Unknown Soldiers

by Väinö Linna

  The Sergeant’s body was lying in plain sight, and some enemy soldier was pummeling it with his light machine gun so that the body shook with his fire. The sight was too horrific to endure, and Kariluoto turned his eyes away. Just a moment ago the man had been yelling and shooting, and now he was lying there bloody, shaking like a limp pile of meat as the bullets pounded into his back.

  Firing was weak on their own side. Good God! There was hardly anyone left shooting. Kariluoto was terrified. His impression of the situation was more desperate than it actually was, as death had hit his immediate surroundings hardest, the men there having attempted the charge at his impetus. His former platoon was now more or less finished. As was the First Company’s second platoon, which had attacked with them. Though in truth, neither unit had had more than a dozen men to begin with. And there were a few men helping the wounded.

  One consolation did come, at least. Koskela’s runner arrived from the south side of the road, announcing that the counter-attack had been put down and that there was a strong channel open in front of Määttä’s machine gun. Even so, Koskela had said that he couldn’t continue right away and, moreover, that his impression was that the operation was a lost cause. Kariluoto was to wait until they could both try again simultaneously.

  ‘Wait! For what?’ Kariluoto had surrendered to complete despair. Koskela wouldn’t be any help. The enemy was strong enough to take on both of them. It didn’t even need to move men. If he didn’t make it through now, he wasn’t going to make it through later either.

  He pulled back slightly and headed down the line to the right. That would be the place to try from, in the Third Platoon’s sector. Its leader was wounded, and Kariluoto took command of the platoon.

  ‘Let’s try again, men.’

  No one replied. But the men silently prepared to charge.

  ‘Advance!’

  The movement sparked the enemy to fire full blast, and Kariluoto saw once more how the death of two men can bring their comrades screeching to a halt.

  ‘I will not stop … I will not stop …’ Kariluoto wasn’t stepping forward, he was crawling. His face was snow-white, and his voice was stiff and strangled as he yelled, ‘One more time, men …’

  When the bullet struck, his mind burst with a strange release. He had three seconds to realize that he was dying, but in those three seconds he feared death less than he had in the entire war. He was almost content, as he realized, his consciousness fading, ‘That’s it … Now it’s over …’

  Jorma Kariluoto had paid his dues into the common pot of human idiocy.

  As had Virolainen, Rekomaa, Heikinaro, Pokki, Vähä-Martti, Hellström, Lepänoja, Airila, Saastamoinen, Häkkilä, Elo, Uimonen, Vartio, Suonpää, Mikkola, Yli-Hannu, Kuusenoja, Kalliomäki, Vainionpää, Ylönen and Teerimäki.

  They were all mourned from afar, soldiers who remained in the field. The names of Kariluoto and Lieutenant Pokki, the First Company’s commander, appeared on the walls of their former schools. Russian work teams buried them all, along with the battalion’s other dead, beside the swamp, not far from Sarastie’s command post.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I

  Upon receiving word of Kariluoto’s death, Koskela immediately got the head of the Second Company on the phone. He suggested the man take over command. The Lieutenant turned him down, however. The honor held no allure for him, and besides, he knew Koskela himself was the better man for the job.

  ‘I’ll do it if you consent to a retreat through the ponds’ Koskela said.

  The Lieutenant hesitated. He would have to get in touch with the Division Commander by radio first.

  Koskela was irritated. In truth, there was no way he was going to continue with the attack, but Lieutenant Colonel Karjula might order the Second Company commander to do so. Koskela had been thinking they could just break off, and not get back in touch until all possibility of continuing this useless massacre of men had passed. He knew Karjula well enough to fear that the man might suspect him of exaggerating in his assessment of the situation.

  Nor was he mistaken. But he declared flatly that at least the part of the battalion under his command was not going to continue the attack. The Division Commander was infuriated. He had assembled a weak force to secure the west side, and if the battalion pulled out from where it was, the enemy would immediately shift more men over to the barricade, which would enable them to push it off the road.

  They were still arguing when a great clamor began over by the line by the brook. The phone rang and the Second Company sent word that a fierce attack was underway. Koskela brusquely apprised the Commander of the situation, to which the latter replied furiously, ‘In any cathe, you are to bring the equipment back with you.’

  ‘Not the anti-tank guns, at any rate. But the battalion I’ll bring.’ Koskela put down the radio phone and said to the artillery observer, ‘We’re going to keep that guy off for a little while.’

  Then the phone started ringing and the messengers, running. Commands were clear, single-minded and thoroughly considered. Koskela pulled the First Company back somewhat. Then he withdrew the Third Company from the south side of the road entirely and set it up in defensive positions along the north side, so that the line ran partially along the road, turned to follow the brook line, then curved back around toward the north on the far left wing. Thus he got the men into a horseshoe formation, and ordered the wounded to be brought into its center. He had already had the wounded from his own company carried to the north side of the road earlier in the evening, as well as assigned a command group to make stretchers out of stakes and tent tarps. At one point he had thought that they might get the road open, but he had proceeded with his preparations regardless.

  One of Kariluoto’s men asked, hesitating, ‘What about the bodies? We brought the Captain’s body out too.’

  ‘The living are enough.’ Koskela didn’t even glance at Kariluoto’s body, nor any of the other dead. There was no time for prayers. He was concerned with nothing but saving the battalion, which he had decided he was going to do, come hell or high water. His face expressionless, he issued commands with businesslike brevity, and without thought or question, the men obeyed.

  He was most concerned about the Second Company’s position. How were the men going to be able to pull out under that kind of enemy pressure? Koskela knew that that kind of withdrawal was one of the most difficult operations to pull off, because in that sort of situation the squads could easily get mixed up – panic, even. And he couldn’t send any help, as he needed to have a position ready to receive them, through which the Second Company might pull out safely.

  Luckily, the guys manning the south side of the road were able to disengage and retreat to safety before the tanks rumbled over the defensive forces alongside the road. The tanks destroyed one of the anti-tank guns, and its men along with it, but the other went flying spectacularly into the air, its own men having amassed everything they had by way of explosives and ignited them all underneath it just as they fled. A barrel explosion would have destroyed the gun more easily, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as impressive – and even in their mortal danger, the men really enjoyed the fireworks.

  They left behind four machine guns, as well as some of the wounded, but considering the circumstances, Koskela was satisfied.

  He sent the Second Company northward to spearhead the coming march. The First and Third Companies would hold the ring of the horseshoe henceforth. Then he gathered the machine-gun, mortar and anti-tank teams, as well as the artillery observers, in its center.

  ‘Get yourselves into carrying squads of four
. If we’re short of stretchers, make some up quick. The wounded we carry and the machine guns we dump in the pond. We’ll just keep one as a souvenir.’

  Koskela looked around and saw Määttä, leaning on his machine gun. ‘Want to bring yours?’

  ‘Don’t make much difference. Whatever you want.’

  It seemed natural that Määttä’s gun should be the one they kept. He’d been looking after it since the first days of the war, first shooting it, then leading its team – and now there he was, leaning on it, mute as a statue. Not once had any of them seen him hand it over to somebody else to carry. At the beginning, this devotion to a weapon the others detested for its weight and unwieldiness had just been a statement of the small-bodied man’s quiet ambition, but over time it had become elevated into an ideal – the only ideal Määttä really had in connection with the war. He would have been able to toss it into the pond, but it was almost unthinkable that it would stay behind with the enemy unless Määttä’s body stayed with it. It had fallen to the enemy for a little while, when Lahtinen had fallen and it had stayed with him, but Määttä didn’t think he could be held responsible for that. After the enemy withdrew the next day, they had found it a little way from Lahtinen’s body, and from that point on Määttä had guarded it like a precious inheritance.

  Even if Määttä had answered his question offhandedly, Koskela knew that he had given Määttä something no decoration ever could ever have. With his question, he had attested before all of them to Määttä’s superior ability to carry the machine gun.

  The others hesitated at first. It felt strange to throw weapons into the pond, weapons they’d been dragging around the whole war long, often with the very last shreds of their strength.

  ‘Just toss?’

  Koskela grabbed the closest man’s machine gun. ‘Just toss. Like this … I don’t have time for jokes.’

  The water heaved and there it went. Koskela’s irritation was as strange as the dumping of the machine guns – but dump them they did, as the men cast their hesitation aside.

  ‘So long, buddy boy!’

  ‘Have a good trip, you jack-hammering bastard!’

  ‘No more tearing up my shoulder!’

  Even the war hadn’t quite killed the rascals in them. Their faces beamed with mischievous delight.

  Enemy tanks were already on the road, their infantry forcing the men on the horseshoe into combat. In the interest of safety, Koskela set their course due north, designating the small, nameless ponds he had pointed out to Kariluoto earlier as their first destination. The First Company’s patrol had determined that the flanking enemy forces had positioned men all along the north side of the road, and Koskela wanted to avoid running into them at any cost. Burdened down with their loads and the weight of their defeat, the men would be helpless if confronted with any significant fighting. He needed to get the battalion back to the road in one piece, and that was going to require a long detour.

  He knew that he needed to get it there as quickly as possible, but even if it meant facing the court martial, Koskela had decided that they had taken enough reckless gambles for one day. Not even in their famous ‘shitty encirclement’ had they lost as many men as they had in this hopeless effort. The last three hours had been the bloodiest in the battalion’s history. Koskela recalled Hietanen’s charred body. Even the bandage around over his eyes had burned.

  Koskela grunted.

  II

  Vanhala, Rahikainen, Honkajoki and Sihvonen carried Ukkola.

  He was in severe pain. The bullet had gone in through the chest pocket of his shirt. At first it seemed that the wound was not dangerous, but soon after their departure, Ukkola had started coughing, and blood rose to his lips.

  ‘So it has punctured the lung, damn it. No wonder it feels like there’s a nail in there every time I breathe,’ he gasped.

  The others tried to console him, but Ukkola knew the value of such speeches all too well. He had knelt more than once beside some dying guy, telling him over and over again how easy his recovery would be. He hadn’t even feared death all that much, but this incessant pain was hard to take.

  In an effort to cheer him up, Honkajoki started talking about his own injury, describing the wonders of the military hospital. Ukkola was heaving and writhing on his stretcher, but Honkajoki carried on with all his former aplomb. ‘All of the finest women serve as nurses’ aides. They are indeed heroic, as you will see. They do not even consider it below themselves to wash the leathery ass of a private. Why, those boys have risked their lives over there! With that curly, blond hair and strapping, athletic physique, you’ll be a sensation. Don’t you worry. Try to hang on just a little longer. I know how it feels. They carried me in a sled during the thaw. Careful, gentlemen. Careful you don’t jar him.’

  ‘Break!’

  Vanhala sat down on a mound of grass and wiped his cap across his brow. Low moans sounded out in front of them. The infantry guys covering their passage stood off to the side. The dusk of the summer evening was just descending into darkness. A fine mist hovered in the damp air. And Vanhala was smiling. Not with glee, nor with bitterness, but as if he were weighing the whole evening in his mind and smiling nonetheless. ‘They’ve suffered some losses, but our army is as unbeatable as ever as it retreats behind a new line of defense.’

  Ukkola’s face twisted into a smile. He’d spent hundreds of hours on guard with Vanhala.

  ‘Ohhhh … as … chuh … chuh … as long … chm … ohhhhh. As long as … chm … we’re still breathing … they’ll be saying … chm … we’re un … unbeatable … chm …’

  ‘Here, let me straighten you out …’

  ‘It’s no use … chm … so long as there’s still one … chm … left to slaughter … chm … we’re not beat … chm … ohhh ohhh … What’s it gonna take … chm … for us to be beat?’

  ‘Does anyone have a handkerchief? Or actually, hand me a bandage.’ Honkajoki wiped the blood from Ukkola’s lips.

  Vanhala put his cap back on his head. He knew that Ukkola in severe pain still couldn’t be anyone but the old Ukkola, so he said, giggling softly, ‘Undaunted even in his defeat, laughing proudly in the face of death, he looks beyond the avalanche that has buried the hopes of his homeland. Heehee … You heard it. We can’t lose.’

  The words Vanhala had just uttered were ones the men had recently heard on the radio, and Ukkola was amused just by the fact that Vanhala remembered such things so precisely. When they got moving again, he said, huffing, ‘Hold on tight, Priha … chm … chm. If these lungs hold out … chm … out … then … sometime … chm … we’ll go Priha … Ohhhh … huh … huh … get drunk …’

  After they started off, the wounded man three stretchers ahead of them died.

  The body was left at the base of a tree and the guys who’d been carrying the man started alternating shifts with the others. The dead man had been wounded by a shell out on the brook line and was already on his last legs when they’d set out. The men carrying Ukkola tried to pass by the spot in such a way that their friend wouldn’t see that the body had been left – but failed.

  ‘If … I don’t … chm … make it … then you’d cover me … with something … chm … oh who cares …’

  One of the wounded men had lost it. ‘Just don’t leave me! If they attack … You promise? Come on, speed up! Hurry up … If we run into them, don’t leave me behind …’

  The men carrying offered no promises. They lumbered on silently, grunting and panting, and whenever the wounded man rose in a panic, they pressed him back down on the stretcher.

  Ukkola’s pa
in was increasing. He was running a fever and Vanhala wrapped his coat around him like a blanket. Ukkola put his arm over his eyes, giving a moan now and again, frequently accompanied by a litany of curses. Once when the stretcher gave a violent lurch, he seemed jolted out of his pained torpor, and said, ‘Same … steps … Chm … step … together … boys.’

  ‘I don’t think we can get much of a sense of rhythm. Terrain’s hell.’

  Ukkola couldn’t keep up a smile any more. More and more blood rose to his lips and his breath grew weaker and weaker. His coughing fits soon became so agonizing that even the guys carrying him had a hard time watching. He was shivering from the fever, and soon anything they could find was wrapped around him.

  Four years of continuous malnourishment had not managed to diminish the life force of the country boy. Ukkola had been one of those athletes who turns up at every summer event, and although his results had remained unremarkable, the training had given him a kind of strength and endurance against which death could make no impression. It hadn’t managed to make him lose consciousness yet, though he himself wished that it would, as did the men carrying him.

  They reached their first destination. Koskela got in touch with the Commander. The man was in a rage. Everything had gone just as he feared. As soon as the battalion pulled out from the road, the enemy had brought its tanks up to the barricade and decimated it. They would have to continue pulling out, and now the detour would be longer still, as they needed to reach a destination that was even further off. The Colonel himself designated the point at which Koskela was to meet up with the main road, saying finally, ‘That ith the command. Your berry-picking excurthion endth there. Ith that clear?’