Battalion Wolf drove into Tarnopol, entering its peculiar cityscape of ruins, half-wrecked houses and still functional structures. It was allotted quarters in the southern part of town. Next day the unit participated in the mopping-up of the city, clearing it of the last Russian die-hards.
8th Company’s clean up mission was in the northern part of town, in the industrial area. Arno and his Platoon were there, they had their tasks and they solved them. It was pretty much a routine job, with some wounded and dead. Like Private Salazar, shot by a dying Russian as they winkled out a sniper.
During one phase of the mop-up Arno stood in an office. There were two desks with telephones, a bookcase and a window. The window was broken. A curtain fluttered in the draft. Arno strode towards the window, stopping short so he was still in shadow, and stood looking out over the city.
He saw rooftops, clouds of smoke from fires and sky, pale blue sky with the special shimmer of April. Standing there, Arno for some strange reason came to think of Norrbotten, Sweden, where he was stationed in 1940: snow-covered fir trees, snow-covered swamps, blue sky over rustling forests. Why did I come to think of this, Arno wondered, while fighting in Ukraine in 1944? I wasn’t even born in Norrland. But as a mere place, a mere image, “Norrland” was a strong metaphor. Norrland was a landscape being more than a landscape; it was a state of mind, with the thousand-mile taiga of conifers as the main feature. Privately, in his mind, Arno had lived and breathed the essence of this northern clime almost every day since he had been there.
Later that day, the platoon was in a backyard. Arno put out sentries and rested, leaning against the wall of a storehouse. He found himself once again thinking about the North of Sweden, about the snow: snow in the woods, what a reassuring thought. Russia and the Eastern Front he found to be emotionally alien territory, mainly because of the lack of really large forests. And, although he had snatched a few hours’ uneasy sleep in fox holes dug into drifts, by northern Swedish standards there really wasn’t much snow on the plains here in winter. As for the Ukrainian winter, it could be damp and raw thanks to the proximity of the Black Sea. And then there was the Russian summer: no shade available, no coolness…
Arno’s thoughts drifted further: a military tent in the winter is warm. I never felt cold and frozen in the bivouacs of my War Preparedness Duty. It’s easy to create a warm room in winter. By contrast, to create a cool room in summer is more difficult. Take today – and it was still only early spring. Arno wore a field shirt and tunic, the German Army’s customary, grey-green woollen tunic, totally inappropriate for summer use. To roll up your sleeves helped a little. But woollen breeches and boots didn’t make you cooler. There was a summer tunic of warp satin available. But it wasn’t summer yet so, on balance, the woollen cloth tunic was a good garment. On top of that was worn the camouflage smock, now with the grey-green-brown-speckled side out. There was no snow in the city and therefore the Company Commander had allowed this – even though this was April 9 and spring in the Army Calendar didn’t start until tomorrow, on April 10. Typical Army – even the seasons were regimented and given their marching orders.
They fought on. Clearing houses, mopping up buildings occupied by enemies. In the midst of clearing a warehouse Arno thought of Nietzsche and his advice, to live as if on a volcano edge: live dangerously! This was the life of a man. Nietzsche wrote about it, Arno lived this for real. Arno lived on the edge and the purpose of it all was to raise yourself mentally.
By living on the edge you were elevated mentally, reaching a higher state of consciousness. In and out of battle Arno was in combat mood, prepared to die at any moment, but feeling alive. More alive than ever.
Once the warehouse was secure, Arno looked out into the street. The sun blazed. They saw German and Russian corpses, a dog running loose and the wreckage of a T-34. A large hole gaped in the side armour, a close-range direct hit from a German antitank grenade. The tank had been on fire and was covered by a thick layer of soot. The charred corpse of one of its crew was twisted over the turret. Another dead Ivan – trouble is, they had millions more.
Later the same day, April 9, 1944. Arno was in his quarters in Tarnopol. It was a three-story brick house with tiled floor. There were open fireplaces but no running water.
It was night. Arno lay awake in his allotted room; he had a bed, and he had blankets, which was unusual. Mostly he slept on branches, bracken or straw, with his stained greatcoat as cover. Regardless of this he had trouble sleeping. It was past midnight. He had nothing to read, but – in his mind – he recited poetry. Like the Bhagavad-Gîtâ line saying, “Our army, led by Bhîsma, is insurmountable – but theirs, led by Bhîma, is insignificant.” He always liked that line, expressing as it did plain chauvinism, common-style military boastfulness. That’s how soldiers are. Across the centuries, it hit the nail on the head.
He then thought of other belligerent lines from the poem: “Do not waver in your duty; there is nothing like fighting for dharma”. And “you either die and reach heaven or triumph and rule the world; therefore, arise, ready for battle.” And: “Girding yourself for battle, being equal to pleasure or pain, profit or ruin, victory or defeat, you shall not incur sin.” The latter was the philosophy of apateia, of samatva, of equanimity while being active and fighting for truth.
Arno also had a mental stock of Swedish poetry lauding war. He remembered from shcool the Boye line, “Rest only awaits you in battle, / only between the shields there is peace”. Oh, indeed Arno thought: now between the blankets, now between the shields. Some fire-eater I am.
Then Arno came to think of another Swedish poet, Edith Södergran. Technically she was a Finnish subject but an ethnic Swede, part of Finland’s Swedish minority since way back. He had read her too before the war. And now, in the dark, he silently recited Södergran lines: “The spirit of song is war.” This was really brave. But, Arno thought, was war really about singing? Did he go singing into battle? No. But there was inspiration in the process, this was the truth, the truth that even Södergran surmised as she sat in her solitary room and wrote poems about war, when she became war, embodying the spirit of war like nothing on earth.
Södergran was inspired by Nietzsche, the same Nietzsche who Arno cherished: the vitalist, the happily prancing glorifier of fire and movement, power, strength and joy. Södergran understood Nietzsche when she wrote these lines, which Arno also remembered:
“What do I fear? I am a part of infinity. / I am a part of the immense power of The Whole, / a lonely world within millions of worlds, / a first-class star being the last to go out. / Triumph of living, triumph of breathing, triumph of being!”
Arno also remembered the more sedate “By Nietzsche’s Grave”. “Beauty is not the thin sauce in which poets serve themselves, / beauty is to wage war and to seek happiness, / beauty is to serve higher powers”
Nietzsche praised the active life. He was against austerity and self-hatred, that which Christianity in its weaker moments resorted to, indulging in weakness and despair, suffering and negativity. Of course, you had to be an ethical actor, you had to have the moral law within you, the Hindu dharma that the Gîtâ spoke of, and of course you should also cherish piety and kindness. But to cherish weakness and debility, negativity and despair…? Never! Therefore, Arno held Nietzsche in high esteem. And Södergran, whose poem on the subject he remembered when lying in that room in Tarnopol while the world collapsed and the Allies were preparing to crush Germany between them: