Sinkkonen’s neck began to turn red, and grew increasingly redder until Rahikainen said, ‘Might be beneath our dignity, pal, but out here you better turn a blind eye to a thing or two. It is true, though, it ain’t the horse’s fault if he’s got tough in his old age.’
For the first time in his life, this graying brat of the barracks realized that he commanded no authority whatsoever, and it shook the very foundations of his being. A misconception of his function had guided him through the entirety of his military career, and now it was backfiring. He was so shaken by the men’s insolent mockery that all he could do was stutter, ‘It has been said that the biggest whiners are the ones who turn out to be cowards in combat. The best men have performed their duties uncomplainingly.’
Rokka shook his spoon at Sinkkonen and said, ‘Lissen here, Master Sarge! You got sumpin’ real bad wrong with you. You crack jokes like they was serious. Out here a fella’s gotta keep things light. We’re all fellas with a sense a humor, see. Here, watch this!’ Rokka stretched out his left arm as if he were holding a violin, and, using his spoon for bow, began to play as he sang:
Fingerin’na fiddles! hiitulahaatuu
Accordion’sa blowin’ hilapatataa…
‘Lissen! You hear that fiddle music? Lissen, why don’t you join’na group! Let’s make a orchestra. Here, grab that spoon there and keep beat on drums. And you got sticks over there, yeah, take ’em! Lissen… what, you ain’t takin’ nothin’? Spoilsport! This fella here’s not playin’! We got a whole live show set up here, and he don’t wanna play. Well, whadda ya know?’
Sinkkonen stalked off, but Vanhala was all set to start banging, so he and Rokka played together. Rahikainen joined in to complete the trio, improvising an instrument out of a hairbrush and some wax paper.
‘What kind of circus is this?’ Lammio appeared behind them, almost as if he’d just popped up out of the ground. Vanhala put away his sticks in an embarrassed fluster. Rokka and Rahikainen stopped too, and Rokka said to Lammio, ‘That new master sarge, see, he was so down we thought we might try to cheer a fella up with a lil’ song. But he took off. Ain’t much of a man for music, I guess.’
‘Enough of your clowning around! The company is to be ready to march in one hour. Anyone who does not have a white handkerchief is to go collect a white piece of paper from the quartermaster. Squad leaders, make sure each man is taken care of. Move!’
This command was so unusual that nobody even knew how to joke about it.
‘I bet I know where they’re takin’ us,’ Rokka said. ‘They’re gonna press us deeper in’na forest overnight, and the handkerchiefs’re so we can keep in contact.’
‘Straight into the shit.’
‘When are those goddamn Krauts gonna make it to Moscow?’
Dusk was already falling. The rain continued and an autumn gloom reigned over the dark forest. Company after company turned off the main road, pressing into the forest in an extended formation.
‘Big time, boys. Got the whole regiment lined up.’
Each man had attached a white handkerchief or piece of paper to his back. These were supposed to help them stay in contact in the darkness. They were ordered to keep conversation to a minimum. Smoking was prohibited entirely after nightfall. The sappers walking out front cut nicks into the trees to mark the direction the men were to follow, and set down log paths across streams and bogs. Soon the terrain changed into swampland, and remained so for a long time.
The men’s loads were heavier than usual. They had twice the usual allocation of ammunition. The heaviest fell to the guys with the machine guns, mortars and anti-tank guns, as they had to carry the artillery on top of their own gear.
Mile after mile of the difficult journey slipped by in silence. The darkness thickened and their pace slowed. The first symptoms of exhaustion began to appear amongst the weakest. Their feet sank into the swamp’s hidden potholes, and their tired bodies kept toppling over, unable to keep their balance. Panting for breath, the men would struggle to their feet and continue plodding on. Every now and again whispers would run through the line to confirm contact.
The head of the line had already trudged across miles of swampland by the time the tail end finally turned off the road. Three thousand men stretched out single-file across the swamp in the middle of the dark, foggy drizzle. The game was reckless and the stakes were high. And who was to guarantee that the line wouldn’t break at some point? It was only as strong and shrewd as its weakest man. It might well happen that some guy would lose his way, leading those behind him who knows where. And it could also happen that, on top of everything else, that man would be afraid to send word of the break right away. The likelihood of a bottleneck and disintegration – and thus the possibility of failure – was great. And that was just the beginning. Awaiting them more than a dozen miles ahead was their destination: the junction of the enemy’s main road and its rail line. It was into this lion’s den that the regiment was supposed to elbow its way, alone, armed with the ammunition they held in their pockets, with no support, and nothing in the way of an umbilical cord but one phone line – which would certainly break before long.
The Regiment Commander used the phone frequently to make contact with the division. ‘Point such and such. Southern tip of A. So far so good.’
‘Status unchanged. No sign of any break in the line.’
The Commander walked along anxiously in his black raincoat, sucking on his moustache. At every moment he was expecting to hear shots from the head of the line, and for each moment of silence that passed he was grateful. It seemed impossible that the regiment would make it all the way to its destination unobserved, but nevertheless their odds improved with each mile they covered undetected. And what would happen if the dead-tired regiment did hit organized opposition? The Colonel hurried forward, then back to those behind, urging the men on. He was in desperate need of a cigarette, but hesitated to disobey his own orders. If he were to be caught, the situation would be embarrassing, to say the least. Sneaking off for a smoke didn’t really befit a colonel and regiment commander, though there was no question this fellow had partaken of the pastime in days of yore.
By around midnight, a general fatigue had taken over. More than six miles lay behind them, and the men were faltering. There was a low murmur of groans, hisses and whispered curses, and somebody or other was constantly toppling over. Sometimes there were sobs mixed in amidst the curses. Mud squirted up as some man sank thigh-high into the swamp. Then this fellow, on his last legs, his will tottering at breaking point, would summon the last shreds of his strength and continue on. Each man stayed with the group. There was no need for discipline, homeland, honor, or a sense of duty. A force mightier than all of these whipped them onward. Death.
You couldn’t fall behind, because that meant straying alone behind enemy lines – and thus certain annihilation. Ditching your ammunition or weapons would mean the same thing, even more certainly, as each man knew the price he would pay the next day. They left no gear behind. When they were allowed a break, they dropped to the ground right where they were. Oblivious to the wet and the cold, they lay in puddles in the swamp, panting for breath and collecting their strength for the next effort. Bit by bit, they devoured the little bread they had, but soon this source of pleasure, too, ran out for many. The hard rye crackers slipped into their mouths, neither nourishing nor satiating them.
Koskela carried four boxes of ammunition, having taken Salo’s when the latter’s strength had started giving out. Hietanen had Riitaoja’s boxes, and Lehto carried the gun-stand the whole time, while Vanhala carried the gun. Lahtinen and Määttä carried these for the other machine gun, as Rokka was helping Sihvonen and Susling, both of whom were weaker than him.