The groups were set. The Third Company on the left side of the road, the First on the right. His own former platoon Kariluoto held in reserve.
Koskela had explained the situation to the company, adding, ‘Guess there’s just one way out of this fix – the old-fashioned way.’
But before setting out, he turned to Kariluoto and said, ‘Soon as we set in, the neighbors are going to do the same. It won’t make any difference how quick we are. They’ve been ready this whole time. The barrage earlier was just a cover for this encirclement. It’s been three hours since then and you can see how they’ve dug their heels in all over the terrain. They’ve already got two or three loads of logs over there that they’ve started building bunkers with. Slipping into the forest is the only way out.’
‘You know the order.’
‘Yeah, I do. And I also know that the Commander has no idea what he’s asking. He should come and open the road from his direction. But he has no idea how to do it. Problem is, it’s even harder for us. Two hours from now you’ll see what the situation is. When we have the Second Company retreating at our backs and the First and Third lying in shreds under the spruces by the command post. Good luck to any man trying to get out of that.’
Kariluoto diverted his gaze. He knew that Koskela was right, but while he had courage enough in him to make personal sacrifices, going against a commander’s order was something that was beyond him. His voice cracked as he said curtly, ‘There’s an easy way out. Only hurts once.’
Koskela stole a glance at Kariluoto. It was the first time he had heard him take such a personal tone with him. Up until now, Kariluoto had always deferred to his views. Koskela knew it went back to those very first days of the war, and sometimes he had even been a bit embarrassed by it.
Koskela said nothing. Then, as Kariluoto left, a thought flashed through his mind, as if it were an axiom: That man will die today.
And then he banished the thought. ‘Who knows? Maybe it’ll work. And if we’re going through with it, then in any case we have to do it like we believe it might succeed. Otherwise there’s no point at all.’
Rokka was shoving hand grenades into his belt. He was on his knees beside the crate when Koskela found him. ‘You think many fellas gonna die tonight?’
‘I dunno. Anyway, now we just do the best we can.’
‘Oh, you don’t need’da pump me up. I ain’t the pep-talk type. But Lord I hope you know how to pray!’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Well, try, y’hear? Sankia Priha the Great, he just laughed when’na fellas started puttin’ their packs on, but it don’t strike me we got much to laugh at.’
‘Guess a straight face might be best for all of us this time. By the way, you can decide yourself which way you want to go. It would actually make sense to get together one shock troop, but we don’t have time, and I guess the stronger guys will figure out what to do regardless.’
‘Oh, I’ll be all the shock troop you need, right here.’ Rokka set off, humming as he went. ‘Take my darlin’ by the arm…’
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.
‘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!’