A group of the battalion’s officers had gathered in the machine-gunners’ headquarters to celebrate. It was more comfortable there, since it was located furthest away from the front line. It certainly wasn’t the renown of Lammio’s hospitality that had prompted their selection. Kariluoto was there, as well, having been promoted to lieutenant in Petroskoi. He’d left his company in the care of a platoon leader and set off to join the party. He’d been downing drinks with great gusto and was already spouting off about the task of being an officer. ‘The only way to influence a Finn is by example. And then you have to spark his ambition. A private feels his subordination in relation to his superior, and that feeling has to be directed so as to persuade him to carry out acts that will make him feel he’s rising up to the level of his superior. But above all, no weakness… lock it up inside of you, whatever it is. On the outside – like a rock.’
Lammio was sitting at the table in his best uniform, decorations splayed across his chest. Pale-faced, he was nodding off in a drunken stupor. Some young ensign was lying on his back on Lammio’s bed, saying, ‘Oh my drunken brothers. Helsinki is in my heart, and in my sight… oh that happy city of delight…’
Kariluoto remembered Sirkka. ‘Hush… shhh, Jokke. Don’t get me all revved up… I remember… I remember… That time I danced that tango of yours. Taa daa didadaa dida dida dida dii daaa dididaa…’
Kariluoto looked rather amusing sitting on the bed demonstrating his tango moves. ‘Sirkka’s tango. Taa daa dii di… ta dida daa daa diidi…’
A slim ensign with spectacles was sitting on Mielonen’s bed, the latter having been driven outside by the party. Interrupting Kariluoto’s wistful tango, he suddenly burst out singing, ‘Die Fahne hoch…’
The ‘Horst Wessel Song’ made Lammio come to. He rose, swerving as he attempted to straighten himself up, then shouted behind the door, ‘Bursche!’
The orderly stepped inside and stiffened to attention.
‘Fill the glasses.’
‘Yes, sir, Lieutenant!’ The orderly poured the drinks and disappeared. Lammio raised his glass and said, ‘And now, a drink to the officers. Gentlemen, our task is clear. We are the backbone of the army. On our shoulders Finland will rise, or fall. Gentlemen, unswerving we follow, wherever Mannerheim’s sword may lead.’
‘Zum Kampfe stehn wir alle schon bereit,’ sang Spectacles, and the glasses clinked.
‘Backbone,’ Mielonen muttered behind the door. ‘In that case, we got a weak link in your spot, my friend.’
Even the calm and eager-to-please Mielonen was beginning to feel that he had had enough. It wasn’t until the advance had stalled, setting them in the deadlock of a positional war, that it had really become clear what it meant to be Lammio’s battle-runner. The crowning glory was the Lieutenant’s mongrel mutt, which he was obliged to refer to not as ‘it’ but as ‘him’. Mielonen had actually conspired with the orderlies to tie ‘him’ to a twenty-pound rock and launch both into the pond, but the next day Lammio had put in a phone call to one of his buddies higher up in the division and requested a new pup. They decided not to repeat the stunt, since they knew that while one incident might escape notice, systematic dog drownings were likely to arouse Lammio’s suspicions.
Mielonen rose as he saw Koskela approaching and walked down the steps to open the door. He was rather stunned when Koskela, contrary to all Mielonen’s prior experience with the man, growled in a voice looking for a fight, ‘Who the hell are you, the goddamn doorman?’
‘I’m Corporal Mielonen, Lieutenant, sir,’ Mielonen said, rather bewildered. The contrast of Koskela’s outburst with the tact and discretion he had always demonstrated before made it all the more upsetting. Then Mielonen noticed Koskela’s hazy, dilated eyes, realized what was going on, and stepped away from the door as Koskela said, ‘Well, if that’s who you are then don’t go falling over yourself to open doors like you were a doorman.’
‘Yes, sir. I mean no, sir, Lieutenant, sir.’ Mielonen was so confused that he kept calling Koskela ‘sir’, despite the fact that they had been on casual terms for quite some time now.
Koskela stepped inside. Hair rumpled, buttons undone and slightly unsteady, he lurched to the center of the room and said, ‘Zrastooi.’
The others didn’t appear to take much notice of Koskela’s arrival, nor his curious Russian greeting, but Kariluoto lit up at the sight of him, calling out, ‘Well hello, old man! Where have you been? Why didn’t you come along with the group? Hey, orderlies! Let’s have a glass for my boy Koski here. Here, take a swig from mine – there’s some first aid for you.’
Koskela drained Kariluoto’s glass and took a seat on the bench. He stared at each man in turn, one after the other, without saying a word. The orderly came round to fill the glasses, then disappeared.
Ensign Spectacles started in again on his interrupted solo, ‘Die Strasse frei den braunen Bataillonen…’
Koskela started staring at the singing officer. At first, the man just kept on singing, but soon the strange fixity of Koskela’s gaze began to make him uncomfortable. Assurance fell from his voice and even the melody turned tail as he struggled to remain self-possessed in the face of this unflinching stare. Finally, he was forced to stop singing entirely.
Suddenly Koskela said, ‘Siberia bolshoi taiga.’
‘What’s that?’ the Ensign asked uncertainly, his voice strained.
Koskela didn’t answer him, instead saying in the same husky voice, ‘Dobra hoo-ya.’
Now the Ensign was entirely unnerved and flew into a rage because of it. ‘Who is speaking Russki here?’
‘Koskela the Finn. Eats iron and shits chains.’
Kariluoto realized that Koskela was looking for a fight, and offered him a drink to distract him, but Koskela shoved his hand aside and started to count out insistently, ‘Odin dva tri pyat… Odin dva tri pyat…’
‘Have you got something against me?’ Spectacles asked, growing ever more furious. But Koskela just continued on in his curious tongue, ‘Union sovyet sosialist… tis… list… k republeek… Holodna karasho maatreeoshka dee-yay-vushka krashnee-soldier komsomolski homoravitsha bulayeva Svir… Dada dai dada! Dada dai dada…’
It finally dawned on Spectacles that it was the foreign language of his song that had prompted Koskela’s carrying on. ‘I can speak Finnish too,’ he said. ‘And you might do well to stick to it yourself.’
‘Guh… gun… gunners… Dada dai dada! Dada dai… dada. Martti Kitunen, Hunter of Bears… dum-dee-dum dee-dum-do Jack Frost blows the windows…’ Koskela sang. The tempo mounted and Koskela hissed the words through clenched teeth, ‘Father Christmas in his snow frock, tousled hair, snow-cape and gray sock—’
On this last syllable he suddenly rose and punched the Ensign, who had also risen and was standing beside the bed. The officer was knocked unconscious and collapsed onto the floor, his spectacles sailing off into the corner.
The others rushed to contain Koskela. Even Lammio tried to grab hold of him, but was sent flying into a wall like a cast-off glove. Just then Koskela took hold of the heavy bench and swung it up into the air, saying, ‘Stay back, damn it. Or I’ll shift to second gear.’
‘Koski, calm down,’ Kariluoto urged, but Koskela no longer recognized him. The ensign lying on Lammio’s bed seized Koskela’s arm from behind and got him to drop the bench. Then the others were able to get a hold of him. Spectacles came to and started spitting the blood out of his mouth. Lammio called for Mielonen, who came inside with the orderlies on his heels.