Rokka’s self-assured declaration made the Ensign grin, despite the gravity of the situation. He was aware of Rokka’s reputation, however, and knew he was as good as his word.
‘The ends of the line are the worst. Take a few men with you and cover the far left. Head out just past the end of the line and keep your eyes peeled…’
‘You betcha. Hey! You, with the submachine gun! Come with me! And gimme that gun.’
‘You might want to take someone else with you,’ the Ensign whispered. ‘Lampinen was on the left back there just now, so he’s a little traumatized. And anyway his nerves aren’t exactly made of steel.’
‘Don’t need quality. Just somebody a keep the drums loaded. C’mere! Now lissen, I’m a comedian, see – you come with me and we’ll have ourselves barrels of fun. Grab some ammo there, much as you can walk with.’
They set off.
Rokka trudged through the snow, his quiet companion lugging ammunition behind him. The moon began to shed some light on the dark forest. Snow glittered in the gaps between the trees, but menacing, mysterious shadows emerged from the thickets. The shadows stretched long, as the moon had only just begun to rise.
Rokka and his companion passed the last man on the line and continued on a little further. Rokka chattered away, whispering to his silent companion, ‘Hot diggity! These are some dandy felt boots I got me back there on’nat service road. Lil’ tough gittin’ ’em off a that fella’s feet, though. Already good and frozen on him, they were.’
The man didn’t respond, he just glanced around, petrified. Suddenly Rokka stopped and raised his hand. A lump rose in Lampinen’s throat when he saw what had prompted Rokka’s halt. Before them lay a small, frozen swamp, and dozens of snow-suited men were tramping across it double-file – toward them. Rokka beckoned Lampinen to his side, and carefully they pressed themselves into the snow.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Lampinen said, his voice trembling.
‘Now how you gonna know ’til you try? Aw, shucks, what a trick! They heard us makin’na racket and figgered out where we was so they could send troops round and surround us. Can I smell it or what? And here I am this whole time feelin’ things ain’t quite what they seem.’
The enemy was advancing slowly and recklessly. They didn’t have any scouts, despite the fact that, at the moment, they were crossing an exposed swamp. Perhaps they were just so confident in their mission that they figured that kind of thing wasn’t necessary. Rokka and Lampinen sank themselves deeper into the snowdrifts, Rokka whispering instructions the whole time. ‘These drums here’s full. Soon as I plow through ’em, you refill ’em, hear? Just make sure you always put the full ones in the full pile, so they don’t git mixed up. And you just keep calm. Just like Rokka here. We ain’t got no troubles. They’re the ones gonna be in for it pretty soon. Hey, you know howd’da sing? You might hum a lil’ sumpin’, soft-like. Keeps the spirits up. Lil’ strategy for the mind, see? Just think a any crazy ol’ thing, ’sall good in a spot like this.’
Rokka knew his whispering wouldn’t reach enemy ears, since the rustling of the men’s snowsuits would drown out any smaller noises. Double-file, they trudged laboriously through the snow as Rokka steadied the sight.
‘See that officer out in front? Soon as his shadow hits that lil’ spruce there, he’s meetin’ his maker. That’s what I say. ’Nen after him, I start in on’na rest of ’em. Look at them all lined up! Waddlin’ along one after the other like sittin’ ducks. Poor bastards! Don’t know what’s about’ta hit ’em. Pretty soon you’re gonna see how the Lord takes His own. Now, You lissen up up there, ol’ man! If any a those fellas’s sinned, You take mercy on him, hear? Be quick now! They’re gonna start headin’ up to You soon.’
The shadow of the officer walking in front was nearing the spruce tree. The man never knew what happened to him. All he saw was the dark rim of the forest, the snow glittering in the moonlight, and his own shadow, whose head was just reaching the tip of a young spruce tree. His eyes may have glimpsed the muzzle flash, but he never had time to grasp its meaning.
A few cries and random shots rang out, but Rokka’s submachine gun cut through everything, hammering away like a sewing machine. Rokka was cool and calculating as he killed – an ability made possible by his particular kind of constitution. His eyes were sharp and his mind moved swiftly, unfettered by fear, as his hands carried out its commands with sure and extraordinary accuracy.
A few of the men darted off, trying to make a break for it. Others tried to crawl along the snowdrifts. A few shot randomly, but the dry hammering of the submachine gun was difficult to locate.
Having mowed down the front of the line, Rokka started in from the tail end. First he shot down the men nearest to the forest’s protective edge. The man nearest to safety was always next up, and Rokka hammered steadily toward the center of the group as the situation advanced. Men dropped like flies in the snowy clearing. One hopeless fugitive ran wading through the snow to the edge of the forest, and a glimmer of hope may even have flickered through his mind as he crossed into the shadow of its cover. But then the hail of bullets struck, and again, one more motionless lump sank onto the snow. Others tried to dig themselves down into the drifts and return fire, but no sooner did anybody shoot than the snow around him would fly into the air and his weapon would fall silent.
Lampinen lay beside Rokka, dripping with sweat from head to toe. Hands trembling, he tore open the cardboard boxes and filled Rokka’s empty drum magazines. He was nearly mad with fear. He was reassured somewhat by Rokka’s face, which wasn’t even anxious, just stealthy and alert; but the whole situation still struck him as highly unstable and far from equal. They might be surrounded at any moment. And on top of his fear he was overwhelmed with horror at this staggering slaughter. Whenever he glanced over at the swamp, he would glimpse some guy trying to crawl away on his last legs, until Rokka’s merciful bullet would put him out of his misery. Heart-rending wails and cries for help pierced through the din. Never in his life had Lampinen witnessed so great a massacre, and although he had no particular humanitarian anxiety about such things, the ruthless slaughter somehow struck him as monstrous.
Lampinen heard an angry, buzzing blast, and the submachine gun fell silent. A frightened cry escaped him as he looked at Rokka. He saw that his fur cap had slid off. His head hung limp over the butt of the gun and a red rivulet of blood was trickling from his hairline down to his cheek.
Lampinen dropped the magazine and started crawling away. Now that he was alone, self-control abandoned him completely and, choking with horror, he imagined that the enemy was at his back at this very moment, about to shoot a stream of bullets straight through him. He was just about to get up and start running when he felt a hand seize his ankle, and with a strangled gasp and protruding eyes, he turned back to look.
Rokka squeezed his leg and smiled. But to Lampinen, even the smile was sickening. Rokka’s face was distorted by pain and stained with blood, and his grimace gleaming in the moonlight looked more like that of a cackling devil than anything human.
‘Where you headed?’
‘Nnnn… n… no… nowhere.’
‘C’mon back where you were, then. I thought you’d run off somewheres. Don’t you go runnin’ off, damn it. I’d run outta drums…’
The submachine gun started up again. None of the men remaining was running anymore – those that were left were just trying to crawl through the snow to safety. A few of them even made it, but the number of survivors represented just a tiny fraction of those who had advanced into the middle of the clearing.