The Winter Warriors, page 14
“Good,” Juutilainen scoffed. “You three seem in good spirits. We can take advantage of that.”
Simo, Onni and Aksu were ordered to make ready to go ahead as scouts a kilometre in front of their companies and keep an eye open for any possible danger.
Even though his name was not called, and without even thinking about it, Toivo stood up, slung his rifle over his shoulder, checked his ammunition, and did up the hood of his snowsuit. Juutilainen let him do so. Simo and Toivo had said they were childhood friends, and it was best not to separate friends, because they were bound to be courageous. Courageous for each other. And that made them good soldiers.
35
Forests of Kollaa, –35°C
The four soldiers struggled to make headway. Night was falling before 16.00. If the clouds allowed it to shine, in a few minutes’ time the only light would be from the moon. As they marched, their legs began to freeze, flesh and skin anaesthetised by the cold. They were skiing on an invisible cemetery that had no regard for uniforms or nationalities. The superstitious Onni wondered whether it was the depth of the mantle of snow that was impeding their progress or the corpses’ phantom hands clutching at their ankles.
In the lead, Toivo raised his fist for them to be silent, and they came to a halt. He tilted his head, and Simo came to lie beside him. He saw the makeshift camp: a canvas tarpaulin hanging from one tree trunk to another for protection from the wind. An extinguished fire, with seven hunched figures around it. Next to them, a dead horse on its back, its belly slit open, hoofs pointing at the sky. Onni stood his wired radio on the ground, ready to warn their company of an enemy presence. Simo checked his lines of sight. Seven targets, a maximum of seven seconds, plus two more to reload. Their bodies stiffened with cold, the Russians would not have time to understand what was going on, or to defend themselves. Simo controlled his breathing. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he lowered his rifle as though he had changed his mind.
“Perkele,” Aksu whispered. “Why don’t you shoot?”
*
Simo prodded the first Russian in the back with his foot, and the body toppled forward, the face smearing with black, frozen ashes. On guard duty, he must have forgotten to wake the others, letting them sleep until death overtook them. Alongside them lay the disembowelled horse, hacked to pieces with their knives. To judge by what little was left of the animal, they had obviously stuffed themselves as best they could.
Unhooking the lamp from his back, Simo slid the red plastic filter out and put the green one in. He waved it high above his head to signal to the others they could join him.
*
“Look,” Onni whispered. “This one still has his arm outstretched, a stick in his hand.”
In a last desperate effort to keep the fire going, the soldier on guard had ended up as an ice statue as white as salt.
“And Lot’s wife, despite the advice from the angels, turned to look back at Sodom …” Onni quoted from memory.
“Let’s search them and go,” Toivo said.
Seven Degtyaryov light machine guns and their ammunition, fortunately compatible with Finnish weapons. Rich spoils they could not ignore, but which they would have to seize by force.
While Toivo held on to one soldier’s rigid body, Simo pulled on the frozen arms locked round his rifle. In vain. Behind them, Aksu had shown less respect for the dead, and stuck his bayonet between their elbow and body, using it as a lever to free their weapons.
Nauseous at first at the sound of frozen flesh being ripped apart, the Finnish soldiers decided this was the only solution, or at least the quickest, unless they made a fire and allowed the bodies to thaw. They had to prise the fingers of the last Russian from the butt of his rifle, jabbing at them with their puukkos.
They walked away from the frozen men, whose petrified features were not twisted by the usual pain or fear, but simply extinguished, almost at peace, eyes closed.
36
Night had fallen by the time the four scouts reached the Kollaa frontline, with Simo in the lead. They were half an hour in front of the remainder of the 6th Company, so to avoid being hit by friendly fire, Onni raised the lamp with the green filter and shouted the day’s password.
“Kettu!”17
In the distance another green lamp flashed. Reassured, they covered the final hundred metres, hoping against hope the Russian artillery directed at the Finnish line had not hit their tents. Fortunately, they found they were intact, and dropped their booty of machine guns and ammunition in front of one of them.
None of them flung themselves down on their beds, preferring to warm up by the stove. They knew that violent spasms of cold would prevent them getting any rest. They would have to wait patiently until the shivering lessened, no longer hammering at their stomachs and chests. Only Toivo dropped his rucksack on the ground and left the tent without a word.
The 34th Regiment to which the 6th Company belonged had lost men. Many dead, even more wounded, and it was in the first-aid post, nestling in the shelter of a hill to avoid direct artillery strikes, that they were screened.
If it was a question of fresh bandages, splints, or of stopping bleeding or administering a strong dose of morphine, they were attended to in the first-aid post. The most seriously wounded, who needed to be operated on, were evacuated in a medical bus to the field hospital 20 kilometres away – if they survived the journey.
Then there was the big black tent, concealed from the soldiers, that took in the dead, at first lined up and more recently stacked on top of one another, awaiting their return home.
Taking advantage of the lull, the short respite between the daily clashes and the start of the deadly night-time rain of artillery shells, Toivo walked over to the first-aid post.
Before joining Leena, he studied her for a few moments. She looked incredibly sweet as she bent over the wounded, giving them all her attention. They were Finnish, but Toivo was convinced she would have cared for Russians in exactly the same way. It seemed to him that at all times and in all circumstances, Leena was inspired by a universal compassion.
When she raised her head and their eyes met, they smiled at one another, and the Winter War stood still.
“I got your message,” Toivo said, slightly embarrassed.
“Are you wounded?” she asked, spotting the dirty bandage on his arm.
“No, but I have to pretend I am to see you.”
“You can stay a few minutes, no longer. Everyone is asleep. The night-time racket hasn’t started yet.”
Beyond a row of beds with bloody sheets, Leena raised the canvas flap dividing the tent in two. Behind it was where she slept. Toivo stretched out on the narrow bed, and Leena squeezed in next to him. At last they were one.
“Would you like to …?” she suggested, hardly daring to finish the sentence.
“I’m not sure.”
“Then we can just stay like this. The two of us together. I enjoy that as well.”
Toivo held her gently, trying to imbibe her breathing and her skin, the vestiges of a previous life. When all this was over, he had plans for them. He only wished she would agree to share them. They embraced again, their hearts beating obstinately as one, come what may.
*
Toivo found it hard to wipe away the silly grin on his face. He was the only one who knew about the small scrap of Finnish-blue cloth Leena had quickly sewn inside the collar of his uniform jacket. This simple secret would give him the strength to carry on. He returned to the company’s tents in a buoyant mood, expecting to find his friends asleep. He found them alright, but not there: Juutilainen had kept them awake, parading them in front of their commanding officers.
By the light from oil lamps and pocket torches, the legionnaire was displaying all the munitions pilfered that day in order to impress Teittinen, the commander of the 34th Regiment.
“One light cannon, twelve machine guns, 24 sub-machine guns, and five P.T.R.D.-41 anti-tank rifles, Colonel, sir!”
Pietari corrected the total:
“Thirty-one sub-machine guns, in fact. We stole another seven from an isolated unit. And the ammo that goes with them.”
“The more we attack them, the more weapons we get!” Juutilainen boasted. “And we smashed two of their tanks, one with a log, the other with petrol bombs.”
Teittinen looked delighted as he observed the 6th Company. Three weeks earlier, he would not have bet a penny on them. The more so with the Terror at their head.
“Gentlemen, you bring honour to the Finnish Army. And you give the word ‘guerrilla’ all its nobility.”
The lieutenant colonel began to pace up and down in front of the men.
“The guerrilla is the poor man’s military strategy. Our war manual can teach you the theory far better than me. Above all, it is ‘an asymmetrical balance of forces, in number as well as in weaponry’. That is a good description of this war. ‘Rapid surprise attacks’: you are without equal in that regard. ‘Over extensive territory of difficult access’ – how better to describe our beautiful Finland? ‘With ultra-mobile and flexible units’: exactly like our Sissi! But in the end, those are not what’s most important. We’ll die just as surely in our rapid attacks as in an exhausting long-drawn-out defence. But rest assured that when those attacks are carried out by an army considered defeated from the outset, they terrify our adversaries. And you do terrify them, I promise you that. Morale is a weapon, and you soldiers are sapping theirs day after day!”
37
Mekhlis had gone to ground like a rat. He had soiled himself when he heard the Finns prowling round his hiding place. He had almost crawled back to the Russian camp: Stalin’s man, the Stavka’s prestigious emissary.
The day after their ill-advised advance on Loimola, an advance dictated by a politician who knew nothing about warfare or military tactics, the units who had taken part were drawn up in front of Mekhlis. His rage had only grown since the previous day.
Borodin and Sadovski were escorted to him and made to kneel in front of several thousand men standing at attention.
Mekhlis walked behind the two men, glared at the army facing him, then shot them in the back of the head. Hands tied behind their backs, they toppled face down in the snow. The guilty had been punished. The day could begin.
*
In General Habarov’s tent, the officers of a new unit – new Borodins and Sadovskis – had listened devoutly as the bungling Mekhlis gave them a fresh lesson in military strategy.
“Go round it! We must go round Kollaa to the north to avoid them. And avoid that damned road!”
Impervious to any notion of bad faith, his anger sated by the morning’s double execution, Mekhlis had swiftly recovered his arrogance. He made for his tent to pack his bags, only to encounter Habarov, whose rank and record shielded him from a bullet to the head.
“You’re not staying?” the general asked sardonically.
“I’ve given you your tactics. I don’t have to do the fighting for you as well, do I?”
“And your remaining bandsmen? Are you taking them with you?”
“Give them rifles. My musicians can become your soldiers.”
Throwing his full suitcase to the floor beside his camp bed, Mekhlis turned towards Habarov, ready to leave him with a threat. But, thanks to his unrivalled experience in diplomacy and subterfuge, the general was quick to defuse the situation.
“In my report, I shall say you did not hesitate to venture to the frontline, demonstrating the remarkable courage of a true warrior in the service of the Mother Country and its Supreme Leader.”
Mekhlis swallowed his anger as if it were bile. The “remarkable courage of a true warrior” was better than having to report the defeat he himself had provoked, and of which he had had a front-row view, before he had got lost in the forest like a baby rabbit separated from its mother.
“Then I will say that you command your men competently,” Mekhlis retorted, “and that the unexpected and extreme wintry conditions are the only reason for your delay in carrying out his plan of conquest. It is possible he will be merciful.”
The two men shook hands. After accompanying Mekhlis to his vehicle, Habarov asked to be given Borodin and Sadovski’s dog tags.
The orders were clear. No bodies were to be returned to the Soviet Union, in order not to undermine the propaganda boast that the powerful, indestructible Russia would not lose a single man during the Winter War.
So Habarov had a pit dug for the two officers. With no cross and no prayers.
Leaning over their grave, he reflected on the two intertwined bodies tossed there carelessly, dishonoured even in death. He told himself there was room enough for a third corpse, and it had very nearly been his.
Mercy, however, was not one of Stalin’s strong points, and the following day a simple telegram arrived “inviting” Habarov to pack his bags, sacrificed like a pawn. At least he was alive. Two days later, he relinquished command of the 8th Army to take on that of a quartermaster unit without even meeting his replacement.
When Grigory Shtern, hero of the Soviet Union during the war with Japan a year earlier, arrived in his quarters and took command of the 8th Army, there was no change to either orders or strategy: to advance at any cost and annihilate this insolent Finland which refused to surrender. Shtern had to succeed, or find himself in a pit as well.
New leader, same war, same chaos.
38
Kollaa front, mid-December 1939, –30°C
On the road to Loimola the Russians encountered one attack after another and minefields, and they still had not located the rear base where the Finnish commanders planned their campaign. They had, however, located the Kollaa frontline, and that was where they concentrated their heaviest artillery bombardments.
As usual, the furious storm of shells had ceased an hour before dawn. The silence that followed still echoed from its blasts.
Thanks to this lull, Simo had fallen asleep, hunched on the trench floor covered in brown snow and sheltered by Hugo’s broad back. Next to him, light shone from Arvo’s head torch as he pored over his book of recipes. Arvo was a young apprentice chef who had enrolled in the Rautjärvi Civic Guard less than a year before. He was in the bad habit of describing the ingredients of his favourite dishes to Hugo, who salivated painfully on hearing them and begged him to stop.
When two of the men were sleeping, the third kept watch. Now it was Arvo’s turn.
As he dozed, Simo was disturbed by a sudden movement, as if nudged in the ribs by an elbow. Straightening up, it took his eyes several seconds to get used to the half-light. In those few moments, he thought he saw Hugo and Arvo fighting, for some as yet unclear reason. Arvo was flat on the ground, and a huge dark silhouette appeared to be punching him in the stomach. Grasping his torch, Simo shone it in front of him. Its beam lit up the Russian who had infiltrated their trench and, almost astride the youngster, was raining knife thrusts on him, gagging him with his hand to prevent him crying out.
Half a second later, Simo had plunged his bayonet up to the hilt under the attacker’s armpit. All along the trench, other torches snapped on, revealing the murderous intruders and their victims’ dead bodies. Behind Simo, Hugo buried his puukko so hard into the throat of a Red soldier that the point emerged from the back of his head. Bewildered, Simo and Hugo stared at each other, the two enemy bodies at their feet.
Shouts, confusion. Raised high in the air, anonymous knife and bayonet blades flashed momentarily in the moonlight before disappearing into flesh, slitting stomachs open, obscenely red intestines pouring out. Soldiers ran blindly along the bottom of the trench, grabbing uniforms and helmets to distinguish the enemy from their brothers-in-arms, to decide whether or not to kill. Gunshots rang out in all directions; some wept with fear as they fought; others were pleading, or shouting with the rage that bolsters a soldier’s courage, killing with bestial savagery. The rest of the Finnish camp was finally waking up, men running towards the endless indistinguishable lines of trenches zigzagging along the front.
Never before had the enemy come so close.
Oblivious to the tumult, Simo sat in front of Arvo and pulled his body until his head rested on his legs. The youngster breathed his last in Simo’s arms. Beside him lay the recipe book, stained red with his own blood.
The noise of the Russians pulling back from this lightning attack could still be heard. Simo crawled towards a box of petrol bombs. He took hold of one of the glass bottles, scraped the storm match taped to it, and threw it out of the trench. As it burst on the snowy ground, the flames did not hit anyone, but illuminated a wide area. He threw several more, which gave Hugo the chance to shoot at the Russians’ retreating backs.
Only a hundred metres away, without bothering to await the return of their suicide unit, the Russians began to fire their mortars. Despite the roar of the explosions and the blinding flashes, Simo now had only one thought in mind: to find Onni, Toivo and Pietari. The trench snaked over more than three kilometres, but two of them were posted at one end, while Onni was at the other.
“Run!” Hugo shouted. “I’ll look for Onni!”
To avoid a granite outcrop, the trench made a right-angled turn. Just as Simo was about to enter it, a shell exploded in front of him. The blast flung him several metres backwards until he hit a pile of logs. When he came round, his body buried in earth, Simo struggled to his feet and ran round the bend. The intense heat had melted the snow, and the trench was now covered in a layer of sticky scarlet organic matter. As the cloud of smoke gradually dispersed, he caught sight of Pietari and Toivo. Ignoring the chaos all around them, the three men fell into each other’s arms.
The Finns responded to the attack at once. Leaping behind their mortars, light cannon and machine guns, they fired continuously straight ahead of them. Soon though, anxious to save their scarce munitions, the firing stopped.
Simo, Onni and Aksu were ordered to make ready to go ahead as scouts a kilometre in front of their companies and keep an eye open for any possible danger.
Even though his name was not called, and without even thinking about it, Toivo stood up, slung his rifle over his shoulder, checked his ammunition, and did up the hood of his snowsuit. Juutilainen let him do so. Simo and Toivo had said they were childhood friends, and it was best not to separate friends, because they were bound to be courageous. Courageous for each other. And that made them good soldiers.
35
Forests of Kollaa, –35°C
The four soldiers struggled to make headway. Night was falling before 16.00. If the clouds allowed it to shine, in a few minutes’ time the only light would be from the moon. As they marched, their legs began to freeze, flesh and skin anaesthetised by the cold. They were skiing on an invisible cemetery that had no regard for uniforms or nationalities. The superstitious Onni wondered whether it was the depth of the mantle of snow that was impeding their progress or the corpses’ phantom hands clutching at their ankles.
In the lead, Toivo raised his fist for them to be silent, and they came to a halt. He tilted his head, and Simo came to lie beside him. He saw the makeshift camp: a canvas tarpaulin hanging from one tree trunk to another for protection from the wind. An extinguished fire, with seven hunched figures around it. Next to them, a dead horse on its back, its belly slit open, hoofs pointing at the sky. Onni stood his wired radio on the ground, ready to warn their company of an enemy presence. Simo checked his lines of sight. Seven targets, a maximum of seven seconds, plus two more to reload. Their bodies stiffened with cold, the Russians would not have time to understand what was going on, or to defend themselves. Simo controlled his breathing. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he lowered his rifle as though he had changed his mind.
“Perkele,” Aksu whispered. “Why don’t you shoot?”
*
Simo prodded the first Russian in the back with his foot, and the body toppled forward, the face smearing with black, frozen ashes. On guard duty, he must have forgotten to wake the others, letting them sleep until death overtook them. Alongside them lay the disembowelled horse, hacked to pieces with their knives. To judge by what little was left of the animal, they had obviously stuffed themselves as best they could.
Unhooking the lamp from his back, Simo slid the red plastic filter out and put the green one in. He waved it high above his head to signal to the others they could join him.
*
“Look,” Onni whispered. “This one still has his arm outstretched, a stick in his hand.”
In a last desperate effort to keep the fire going, the soldier on guard had ended up as an ice statue as white as salt.
“And Lot’s wife, despite the advice from the angels, turned to look back at Sodom …” Onni quoted from memory.
“Let’s search them and go,” Toivo said.
Seven Degtyaryov light machine guns and their ammunition, fortunately compatible with Finnish weapons. Rich spoils they could not ignore, but which they would have to seize by force.
While Toivo held on to one soldier’s rigid body, Simo pulled on the frozen arms locked round his rifle. In vain. Behind them, Aksu had shown less respect for the dead, and stuck his bayonet between their elbow and body, using it as a lever to free their weapons.
Nauseous at first at the sound of frozen flesh being ripped apart, the Finnish soldiers decided this was the only solution, or at least the quickest, unless they made a fire and allowed the bodies to thaw. They had to prise the fingers of the last Russian from the butt of his rifle, jabbing at them with their puukkos.
They walked away from the frozen men, whose petrified features were not twisted by the usual pain or fear, but simply extinguished, almost at peace, eyes closed.
36
Night had fallen by the time the four scouts reached the Kollaa frontline, with Simo in the lead. They were half an hour in front of the remainder of the 6th Company, so to avoid being hit by friendly fire, Onni raised the lamp with the green filter and shouted the day’s password.
“Kettu!”17
In the distance another green lamp flashed. Reassured, they covered the final hundred metres, hoping against hope the Russian artillery directed at the Finnish line had not hit their tents. Fortunately, they found they were intact, and dropped their booty of machine guns and ammunition in front of one of them.
None of them flung themselves down on their beds, preferring to warm up by the stove. They knew that violent spasms of cold would prevent them getting any rest. They would have to wait patiently until the shivering lessened, no longer hammering at their stomachs and chests. Only Toivo dropped his rucksack on the ground and left the tent without a word.
The 34th Regiment to which the 6th Company belonged had lost men. Many dead, even more wounded, and it was in the first-aid post, nestling in the shelter of a hill to avoid direct artillery strikes, that they were screened.
If it was a question of fresh bandages, splints, or of stopping bleeding or administering a strong dose of morphine, they were attended to in the first-aid post. The most seriously wounded, who needed to be operated on, were evacuated in a medical bus to the field hospital 20 kilometres away – if they survived the journey.
Then there was the big black tent, concealed from the soldiers, that took in the dead, at first lined up and more recently stacked on top of one another, awaiting their return home.
Taking advantage of the lull, the short respite between the daily clashes and the start of the deadly night-time rain of artillery shells, Toivo walked over to the first-aid post.
Before joining Leena, he studied her for a few moments. She looked incredibly sweet as she bent over the wounded, giving them all her attention. They were Finnish, but Toivo was convinced she would have cared for Russians in exactly the same way. It seemed to him that at all times and in all circumstances, Leena was inspired by a universal compassion.
When she raised her head and their eyes met, they smiled at one another, and the Winter War stood still.
“I got your message,” Toivo said, slightly embarrassed.
“Are you wounded?” she asked, spotting the dirty bandage on his arm.
“No, but I have to pretend I am to see you.”
“You can stay a few minutes, no longer. Everyone is asleep. The night-time racket hasn’t started yet.”
Beyond a row of beds with bloody sheets, Leena raised the canvas flap dividing the tent in two. Behind it was where she slept. Toivo stretched out on the narrow bed, and Leena squeezed in next to him. At last they were one.
“Would you like to …?” she suggested, hardly daring to finish the sentence.
“I’m not sure.”
“Then we can just stay like this. The two of us together. I enjoy that as well.”
Toivo held her gently, trying to imbibe her breathing and her skin, the vestiges of a previous life. When all this was over, he had plans for them. He only wished she would agree to share them. They embraced again, their hearts beating obstinately as one, come what may.
*
Toivo found it hard to wipe away the silly grin on his face. He was the only one who knew about the small scrap of Finnish-blue cloth Leena had quickly sewn inside the collar of his uniform jacket. This simple secret would give him the strength to carry on. He returned to the company’s tents in a buoyant mood, expecting to find his friends asleep. He found them alright, but not there: Juutilainen had kept them awake, parading them in front of their commanding officers.
By the light from oil lamps and pocket torches, the legionnaire was displaying all the munitions pilfered that day in order to impress Teittinen, the commander of the 34th Regiment.
“One light cannon, twelve machine guns, 24 sub-machine guns, and five P.T.R.D.-41 anti-tank rifles, Colonel, sir!”
Pietari corrected the total:
“Thirty-one sub-machine guns, in fact. We stole another seven from an isolated unit. And the ammo that goes with them.”
“The more we attack them, the more weapons we get!” Juutilainen boasted. “And we smashed two of their tanks, one with a log, the other with petrol bombs.”
Teittinen looked delighted as he observed the 6th Company. Three weeks earlier, he would not have bet a penny on them. The more so with the Terror at their head.
“Gentlemen, you bring honour to the Finnish Army. And you give the word ‘guerrilla’ all its nobility.”
The lieutenant colonel began to pace up and down in front of the men.
“The guerrilla is the poor man’s military strategy. Our war manual can teach you the theory far better than me. Above all, it is ‘an asymmetrical balance of forces, in number as well as in weaponry’. That is a good description of this war. ‘Rapid surprise attacks’: you are without equal in that regard. ‘Over extensive territory of difficult access’ – how better to describe our beautiful Finland? ‘With ultra-mobile and flexible units’: exactly like our Sissi! But in the end, those are not what’s most important. We’ll die just as surely in our rapid attacks as in an exhausting long-drawn-out defence. But rest assured that when those attacks are carried out by an army considered defeated from the outset, they terrify our adversaries. And you do terrify them, I promise you that. Morale is a weapon, and you soldiers are sapping theirs day after day!”
37
Mekhlis had gone to ground like a rat. He had soiled himself when he heard the Finns prowling round his hiding place. He had almost crawled back to the Russian camp: Stalin’s man, the Stavka’s prestigious emissary.
The day after their ill-advised advance on Loimola, an advance dictated by a politician who knew nothing about warfare or military tactics, the units who had taken part were drawn up in front of Mekhlis. His rage had only grown since the previous day.
Borodin and Sadovski were escorted to him and made to kneel in front of several thousand men standing at attention.
Mekhlis walked behind the two men, glared at the army facing him, then shot them in the back of the head. Hands tied behind their backs, they toppled face down in the snow. The guilty had been punished. The day could begin.
*
In General Habarov’s tent, the officers of a new unit – new Borodins and Sadovskis – had listened devoutly as the bungling Mekhlis gave them a fresh lesson in military strategy.
“Go round it! We must go round Kollaa to the north to avoid them. And avoid that damned road!”
Impervious to any notion of bad faith, his anger sated by the morning’s double execution, Mekhlis had swiftly recovered his arrogance. He made for his tent to pack his bags, only to encounter Habarov, whose rank and record shielded him from a bullet to the head.
“You’re not staying?” the general asked sardonically.
“I’ve given you your tactics. I don’t have to do the fighting for you as well, do I?”
“And your remaining bandsmen? Are you taking them with you?”
“Give them rifles. My musicians can become your soldiers.”
Throwing his full suitcase to the floor beside his camp bed, Mekhlis turned towards Habarov, ready to leave him with a threat. But, thanks to his unrivalled experience in diplomacy and subterfuge, the general was quick to defuse the situation.
“In my report, I shall say you did not hesitate to venture to the frontline, demonstrating the remarkable courage of a true warrior in the service of the Mother Country and its Supreme Leader.”
Mekhlis swallowed his anger as if it were bile. The “remarkable courage of a true warrior” was better than having to report the defeat he himself had provoked, and of which he had had a front-row view, before he had got lost in the forest like a baby rabbit separated from its mother.
“Then I will say that you command your men competently,” Mekhlis retorted, “and that the unexpected and extreme wintry conditions are the only reason for your delay in carrying out his plan of conquest. It is possible he will be merciful.”
The two men shook hands. After accompanying Mekhlis to his vehicle, Habarov asked to be given Borodin and Sadovski’s dog tags.
The orders were clear. No bodies were to be returned to the Soviet Union, in order not to undermine the propaganda boast that the powerful, indestructible Russia would not lose a single man during the Winter War.
So Habarov had a pit dug for the two officers. With no cross and no prayers.
Leaning over their grave, he reflected on the two intertwined bodies tossed there carelessly, dishonoured even in death. He told himself there was room enough for a third corpse, and it had very nearly been his.
Mercy, however, was not one of Stalin’s strong points, and the following day a simple telegram arrived “inviting” Habarov to pack his bags, sacrificed like a pawn. At least he was alive. Two days later, he relinquished command of the 8th Army to take on that of a quartermaster unit without even meeting his replacement.
When Grigory Shtern, hero of the Soviet Union during the war with Japan a year earlier, arrived in his quarters and took command of the 8th Army, there was no change to either orders or strategy: to advance at any cost and annihilate this insolent Finland which refused to surrender. Shtern had to succeed, or find himself in a pit as well.
New leader, same war, same chaos.
38
Kollaa front, mid-December 1939, –30°C
On the road to Loimola the Russians encountered one attack after another and minefields, and they still had not located the rear base where the Finnish commanders planned their campaign. They had, however, located the Kollaa frontline, and that was where they concentrated their heaviest artillery bombardments.
As usual, the furious storm of shells had ceased an hour before dawn. The silence that followed still echoed from its blasts.
Thanks to this lull, Simo had fallen asleep, hunched on the trench floor covered in brown snow and sheltered by Hugo’s broad back. Next to him, light shone from Arvo’s head torch as he pored over his book of recipes. Arvo was a young apprentice chef who had enrolled in the Rautjärvi Civic Guard less than a year before. He was in the bad habit of describing the ingredients of his favourite dishes to Hugo, who salivated painfully on hearing them and begged him to stop.
When two of the men were sleeping, the third kept watch. Now it was Arvo’s turn.
As he dozed, Simo was disturbed by a sudden movement, as if nudged in the ribs by an elbow. Straightening up, it took his eyes several seconds to get used to the half-light. In those few moments, he thought he saw Hugo and Arvo fighting, for some as yet unclear reason. Arvo was flat on the ground, and a huge dark silhouette appeared to be punching him in the stomach. Grasping his torch, Simo shone it in front of him. Its beam lit up the Russian who had infiltrated their trench and, almost astride the youngster, was raining knife thrusts on him, gagging him with his hand to prevent him crying out.
Half a second later, Simo had plunged his bayonet up to the hilt under the attacker’s armpit. All along the trench, other torches snapped on, revealing the murderous intruders and their victims’ dead bodies. Behind Simo, Hugo buried his puukko so hard into the throat of a Red soldier that the point emerged from the back of his head. Bewildered, Simo and Hugo stared at each other, the two enemy bodies at their feet.
Shouts, confusion. Raised high in the air, anonymous knife and bayonet blades flashed momentarily in the moonlight before disappearing into flesh, slitting stomachs open, obscenely red intestines pouring out. Soldiers ran blindly along the bottom of the trench, grabbing uniforms and helmets to distinguish the enemy from their brothers-in-arms, to decide whether or not to kill. Gunshots rang out in all directions; some wept with fear as they fought; others were pleading, or shouting with the rage that bolsters a soldier’s courage, killing with bestial savagery. The rest of the Finnish camp was finally waking up, men running towards the endless indistinguishable lines of trenches zigzagging along the front.
Never before had the enemy come so close.
Oblivious to the tumult, Simo sat in front of Arvo and pulled his body until his head rested on his legs. The youngster breathed his last in Simo’s arms. Beside him lay the recipe book, stained red with his own blood.
The noise of the Russians pulling back from this lightning attack could still be heard. Simo crawled towards a box of petrol bombs. He took hold of one of the glass bottles, scraped the storm match taped to it, and threw it out of the trench. As it burst on the snowy ground, the flames did not hit anyone, but illuminated a wide area. He threw several more, which gave Hugo the chance to shoot at the Russians’ retreating backs.
Only a hundred metres away, without bothering to await the return of their suicide unit, the Russians began to fire their mortars. Despite the roar of the explosions and the blinding flashes, Simo now had only one thought in mind: to find Onni, Toivo and Pietari. The trench snaked over more than three kilometres, but two of them were posted at one end, while Onni was at the other.
“Run!” Hugo shouted. “I’ll look for Onni!”
To avoid a granite outcrop, the trench made a right-angled turn. Just as Simo was about to enter it, a shell exploded in front of him. The blast flung him several metres backwards until he hit a pile of logs. When he came round, his body buried in earth, Simo struggled to his feet and ran round the bend. The intense heat had melted the snow, and the trench was now covered in a layer of sticky scarlet organic matter. As the cloud of smoke gradually dispersed, he caught sight of Pietari and Toivo. Ignoring the chaos all around them, the three men fell into each other’s arms.
The Finns responded to the attack at once. Leaping behind their mortars, light cannon and machine guns, they fired continuously straight ahead of them. Soon though, anxious to save their scarce munitions, the firing stopped.
