During the night, the enemy retreated through the forest behind the point where the road had been cut off. They had abandoned their heavy artillery. Amongst other things, the second KV, or ‘Klim’, as they called them, engaged in the earlier attack had been driven into a swamp. The men were still skirmishing with the last of the enemy soldiers along the roadside when the ambulances arrived to evacuate the wounded. Many of them had been awaiting rescue minute by minute, hour by hour, for twenty-four hours. Slow, torturous waiting, unrelenting pain and the fear that the regiment wouldn’t be able to defend that crucial stretch of conquered road had been steadily wearing them down. And, in the grip of this fear, they had watched the medics carry those who hadn’t made it out to the line of corpses.
The vehicles’ arrival prompted a surge of hysterical joy in the minds of the wounded. Even the weakest of them endeavored to demonstrate this with whatever strength he had. The prospect of delivery washed the recent hours of torture from their minds. Moans and wails receded into the silence of the dark spruce grove, to be forgotten there for ever. The dead could no longer bear witness to their pain, and anyway, no one particularly wanted to inquire. Their suffering was theirs alone. They had given up everything else. They had been coerced out of everything, down to the last shred; but their suffering they were permitted to keep for themselves. It was of no use to anybody.
At daybreak, Sarastie’s battalion reconnoitered the surrounding area. Kariluoto’s platoon and the men from Koskela’s who’d been attached to it were ordered to search the village on whose flank the previous evening’s attack had been halted. The ambulances had already driven through it, of course, but the village hadn’t yet been scoured.
One resident had been left behind. A man as old as the hills – a starikka, as the Karelians called them – who was nothing but a burden to anybody at this point, and had been allowed to remain behind for precisely that reason. He lived in a small cabin on the edge of town, and was gazing out of the window when gray-clad men began to flash between the buildings. There came one – crouching, lying in wait with his gun under his arm. He walked into the neighboring building and then reappeared in the courtyard. Others followed further behind and when their leader gestured to them with his arm, they threw their guns over their shoulders and calmly joined him. The starikka watched as each of them yanked off a stake from the courtyard fence. He was beginning to be frightened. What were they going to do with those stakes?
Then he gave a sigh of relief. The men threw their packs and guns to the ground and raced off to the potato patch.
When the men had dug up the potatoes, they washed them in a ditch with a speed only hunger can induce. Rokka scrounged a table from one of the buildings, along with a couple of chairs and a long bench, which he then proceeded to chop into firewood. They started up three or four campfires and soon potato-filled mess kits were boiling above them.
Major Sarastie strode down the main street of the village. He gave the Eastern Karelian buildings the once-over as he walked. He considered it his duty to have some appreciation for the beauty of their gable ornaments, even if – to be perfectly frank – he didn’t understand the first thing about them. But paying attention to them was somehow part of the whole tribal spirit of the war, and Sarastie was a true herd animal, his occupation aside. So, once he realized that all the reports about Eastern Karelia described the local building style and gable ornamentation, Sarastie had to make sure he noted them as well.
His actual, and very matter-of-fact, opinion of these houses, however, was that they were not suitable for human habitation. Then he glimpsed something that genuinely intrigued him. A spring chicken just about perfectly ripe for slaughter was padding around the corner of some building. Sarastie was just about to call for his orderly when he caught sight of a block of wood somersaulting toward the chicken and whacking it in the neck. The chicken squawked and staggered a few steps, stunned. A private appeared from behind the building, nabbed the chicken by the legs, and – knick-knack! – snapped its neck.
‘Hey, Private!’
The man started, looked at the Major and sprang to attention, the chicken still in his hand.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Private Rahikainen, Major, sir.’
‘And is Private Rahikainen aware that violating residents’ property in these villages is strictly forbidden?’
‘Major, sir, with all due respect. There aren’t any residents. I conducted a full investigation.’
‘I believe you are aware that in that case all property defaults to the state. I understand that has been made clear. They’ve certainly discussed the issue enough.’
Rahikainen stood with the chicken still dangling from his hand, dawdling his way through a response while trying to concoct some sort of cover-up. ‘Major, sir. Indeed, I was aware of that. I haven’t violated any property. This fellow here was damaged already. Hobbling on his feet. Probably got injured or something during all the fighting. He was definitely done for. I just thought that it’d be a waste to leave him. When he was about to die anyway.’
Sarastie thought this explanation was about as superb as anyone could have come up with in such a situation. He glanced rather wistfully at the chicken, and then began to chuckle at Rahikainen’s phony, puppy-dog face. ‘All right, take him this time. But let it be the last. Such a whopper as you just whipped up deserves some kind of prize.’
Rahikainen played his role right through to the end. ‘Yes sir, Major, sir! Better cut him open quick. So the meat doesn’t spoil, huh?’ And with that, Rahikainen was off. The others demanded that the chicken be cooked in the potato soup, and Rahikainen concurred. There was no soup pot to be found, but they made do with a bucket.
The only thing missing was salt, and Rahikainen decided to go and see if any had been left behind in the houses. After a few unsuccessful searches, he stepped into the cabin. The starikka was sitting on a bench at the back of the room, frightened and staring uneasily at Rahikainen. The sight of another person gave Rahikainen himself a start, but he calmed down upon observing how old the man was.
‘Well! What kinda antique Finn are you?’
The starikka didn’t reply, but stared mutely back at Rahikainen.
‘Hey guys, come see! We got a prehistoric Finn in here. Beard, fur cap and all.’
The starikka blinked his eyes, watching the men as they stepped into the cabin.
‘Well, hello there, grampaw!’ Rokka exclaimed, taking a seat beside him. The old man leaned over toward him and answered softly, his voice wavering, ‘Helo, helo.’
‘Left ya behind, did they?’
‘Ah, levd me here.’
‘They leave you any salt, pops?’ Rahikainen asked. ‘We need some for our soup.’
‘Ah, nodzing.’ The old man was becoming anxious. He recrossed his legs the other way, glancing around uneasily.
‘Didn’t they leave you anything to eat?’ Salo asked, moving in closer.
‘Took everydzing. Levd me alone here.’
‘Here’s some bread for starters… I ain’t got no more, but the supply crew ain’t far behind us. They’ll be sure to look after you. You’re gonna have a chance to eat your fill for once. Who knows the last time you had anything to eat.’
The old man took Salo’s bread with a trembling hand and looked at him hesitatingly for a moment, as though he might even give it back, but then tucked it into the chest of his quilted coat.
‘Lissen, grampaw, you know if there’s any other folks left in this town?’