“I can read a little. About a certain Lieutenant Autio. Here, Arno Greif, you old war horse, here’s your equal! Autio is only a supporting character, but he’s sharp as hell. Here’s how he’s described at the beginning: ‘Autio was a young officer in the Regular Army, a quiet man with a purposeful look and known as a good leader.’”
“Indeed,” Arno said. “How concise and soldiery. Without fanfare but with substance.”
“True that,” Balk said. “Autio falls in 1941, when approaching Petrozavodsk on Lake Onega. Linna describes Autio’s death as objectively as everything else. Just listen.”
Balk flipped up the right place and read aloud:
“Seven kilometres from the town 3rd Company Commander, Lieutenant Autio fell, pierced by eleven bullets, hit by a light MG burst before he dropped dead. It was one of the grandest kills they had witnessed. The line had wavered and their counter-attack had been faltering. Some soldiers began to fall back, and to infuse new courage into the men Autio had stood up and shouted: ‘Remember who you are. Not one step back!’ The LMG burst knocked him full of holes; he literally shook in time with them when he fell. Kariluoto took command of the Company.”
“Indeed,” said Arno, “maybe I’ll have to read the book. Are there more heroes like Autio?”
Balk said that there were and he read some more samples. Arno liked what he heard; this was concise but meaningful fight fiction, not sentimental and dissolute. It was operational. Linna seemed to know what he was writing about.
Being done with his reading Balk closed the book, said goodbye and went off to deal with something at the Mobilisation Unit. Left to himself in the mess Arno sat and thought a few things over. He thought about Finland and its war in 1941, the one Linna wrote about and which he, Arno, once had thought of entering. There was a Swedish volunteer force open for conscripts, he had thought of joining it but it never came to pass. But other Swedes had served in it, they were about one full battalion in strength. Something to make you proud as a Swede, he thought, helping Finland in its desperate, against-the-odds struggle against Bolshevism.
Arno too had fought Bolshevism, this by serving in the German Army. And he was indeed proud of that. Now he lived in Sweden, he was a Swede by nationality and by being a Swedish subject. But he also still held German citizenship. He might go to Germany again, he didn’t rule out anything.
However, for the moment he indulged himself by being a Swede. He was proud to serve in Sweden’s Army and to think of the coming greatness of Sweden. It was a kingdom based on the Rule of Law, an Honest Reputation and a Strong Defence. “In the rock grows ore, and real men thereupon” – Arno subscribed to these words of Tegnér, himself being an expression of iron will and wooden strength, the spirit of the Thousand Mile Forest living in him as a matter of course.
Despite all its sham, debauchery, lying and treason it was still a fine world, a beautiful world. The Great Powers might be trying to swallow up or obliterate Sweden, by this time it was Cold War with the rattling of atomic sabres – but it would lead nowhere, Arno rightfully thought, because Swedish defence was strong. At the time, Sweden stood outside of the superpower blocs, being non-aligned in peacetime and neutral in case of war.
Arno favoured national defence, industrial development and modern trades. But he also had an ear for birdsong and an eye for meadows, children and flowers. He lived in a spirit of “greet the dawn, drink wine, make love to a beautiful woman.” His ideal was light and well-being, law and custom, and that the strong should defend the weak.
He left the mess hall and went down to the barracks yard. The sky was blue and there was a lust for life: “Bliss was it that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven,” as Wordsworth said. Arno was 35, but right now he felt like he was still eighteen. He walked up to his groom, thanked him for his wait, took the reins, mounted and rode out across the fields to the south of the military complex. The forest shifted in light green, hints of budding birch among conifers in darker green. The fields were pre-spring brown and snow-free. Inside the spruce copses all the snow had melted by now, the last of it had gone by the end of April.
He approached the deserted hut, a little red cottage, firmly locked up. It sat beautifully in the field, surrounded by a few trees. Arno dismounted and let his horse go free to graze for a while. Arno himself went to the south wall of the house and took a break sunbathing, standing leaning against the wall and worshipping the sun with closed eyes
It was pretty warm there by the hut. Arno wanted to tell himself that he enjoyed life, but in fact he was bored. He rather disliked being a peace-time soldier. But as he didn’t have the energy to do anything else, for example, becoming a mercenary in Africa or Asia, he probably shouldn’t complain.
He saw a butterfly flying past. It landed on the grey-brown grass in front of him and he addressed the insect:
“You can enjoy yourself, Mister Butterfly, you can do what you want, whenever you want. At least, you needn’t brood over your career. You just fly, spreading your lemon wings. I, however…”
The horse whinnied. Arno continued:
“OK, I’m doing alright. But I also enjoyed being in the Combat Zone, a life where you got up, ate some dry bread, drank acorn coffee, went out and looked around. There were days of boredom too in that life but I never disliked the soldier life as such, of eating frugal meals and having to risk your life. This life, however, now in Sweden, where nothing happens – it’s killing me…!”
There! He’d said it! Arno stood and pondered. “Indeed,” he thought, “I’m a brooding soldier. This shouldn’t be. The warrior must be determined and energetic. Pondering isn’t his way of being; philosophising isn’t what he should do. But I am what I am. I’ve always liked philosophy. I still have my copy of Zarathustra, I cherish the integral esotericism of Jung and I’m updated on the school of existentialism. You have to be aware that you’ll die. Existential minds like Simone Weil and Heidegger say so. As do I. Such philosophising may be needed, even for a soldier.
“I philosophised before the war, during it and now. Some philosophy is needed for a soldier. And for a civilian. Many people live broodingly; they ruminate without getting anywhere. My brooding on the other hand leads forward. So maybe I can help people with my ideas. Dammit, I should write a philosophical treatise…! Or something like that. A philosophy for people in life, in the flurry of existence.”
With this thought, he left the house wall, took his horse and rode away along the gravel road. Now the track ran uphill, for the county of Ångermanland is overall very hilly. This is said to be because the last glaciation in this region had its thickest layers of ice. The ice shield across the Nordic region was thickest in the middle, that is, over what would become Ångermanland. So when the ice melted, over 10,000 years ago, there was a rebound in the earth’s crust; the crust rebounded after having been pressed down by the ice mass. The result was all the mountains and hills of Ångermanland including its steep coastline, which at the time of this story was beginning to be called The High Coast – Höga Kusten.
After reaching the crest Arno indulged in a short gallop. Finally, he rode into the yard of the Tjärnmyren firing range service building. It was a one-story red wooden place with an office and a day room, plus storage room; all in one, so quite long. In the yard Arno met an acquaintance, Sergeant Major Gustav Lidendal, a bearded fellow who ran the firing range with cool efficiency. Dressed in grey uniform, forage cap and rubber boots he hailed the rider. Arno dismounted, tethered his horse and was invited in for coffee. Sitting in the stale and smoky barrack staffroom they talked about this and that. The other man was a real northern bear, a legend who off-service was known for his hunting feats, his fishing trips and his howls in the night when the cold was at its worst. “Watch out for Liden,” people said, knowingly nodding their heads, “he’s been around for a long time. He’s got aces up his sleeve and knows a few tricks…!”