Otherwise, the platoon’s fighting spirit was probably in slightly better shape than that of the other units. Koskela was away, but he had left an indelible mark on the platoon, and Hietanen and Rokka were not the kind of men you desert lightly. Hietanen never urged anyone on. He would just toss his submachine gun over his shoulder and start walking, and the others would follow suit. It almost seemed as if his eyes had aged. Maybe the change was just more striking in him because he had been so conspicuously rambunctious before. As his solemnity grew, so his bravery seemed to increase. A defiance had appeared within him whose roots were laid bare whenever anybody voiced any political Schadenfreude over the defeat and Hietanen barked out briefly but threateningly, ‘Shut up!’
He wasn’t the type of leader to safeguard the morale of his platoon. No, he was the type who realized, from the moment the defeat came, that his former wayward patriotism had been integral to his whole attitude toward life, and that the blow of defeat was a blow to the very foundations of his being. The man in him had allowed the carefree boy to revel in the times of success, but with the arrival of defeat, he stepped forward and took its burden upon his own shoulders.
Generally speaking, Rokka remained his former self. He might have fought even better than before, but he demonstrated no wasted heroism. When he saw that a situation was hopeless, he, too, would stop trying, as he knew perfectly well that even if he held his position, the guy next to him wouldn’t. Once he even said that a pointless death was higher treason than desertion. The rumors that deserters were being shot struck him more sharply than any of them. It was lucky that he didn’t run into any high-ranking officers during that time, as the rage the rumors had fostered within him might well have landed him in an inescapable stew.
Salo remained steadfast. He believed in their ultimate victory in spite of everything, and the less basis there was for his belief, the more stubbornly he stuck to it.
A few days after Midsummer, they were in the midst of retreating. Low-flying Sturmoviks were harassing the column from the air, and somebody yelled, ‘Run for it, boys!’
‘But our own fighter planes’ll show up purty soon, don’t you think?’ Salo said, his comment pushing one embittered man to the point of rage, as it was precisely the absence of their own fighter planes they were perpetually cursing.
‘Show up, you goddamn fool! They were out there flyin’ round when nobody needed ’em, but where are they now? Those boys up there don’t seem to have any problem keepin’ on our tail.’
In his rancour, the man was just looking for any means of praising the enemy, but Salo retorted, ‘They’ll keep on our tail as long as we keep lettin’ ’em! If we just keep on runnin’ away, whatta you think’s gonna happen?’
‘Shut – shut – shut the hell up! If this road’s good enough for the rest of us, it’s damn well good enough for you.’
The truth was, in terms of his capabilities as a soldier, Salo did belong to that vast majority of ordinary men. He fulfilled his duties, for the most part, but you couldn’t exactly call him a hero. The other men felt his recent words had overstepped his normal frame of operation, however, as the established understanding amongst the group did not afford him the right to accuse others of cowardice. Salo fell silent, but when the ground-attack planes returned, instead of taking cover, he took aim at a nearing plane, steadying his rifle on the side of a tree. He didn’t look at any of the others, nor did he hear Hietanen’s furious command to take cover, he just aimed with movements so calm that the intention behind their contrived performance was unmistakable.
He shot one round and was loading a new cartridge into the barrel when the Sturmovik opened fire. Salo fell, and as soon as the commotion died down, the men hurried toward him. He was pale, but calm. His left leg had been hit, so its bones were badly crushed, and there was no doubt that Salo would walk with a prosthetic leg to the end of his days, if he made it through alive.
Uncomplaining, he endured the horrific pain as the medics removed his boot and bandaged the crushed leg. Beads of sweat pearled on his forehead and his body stiffened frequently from the pain, but he withstood it all without a sound. No doubt he had always wished to be a braver man than he was. Perhaps this incident afforded him some kind of compensation for the feeling of inferiority that had been gnawing away at him the whole war – which his insistent belief in victory had only brought to a head. For the smug superiority with which the others mocked his belief had been facilitated, in a way, by his mediocre abilities as a fighter. The shock brought on by the injury raised him up into a mental state that made it possible for him – this time – to step outside of his usual self. His voice was cuttingly calm as he said, ‘We ain’t gonna start cryin’ over a little leg now, are we? If we were runnin’ away, well now, look, I’m rid of the thing that was makin’ it all worse.’
The men of the platoon bade Salo farewell as the medics lifted him into the ambulance. As they waved him off, and each of them uttered something or other appropriate to the occasion, a note in their voices announced that with his unnecessary sacrifice, Salo had bought their respect. They never saw him again, but those who remembered him recalled him as a brave and courageous man. The last impression covered over all that had come before, and even the faith in victory that had provided them with so much amusement ceased to be stupidity and was transformed into an indomitable will.
The retreat continued. Soon they no longer remembered that there had been this man by the name of Salo in their platoon. The ever-intensifying fighting kept their minds fixed on fear, hunger and the vain hope of rest.
The machine-gunners’ command post was situated beside a winding forest road. There were sounds of firing over by the front line, and heavy shelling was underway between the front line and the command post. Lammio and Sinkkonen were receiving replacements, whose orders the company secretary was filing away. The secretary had been made a corporal as well, and seeing as there were eight young recruits amongst the replacements, he affected a lofty, superior tone of voice as he inquired after their details – never mind the exploding six-inchers making the ground shake even at the command post. It was indicative that the man was clearly aping Lammio’s gestures and intonations in his managerial role.
In addition to the boys, there were also three men over forty who had been called up out of the reserves. All the replacements had dug foxholes to protect themselves from shrapnel, and they crouched down into them every time a shell crashed to the ground.
Lammio stood tapping a stick against his boot as he spoke with the Master Sergeant. ‘It would be best to assign the old men as drivers and have the younger men who are driving now join the infantry. Send four of the new recruits to Hietanen, that platoon’s down several men. Also, I received word that Kariluoto has rejoined the battalion and resumed leadership of his company, so Koskela can return to his own platoon. Only temporarily, of course, since he is to be transferred to company commander of some other unit. They’ll probably move him to the Third Battalion, since they’ve been suffering heavy losses amongst the officers. I know Sarastie doesn’t want to give him up, because he’s afraid we will soon have need of him in his battalion, but under the current circumstances accommodating his opinion is hardly going to be an option. Well, it will all be sorted in due course, and Hietanen is certainly up to the task. These men just need to be fed before we send them out to the line.’