It was clear to Rokka that he was going to have to try something soon. The situation couldn’t continue this way for long. The man standing behind had already raised his submachine gun into the air to strike Rokka, despite his friend’s head.
Rokka let go of the man and seized just his right hand, the one holding the pistol. It shot a third round as Rokka wrenched it away. The man threw a punch at him from the left, but struck only his shoulder. Rokka couldn’t shoot, as the pistol was backwards in his hand, but in the fierce rage of self-preservation, he funneled all of his might into a blow directed at the man’s head. The back of the pistol cracked against his face, and in the same moment Rokka grabbed him and shoved him on top of the man behind him. When that man then shot his submachine gun, the muzzle flash of the barrel nearly singed Rokka’s eyebrows. The recoil was enough to knock the man over, however, giving Rokka enough time to turn his own pistol around in his hand and, in the same blink of an eye, finish off the third man in line. Rokka yelled instructions to the neighboring guard, ordering him to shoot down the communication trench. ‘I’m in’na nooka the nest! Don’t worry ’bout me, just shoot!’
But the guard couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. Nor would he have been able to shoot, as there were still a couple of bends in the trench between him and the men. He still hadn’t managed to get any closer, as the struggle had lasted only a few seconds.
The second Russian was scrambling to his feet, but no sooner had his head reached Rokka’s knee than the latter’s boot struck, sending him sinking back to the trench floor. Rokka was filled with the wild rage of desperation. He acted with all of his might, but directed each movement carefully, for his rage was not the blind rage of panic. He did not hesitate for the briefest moment; rather, he was immediately aware of everything. In pushing the man from his lap onto the man behind, he knew that he would then be in danger from the ones behind him, because they would be free to shoot. That was why he had not shot the fallen man, but the third. The trench leading to the guard’s nest was empty now, but Rokka fully suspected that more men awaited him just beyond the turn in the trench. He couldn’t escape, as that would require climbing up onto the parapet, and that would certainly be the end of him. He couldn’t just stand there and wait either, though, because as soon as the men behind the bend deduced that their buddies were dead, they would surely send a hand grenade sailing over the corner of the trench. It was a matter of seconds once again, so Rokka didn’t grab his own pistol, which was a few steps behind him, but seized the weapon of the man he’d kicked onto the trench floor instead. He made sure the job was done by giving the man another kick in passing as he jumped over him.
A soldier loomed behind the bend in the communication trench, and for just a fraction of a second he was unsure whether the man coming toward him was a fleeing countryman or an enemy. He hesitated for the same reason Rokka just had. But his luck was worse, and he died, letting out a panicked scream and falling to the ground. Rokka heard a trampling noise behind him, from which he deduced that the rest of the pack had come to the obvious conclusion about their failed mission. Because if it didn’t succeed right away, all was lost. A close-combat situation in the trench would only mean bad news for them.
The neighboring guard also dashed into view round the bend in the trench and was just about to shoot when Rokka howled, ‘Don’t shoot, gaddamn it!’
‘Where are they?’
‘Gone… Lissen, you take care a those two fellas, one of ’em’s at death’s door for sure. But the other one I just kicked with m’boot. Don’t kill ’im. I’m takin’ ’im prisoner.’
Rokka chased after the fleeing men, fearing the messenger patrol squad might run into them in the trench. But the men made it out in time. Nothing but reeds rustled along the lake’s edge as they disappeared, and Rokka saw them off with a few farewell rounds. Just then, one of the men from the messenger patrol yelled from the edge of the lake, ‘Password!’
‘Aw, damn it. What was it? It’s Antti Rokka here… Hang on, I got it! Karelian…’
‘Bear.’
The patrol guys asked what was going on, and Rokka ordered them to stay and guard the water’s edge for a little while. ‘Lil’ bastards came from over there. Gaddamn it! Fellas ain’t dumb, that’s for sure. Ain’t their fault if I’m not headin’ back with ’em.’
By the time Rokka returned to the guard’s nest, the whole position was manned, the infantry guard having sounded the alarm. Rokka was already entirely calm by then. He was perfectly aware of all the nuances of this incident, and affected a lighthearted joviality even greater than he actually felt. To Koskela’s query he answered offhandedly, ‘Well, we had ourselves a wrestlin’ match, see. Finland v Soviet Union. I scored us a clear win. Might’ta broken a couple a rules, but then, fellas did gang up on me.’
‘Clear win… heehee! Looks like that win was hard-won. Just died, heehee. Face all bashed in… heehee!’
Rokka looked panicked. ‘Naw, damn it! ’Sother one still alive? All he got was a boot in’na head.’
Rokka calmed down once he heard that the man was still living. He was sitting in the trench spitting blood, Rokka’s boot having knocked out one of his teeth.
‘We’re takin’ care a this fella here from now on! I need ’im. Lissen, Koskela, don’t you say nothin’ about this here wrangle. And you, Lieutenant, don’t you report nothin’ either. We’ll give ’em a lil’ surprise tomorrow. They promised leave to any fella gits a prisoner. I’m deliverin’ mine personally to the command post tomorrow.’
Koskela, who was aware of Rokka’s scheduled interrogation, could guess why Rokka needed the man. The lieutenant from the infantry platoon also promised not to send a report before Rokka himself had delivered the prisoner. He didn’t know anything about the disciplinary issue, but when Koskela asked, he conceded, even if it wasn’t exactly allowed.
They took the prisoner into the bunker and threw the other bodies up over the banks of the trench. They inspected their Russian prisoner more closely in the bunker. The man’s lips were badly swollen, so you couldn’t tell much from his face, save that he was a churlish, fearless man somewhere in his thirties. He looked them fiercely in the eye, clearly prepared to face down anything, even death, if need be. The man wasn’t wearing his shoulder insignia, but his general tenor gave them reason to wonder whether he might be an officer. Rokka fetched him some water and the man washed the dirt from his face. ‘Lissen, you take this rag and soak it in’na cold water. Then stick it on your mouth. Look… Right there, I think.’
Rokka tended to the man, who accepted his assistance, even if he didn’t seem exactly grateful for it. He inspected Rokka closely, however. His interest may have been piqued by the insane fury with which Rokka had defended himself. Maybe he was regretting that his team had ended up attacking a man too tough for them. Koskela’s men also suspected that this prisoner was more valuable than the ordinary sort, as they generally didn’t select just anyone to take prisoner.
They sent for the fellow over in the neighboring position who spoke Russian – the same guy from Salmi who had written the messages on the rat-collars – and started listening to the prisoner. He refused to say anything at first. Then, finally, he offered up Private Baranov as his name, but the interpreter also suspected he was lying about his rank, and said so. The man fell silent again, but eventually identified himself as Captain Baranov. He had probably reached the conclusion that there was no point in keeping his rank a secret, and that it might actually be better to let it be known, which was indeed the case. The men immediately began to treat him with greater deference, and if the disclosure meant that they were going to require him, as a captain, to disclose more information than they would have asked of a private, well then, so much greater was his opportunity to lie.