. The men knew the drill. Holding their breath, they made their way through a security layer of men positioned in front of them, expecting shots at any moment. Sometimes one of them would glance at the guy next to him as if to ask something, and his neighbor’s face would answer, ‘Not yet.’
It was seven o’clock. A breathless hush reigned over the silent forest. They could hear shooting further out in front of them, on the other side of the enemy’s encirclement. Evening sunlight bathed the bark of the trees. Winding through the forest was a cow path teeming with ants dragging twigs and pine needles to their nest. Occasionally a stripped, sun-bleached spruce branch would snap as a scratched-up boot happened upon it. Nobody was observing the beauty and quiet solemnity of the wo0dland, however. There were plenty of grave, searching eyes voraciously scanning the forest, but they were looking only for signs of the enemy so that they could strike first. Their scout was out in front. He slipped from tree to tree, bush to bush, trying to remain invisible. Suddenly the men following saw him drop to the ground and at the same moment came a shrill Pi … piew … pieew …
Prr … prr … prrrrrrrrrrrr …
It was the scout’s submachine gun.
‘Enemy ahead! Enemy ahead! Positioned on the slope! Alert down the line!’
The platoons fell into formation and the artillery observer ordered his men to fire. The barrage came quickly, but rather feebly, as the artillery positions were being harassed by planes overhead. No sooner had their own artillery fallen silent than the enemy started answering fire from behind. They were so near, however, that the Russian artillery observer couldn’t fire close enough for fear of hitting his own men, so the barrage landed about a hundred yards behind them. It was still underway when Koskela’s voice cried out, ‘Shut ’em up, boys!’
‘Shut ’em up … Shut ’em up … Shut ’em up …’ The words spurred the men on, and they repeated them down the line verbatim, as somehow or other the command struck just the right tone for the situation. The men had decided that tonight they weren’t messing around. And no wonder – for the situation was precisely the kind to ignite a Finn’s fighting spirit. A mighty roar rang through the forest. ‘Whooo-aaah! Mothuuurfuckuuuur! Hoooo-raaah!’
Viirilä’s roar was easily distinguishable from the others, as he had his own, personal battle cry. Once, Kariluoto had mentioned in passing that the Catholics’ battle cry in the Thirty Years’ War had been ‘Holy Christ, our Savior’. Viirilä had adapted this into the national style, which was better suited to his particular spirit. After that, the others’ shouts were frequently drowned out by his blaring, inhuman roar of ‘Holy crap, it’s Satan!’
The roar sparked a deafening racket. It was as if a funeral pyre of dry juniper had been set on fire. Only at many times the volume. Three men in a row fell beside one root, and the others were searching for cover. The sides of the trees crackled and snapped, sending bits of bark and wood flying into the air, and constant, angry whistles hailed down onto the tufts of grass carpeting the forest floor.
Koskela was all the way in the back, surveying the situation. He could tell right away from the sound of the firing that the enemy’s forces were spread at least as wide as theirs, and perhaps even wider. There was nothing to do but yell ‘Straight on!’, but the fire raining down from the gently sloping rise was so intense that the operation looked impossible.
‘Soften them up with some fire first, guys,’ he yelled to the men nearby, who then began searching for targets. Koskela himself located the machine-gunner, whose head fell as Koskela’s submachine gun opened fire. A new head quickly rose in its place and the weapon started up again. Koskela got the new gunner in the sight and the man fell, but remained visible. They pulled the body away, however, and a new helmet rose into view. When it fell, no fourth followed, but Koskela knew that the men on the hill also understood what fleeing would mean. They weren’t going to give so much as a yard without leaving their dead upon it. That much was clear from the beginning.
The firing didn’t last long, though. The men were on the verge of losing all initiative, the first wave of enthusiasm having vanished. Something had to be done. He would probably have to intervene personally. Before he’d had a chance to drum up a plan, he heard Rokka yelling a couple of dozen yards off to his right. ‘Hey lissen, you with the light machine gun! Shoot at that mess’a sticks over by that pine. An’ shoot like the devil!’
‘What for?’
‘They gotta light machine-gunner over there, see. And I wanna git me behind that stump. They’ll kill me if they’re left’ta shoot in peace. So you shoot real hard!’
The light machine-gun opened fire and Rokka got up. There was a flash of gray as he made a dash for the root, and only once he’d ducked behind it did the hail of bullets start whistling after him.
Rokka needed no more than a blink of the eye to figure out what was concealed in the mass of alder bushes he’d ordered the man to keep under fire. There was a pit in there with three men inside. One guy with a submachine gun and a light-machine-gunner with a fellow helping him. The latter had his light machine-gun, one of those Soviet ‘Emma’s, hammering away on his trail, but he himself was safely under cover of the stump. Flames fluttered from its fire damper, and Rokka could clearly see the man’s broad-boned jaw pressed up against the butt of the light machine gun. He took a hand grenade from his belt and felt a wave of smugness wash over him, prompted by his perfect confidence that his target was toast. When his eye caught sight of a smooth pine cone, he snatched it and threw. He regretted it instantly, of course, but he just hadn’t been able to resist, so what of it? The unexpected pine cone sailed smack into the pile of sticks. One of the men noticed it, but by then Rokka’s hand grenade was already airborne. A panicked scream came from the pit, and the heads disappeared. The pile of sticks exploded into the air and Rokka made a dash for the pit. One of the six hands moved and Rokka shot it down as he ran.
Dirt flew up around the rim of the pit and Rokka pressed himself low, yelling, ‘C’mon, fellas! I’ll fire! You all know what’s out there in front of us? Finland! C’mon fellas! Now!’
He determined which direction the firing was coming from, and as soon as it paused, raised his head and shot. No more danger from that pit. He glanced backwards long enough to see the platoon leader, Ensign Taskinen, rise up to yell something and fall in the same blink of an eye. Then he saw the guy with the light machine gun lying dead in the spot he’d just passed. Further back was yet another fellow, his head rolling back and forth gruesomely as he fell to the ground. Rokka cleaned out another pit whose dwellers hadn’t yet caught on to what was happening.
As soon as he had stopped shooting, Rokka whirled around, as someone had thudded into his hole. It was Viirilä. He was making room for himself amidst the bodies and tore open one of the Russians’ packs. He found a long, untouched loaf of bread inside, which he promptly shoved down his shirt, against his bare chest. He didn’t have an undershirt. ‘Ain’t worth sporting an undershirt round here, like this job was better than it is, phahahaha!’ Lice had taken over Viirilä’s undershirt, and he had burned it over a campfire. ‘Phahahahah!’
Viirilä’s arrival had not gone unnoticed, and both men ducked their
heads as dirt flew up about the edges of the foxhole. Viirilä stomped his feet on the floor of the pit and hollered, ‘Hey, you over there! Yeah, you! What the hell do you think you’re doin’? Uh-huh … Cut it out! Either that or I’m gonna come over there and take that gun off your hands myself.’
‘Lissen. We clear out a couple a foxholes so the fellas can git in ’em … Then we steamroll ’em, see? You take the right, I take the left. You got any hand grenades?’
‘Yeah, I got a two or three potato mashers … You know the French for “black cat”?’
‘No, dunno … Lissen, now ain’t the time …’ Rokka was irritated, as the spot they were in demanded a quick follow-up, but he knew from experience that talking to Viirilä was like talking to a lunatic. The man had his own way of doing things.
Viirilä suddenly raised his submachine gun and fired a short burst, finishing off some man who had just raised his helmeted head above the edge of his pit.
‘It’s a dark miaow. Phahahaha!’
A hand grenade sailed toward them. As soon as it went off, Rokka raised his gun, knowing that its throwers would also be watching to see where it landed, and took out yet another of the most dangerous enemy soldiers. Viirilä peeked out at the terrain and squatted down in the pit ready to sprint. Then he commanded himself, ‘Private Viirilä. Man the foxhole of the enemy soldier you have just executed, then fire at the Soviet soldiers’ machine-gun position that is located at the base of that pine. The pine is situated in the eastern portion of the Greater Finland. In order to paralyze enemy morale, you are to strike up a spirited battle cry.’
Rokka had also spotted this same machine-gun position. It sat in the protection of a boulder that prevented any of their fire from reaching it. The same rock meant that the machine gun couldn’t shoot at them either, but it was perfectly capable of annihilating anything in the pit Viirilä was eyeing. Rokka decided to shoot at the rock to subdue the men as Viirilä made his dash, and as soon as Viirilä rose, he opened fire.
Viirilä bolted off. Seeing him in his normal state, nobody would ever have imagined that this hulking beast of a man had so much speed and power in him. His army boots – two sizes too large – thudded down two or three times as he leapt between the pits. With his last thump, he roared, ‘Holy crap, it’s Saaaataaaan!’
Rokka kept the rock sparking with continual fire. The machine gun was silent and thus condemning itself to certain destruction. Viirilä’s monstrosity of a head rose from the pit and he emptied the drum of his submachine gun into the enemy position. One of the wounded machine-gunners tried to crawl to safety, but Viirilä had already reloaded his gun, blurting as he fired, ‘Stay with your group! Private Viirilä’s orders.’
Just then Rokka took off. He made it to a strong shooting position as well, and the two of them cut an opening in the line of defense along the slope. It was no more than thirty yards across, but it was enough. When Koskela saw that Rokka and Viirilä had opened up the possibility for a charge, he joined the men himself and then, ordered it. The moment was, above all, psychologically opportune. The men closest had seen the feats of their two comrades and, fired up by their success, they pushed forward.
Hand grenades burst on one side, then the other. Fierce hand-to-hand combat filled the foxholes. Four hours later, Koskela’s company was atop the slope’s ridge, but its force of sixty-eight men strong had shrunk by seventeen.
They made it to Major Sarastie’s headquarters and found his body stripped down to its underwear. There, a fierce counter-attack took them by surprise and fending it off proved no easy task. Määttä and Vanhala had to shoot through the belt of every last assailant before the attack was put down.
VI
Kariluoto was crouched beside the remains of the ambulance. The bodies reeked something terrible. The ones inside had been burnt to a crisp, but Hietanen and the new recruit who’d made it out of the vehicle hadn’t burned, only their clothes had. Hietanen’s leather belt still smelled like it was smoldering.
The First Company had also managed to advance somewhat. The enemy had pulled back their position as well, when Koskela’s attack pushed it out of its positions south of the road. But it had dug in its heels again and skirmishing had given way to heavy fighting.
Casualties were high. There was no blaming the men for any lack of effort this evening. The head of the First Company, Lieutenant Pokki, had fallen almost immediately. He had made the error of yelling condescendingly at some men who had halted in their advance, ‘Come on, boys, move out! Nothing over there but a couple of loose-stooled Russkis.’
‘Well, fuck, in that case, why don’t you just kick ’em dead so we can get back over to our own side?’ the men had muttered.
The Lieutenant lost his temper and stepped out in front, where a bullet promptly lodged itself in his throat.
The situation demanded some sort of solution. The firing had diminished perceptibly and Kariluoto knew from experience that this meant the men had lost their initiative and were lying under cover, shooting randomly. Koskela’s word of the counter-attack had just reached them, and Kariluoto listened fearfully for those savage cries ringing out through the ceaseless shooting.
Something had to be done. Should they leave? Round up the battalion and curve around, pulling out through the forest? But there was the Lieutenant Colonel’s command – which was also supported by the Second Company commander’s recent message that the enemy had calmed down along the brook line and seemed to be stopping there, contrary to expectations. But pressing onward looked difficult. There were three bodies lying over there, side by side. Some wounded man was screaming and moaning as the medics hurriedly dragged him to cover. Then Kariluoto saw a man being dragged from the line on his side, and heard the man’s panicky, trembling voice repeat, ‘It’s over, boys … the Virolainen boy’s war is over … Virolainen’s heading off.’
For the first time, Kariluoto felt that the responsibility for the men’s deaths was his. Then he swallowed his feeling of doubt and yelled, ‘Fourth Platoon, join the First Company’s advance and take the enemy position directly ahead.’
Stopping here would mean that all the casualties incurred up to now had been utterly in vain. And besides, Koskela needed relief. Now was the time to strike. There were two options. Succeed and clear up the situation, or else … not curve around through the forest, but die.
The Fourth Platoon got itself into formation. Kariluoto had it join the First Company’s clearly diminished line, hoping that the additional force would get the operation moving again.
Something of Kariluoto’s mood took hold within his platoon. The men had seen how this slope devoured lives, but it hadn’t crushed their spirit. On the contrary – it made them feel they had no right to be spared any longer either. They knew that Kariluoto had kept them in reserve because shared experience had made them a bit closer to him than the others. They were the last shot. Everything depended on them.
Kariluoto stepped beside them into the line. A savage call to charge rang out, and a terrific clatter ensued, swallowing up all individual voices.
Napoleon and the Old Guard at Waterloo. The comparison wasn’t nearly as feeble as it might have seemed. Three years earlier, this same platoon had broken through the bunker line, and Kariluoto could still spot a few of the same men in the line: Ukkola, Rekomaa, Lampioinen, Heikinaro and a few others.
The men of the First Company joined the attack. Kariluoto yelled and shot with his gun under his arm, though he hadn’t yet caught sight of the enemy. Just lead rain lashing against the branches and the ground.
‘Yes, Ukkola!’ he cried, seeing th
e man leap forward, shooting and howling. But right on the heels of his shout, a cry of panic escaped Kariluoto. Ukkola dropped his submachine gun and staggered to his knees behind a hill of blueberry bushes.
‘Ukkola!’
‘In the chest … I’m weak … so much for this boy’s sprint …’
Ukkola didn’t die, however, though he had thought he would. The medics pulled him to safety. Kariluoto continued to advance. He was soon forced to take cover, as the enemy was beginning to notice him.
Then Rekomaa and Heikinaro fell, one after the other. The men searched for cover, and Kariluoto was afraid the advance would get stuck again. Yelling, he rose to his feet and dashed to the root of a pine tree, shooting at the enemy, but with little effect, as their opponents were well hidden.
Cries for the medics rang out once more. Some guy from the First Company rose to his feet and threw a hand grenade. Kariluoto saw clearly how the shower struck him, and heard the man grunt softly as he died. Word came from the right that the squad leader had been killed.
Kariluoto urged the men on, but garnered nothing but a couple of short sprints. What was wrong with them? Then Kariluoto realized that in the space of the last ten minutes, the line had diminished almost to the point of non-existence. The terrain was empty to either side of him. And two more wounded men were crawling to the rear.
The enemy had been shooting furiously the entire time. They shot even though no one was visible, and the bullets brought up moss in ceaseless swirls. Kariluoto’s mind was numb. The attack had failed. The First Company platoons attacking on the right sent word that they couldn’t advance any further. The losses were disproportionate.
Banging and rattling rang in Kariluoto’s ears in one heady, chaotic jumble. His consciousness swirled with panic. I’ve killed the company. I drove them to their deaths … I knew myself that this wouldn’t work. I can’t manage anything more with these men … Now they’re even shooting Rekomaa’s corpse.