Yes, indeed. If he could just rally the men’s spirits, then the line would stiffen up too. Everything hinged on that. There might even be some possibility of organizing operations once he could take stock of things. At the moment, everything was just resting on chance. The line might hold just as well as it might break. The men’s ability to hold it was a hazier variable than it had been previously. A staunch, shared will was missing. There were just little spurts that might be flattened at the slightest opposition.
The Jaeger Platoon had just returned from a patrol off to the right, in an area that backed up to a broad stretch of swampland. Sarastie didn’t trust the swamp, however, as he himself had carried out encirclements through tougher terrain than that, and experience had already made it clear that the Russians were just as capable. The returning patrol reported that all was quiet, but how much could one trust those kinds of reports these days? That slight uncertainty in the reporter’s voice was a tell-tale sign that the men hadn’t gone out quite as far as they were supposed to.
The defeat had increased Sarastie’s tendency toward the philosophical. He had striven to take everything ‘scientifically’, even being a bit proud about it.
The Major took a swat at the mosquito that had just been buzzing in his ear, trying to smack it against his neck; but it slipped easily out of danger into the gust of air beneath his hand. His stomach gave a spiteful growl and a bead of sweat pearled on his brow as a momentary faintness washed over him. Diarrhea was endemic.
A guard suddenly emerged from the forest, gasping, ‘Major, sir! The enemy!’
‘Where?’
‘Over there! In formation. With submachine guns under their arms.’
Sarastie ordered the messengers and signalmen into positions and set off himself in the direction the guard had indicated. He understood everything the moment he saw the enemy line advancing through the forest with men carrying machine guns behind them. They must be up against an encirclement, as a normal patrol wouldn’t transport machine guns.
Sarastie ran back and ordered the hesitating men into position.
A couple of shots announced the fighting.
‘I’ll notify the front line and ask for back-up,’ he yelled. The messengers and signalmen had taken to their heels and Sarastie spotted an enemy soldier behind a spruce. He pulled out his pistol and emptied the magazine. His hand had just reached the telephone handle when the first Russian shot off a long string of bullets. Sarastie was dead.
The ambulance swayed with its moaning cargo down the potholed road. The driver watched the road carefully and turned the steering wheel, trying to gauge which potholes were the worst. The medic checked some wounded man’s pulse. He got up and whispered to the driver, ‘He’s not going to make it to the aid station.’
The driver didn’t respond, as the road demanded his undivided attention, and in any case there was nothing he could do with such information, seeing as he was already driving as fast as he possibly could.
Hietanen was lying at the back of the bus. He devoted all of his strength to keeping his body still, as every jolt sent sharp pains burning through his head. The pain shut out any possibility of pondering his unfortunate fate, and anyway his future life lay well beyond the reach of his concerns. He hoped merely that the drive would end soon, or else that he would die – just so long as he could escape this excruciating pain. Frequently, when the pain and misery became unbearable, his long, despairing howl would rise amidst the moans of the others.
As they neared the rise that led to the command post, they began to hear shooting over the roar of the engine, but it no longer aroused their interest. There was a bend in the road at the bottom of the hill, and just as the vehicle turned round it, the windshield shattered. The driver slumped down against the steering wheel, then rolled on top of the medic, who had fallen beside the gear shift. The ambulance hit a ditch and came to a halt. Bullets clinked through the body of the bus and flames began to flutter up from beneath the hood.
When Hietanen recovered from the stupor brought on by the vehicle’s sudden halt, he got up. Screaming and moaning surrounded him. He groped about with his hands against the back door and pushed it open. The movement brought a new round of bullets sailing into the side of the ambulance. Someone was crawling by his feet and yelling, ‘The ambulance is on fire! It’s on fire! Help me out of here!’
‘Where’s the driver and the medic?’ Hietanen yelled.
‘Dead. Help…’
Hietanen pulled the man out and fumbled his way back to the rear of the ambulance, yelling, ‘Anybody who can’t get out, just grab my hand here! I’ll pull you. But anybody who can make it, try to get yourself out. Everybody behind the bus!’
Somebody grabbed hold of his outstretched hand, and though the effort brought a sharp pain to his head, he pulled the man along the floor of the vehicle. The man screamed and wailed as his wounded pelvis dragged along the floor. There were six wounded men, but the two positioned up in front had been killed in the same shower that took out the medic and the driver. As he was dragging the man out, Hietanen heard the last of the survivors screaming for help. ‘Help me! The car’s on fire! I don’t have legs! I can’t get out!’
The screaming turned to choking, as the ambulance was beginning to fill with smoke. Hietanen made his way out of the back door with the wounded man and yelled, ‘I’m coming right back! I won’t leave you!’
The man who had made it out first, who had also been in the back of the ambulance, was the same new recruit that Hietanen had been wounded trying to help. He was actually in better shape than Hietanen was, but he was in such a state of shock that he couldn’t think of the others and just tried to crawl to cover behind the bus. A bullet aimed straight at his head cut short his escape, though.
When Hietanen got the other man to the door, he lowered himself from the vehicle and pulled him out. The man suddenly panicked and started screaming, ‘Get down, get down! He can see you! Over there!’
That was as far as he got. The shower struck the open doors of the bus and the man fell limply between them. Hietanen sank slowly down onto his side. His body shook for a long time as a shower of machine-gun fire tore through it. Sergeant Urho Hietanen was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy.
The ambulance burned, crackling and sparking. For a long time a choked coughing and crying rose up over the din, calling out, ‘Come and help me! Why did you leave me? Can’t anybody hear me? I’m burning. My blanket’s on fire!’