"Dead Youth"

[Ron Bleac]

After many years, my grandfather's finally opening up about his full experiences during the Winter and Continuation Wars. In his book "Dead Youth" he'll be writing about several things, mainly the psychological effect of war on him and his friends. But the physical effects and his experiences as well. About foreign volunteers, about mass mobilization for war and what it was like for him. About what it felt like and how he felt after he got out. About his scars, physical and mental. And most of all: Seeing his friends die again, every single night for the rest of his life. His consistent and repeating nightmares where he tries to save them, but is always too late. It's not a book about regret, or a book about hate. It's not anti-war, nor pro-war. It's just war in its purest, most brutal form. It's about how it corrupts you and destroys your soul, crushing every bit of human emotion that might exist within ones heart.

War changes people, this is his way of saying how he changed. And what made him change. From day 1 all the way until he was critically wounded and how he lived after the war. It's a book about how he hates himself for taking so much life, but yet enabling himself to go on and bear the weight of the sons he took away from their families. Or the children who'd never see their fathers again. But every cloud has a silver lining.

This book doesn't just recount his personal experiences, but it also has a very important message about all the destruction and death. The fact that we all bleed the same. He makes no differentiation between communist, socialist, capitalist or the Soviets and Finns. To him they're all men fighting for their lives, sent to the front to die for worthless ideologies.

It's literally just war, with nothing uncensored and nothing omitted. How he tried to comfort his dying friend and how he remembers those who have been left behind. And those who disappeared into the fires of war never to be seen again by human eyes. And the fantastic officers and NCOs who helped him during the war with their exemplary leadership, even after it. He made a lot of friends. But lost even more.

He has, graciously given me permission to translate and post some excerpts from the book on the Ordo forums. I'll be updating this thread regularly with snippets of the text as he writes it and sends it to me. Hopefully, it'll be a learning experience for all of us.

#1.

[* Signifies a translator note.]

Introduction. Page 1.

Dead Youth is a strictly apolitical book. I support no political ideology, or any side. All I want to write about is war. This book is a way for me to let out all the pain inside that lasts forever. It'll never fade away and will be with me until the day I die. War leaves wounds, physical and mental wounds. Wounds that are bandaged but never heal. You can change that bandage and clean the wound out, but it'll eventually be infected again. It'll haunt you in your worst nightmares and in your best dreams. The pain will never let you rest. But with these lines of text I hope to confess my wrongdoings and try and make things right for myself again. But I know the people I killed can never forgive me, nor can their families. Eventually, this book will probably be translated into multiple languages. Maybe even Russian. If that's the case, perhaps we can all live in the mutual understanding that we were all soldiers. I know that for those families that lost sons and daughters to the war will never forgive any of us, nor will they forgive themselves. Saying sorry doesn't make it any better. But perhaps we can take comfort in the fact that even if we once fought and hurt eachother in terrible ways, we can all live in peace and never go to war again. And for those who still rest on our soil in eternal sleep, worry not, for you are now our sons as well.

This book is a dedication to the following people:

My family, past and current.

Those I lost.

Private Hänninen

Private Järvi

Private Adolfson

Private Aleksandrov

Private Veikko

Private Henttonen

Private Röpelöinen

Private Paasonen

Private Kaivola

Corporal Kaikunen

Sergeant Vilho

Sergeant Haikarainen

Second Lieutenant Luostarinen

Captain Korhonen

And those who are still here today. I thank you for supporting me. I hope you enjoy the read.

More to come as I receive it.

[Agares Tretiak]

Thank you, Ron. I'm sure many of us history buffs as well as those who know a bit about you, understand what an opportunity this is as well as the importance of what this means.

[Ron Bleac]

Here's an excerpt titled "Replacements."

At this point in the book most of the "characters" have already been introduced and reserve refresher training is already over. His company is being moved to the front to resupply and relieve troops.

"Replacements."

At the Kollaa front. 6th of December, 1939.

The battle of Kollaa would be my first taste of 'true' battle so to speak. Kollaa is a small stretch of road network on Finland's eastern border, where the Soviet army threw itself against our lines in an effort to secure further access to proper networks upon which troops and goods could be transported. It was a struggle for supply lines and ease of transport, but what makes Kollaa so critical is the fact it's sort of like a bolt lock on a door. If they break the lock, they will break into the house. Some of the men I recall saying things like: "If we break here, the war is lost." At the time, it certainly seemed like it. Nobody really talked about it, but we all knew that we were on our last legs ever since the beginning of December. I guess a more correct expression would be to say that we were on our last legs ever since the war began. All it would take to defeat us was a proverbial swift kick to the groin and a punch to the throat. All we were trying to do was cockblock the Soviet military from punching too hard, akin to a lightweight fighting a heavyweight champion in a combat sport. We were holding our arms in front of our faces and waiting for them to tire out from overpunching. The papers were all full of news about resounding victories but you thought to yourself: How long will this last? We were low on fighting men and ammunition as it stood. Our morale overall wasn't too great, but some of the guys were chuffed about actually facing the enemy and having the chance to fight. There was a general feel of excitement in the air.

The train car I was in was originally meant to transport cattle, it was filled with hay and other things you'd expect to find in a cattle car. During our period of transport we'd lie down on the hay and fall asleep as the train car rocked back and forth on the tracks. Some of us occupied ourselves with reading a book, or just silent conversation with the man sitting next to you. It could be about anything, but the favourite topics were definitely food and family. We never talked about the ongoing war. The train doors weren't locked, we could open them when we liked but for the sake of safety we avoided doing so. It wasn't light out, so we used small oil lamps hooked to the walls to give ourselves some form of a light source. Of course this meant that if we opened a door or a window, we would possibly reveal ourselves as apt targets for enemy aircraft. So we didn't, but sat there in the darkness not knowing what time of day it was.

After several more hours, the train screeched to a halt. The hiss of steam venting out of the locomotive and the repeated clank of metal parts suddenly stopped. Then we heard somebody reach to the door on the side of the car and sure enough, it opened. The sudden flood of bright daylight hurt my eyes and I squinted to see what was outside. The man who had opened the door peeked in. His cheeks were red and he had minor signs of frostbite on his nose, which he was rubbing compulsively with a mitted hand. His lapels revealed him to be a Lieutenant. He motioned to us with an arm, "Welcome to our frozen winter wonderland, home of the great 4th Army Group! Dismount." Slowly but surely all 30 of us stumbled off the train car with our equipment, in various states of awareness after a good nights sleep.

As we stepped off the train and into a white winter wonderland, one would've thought it was not war at all. It was a sight for sore eyes after about 7 hours straight of train and road march. The station we arrived at was rather small: A wooden house built beside the tracks served as a station house, but it had been commandeered by field engineers and our headquarters to serve as a long term command point. Outside the station house, groups of civilian and soldier alike milled about minding their own business. Dispersed companies of men wandered, doing what one might think anyone in their situation would do. Some were cleaning their equipment and maintaining their field dress, others were just out to get a bite of something before being moved on to vehicle transport or another long march. This would be their last bit of free time for a long while, so they were making the best out of it.

Me and Hänninen paired up and created a short term battle plan. One, we'd find food. Two, we'd try and find the nearest female company within a 100 kilometer radius. And three, we'd be back before the company was to be ordered into inspection at 11 AM. Most of it was yet to arrive, so we had good time on our hands. The time was now 9 AM. As me and Hänninen conversed, Järvi walked up from our rear. "Whereabouts are you guys headed to?" He asked from beneath his thick fur hat and scarf. Now, Järvi's not a bad guy, but he has a tendency of being an unnecessary annoyance and troublemaker, especially on a full stomach or when under the influence of alcohol. Like all of us, Järvi was not wearing any equipment but was in civilian clothing. The only thing identifying him as a Finn and a soldier was his white and blue cocard which he had pinned to his hat, in addition to the great big service rifle slung around his back.

"We're going to get something to eat."

- "I'm coming with you, I love food. Besides, food means water. And I need water, warm water, snow just won't do."

We looked at him curiously. "You thirsty or what?"

Järvi shook his head and lifted his right boot, displaying a monstrously beautiful crock of frozen excrement smeared across the front of the boot. "I caught this beauty when we boarded the train. I've been trying to get it off with hay and snow, but it just won't come off. Most of it's gone, but it's stuck between the cracks and it froze over again when we got out. It doesn't really matter, but I'm not a friend of poop except on the morning constitutional."

And at that moment time stopped. Our conversation was interrupted by an extremely low rumble and we felt the ground shake. Snow from the pine trees around us fell in a fine powder and a group of people directly to our left turned to face towards the East. The continuous cacophony of noise grew weaker and stronger in waves like a badly tuned orchestra accompanied by a deep howl. It felt like somebody had just grabbed my spine and squeezed it, my shoulders had locked up and my feet wanted to move but I couldn't. I was stuck watching, or rather listening to this unrelenting barrage of sound. Then with a loud series of pops and thuds, the world came screeching back to me. Literally. Overhead, artillery grenades from a nearby supporting gun detachment howled towards the front to support a defensive effort being upheld just miles away from our current position. As soon as it had begun, what I assume to be our counter-battery fire was over. They did not have enough grenades to sustain continuos fire and by the time it was all done, the rumble from the East continued undeterred and did not stop for a good several minutes.

We were just left there, standing in silence at the display of power we were just witnesses to. Soviet artillery had just, by the sounds of it landed a barrage on target that lasted for several minutes. How do we know it was on target? Our artillery replied. Even after our shells landed, they kept on firing and finished their attack on schedule. When the silence settled down, Hänninen was the first to say something.

"We're probably going to get some of that."

[Ron Bleac]

We were seated in an underground dugout just after exchanging guard with JRI./2C. It was a quiet winter morning with the sun barely dipping its skirt on the treetops. It was eerily quiet. About 300 meters to our absolute North lay a near identical set of trenches, mirroring our construction. Those dugouts were Soviet. The snow around the trenches was fresh, it had come down last night. But even virgin snow was unable to cover the scars of battle that littered the area. Craters, mangled barbed wire and trees that seemed to have exploded from a high density artillery bombardment. The particular set of trench we were in was rather simple. The main dugout was L shaped and pointed breast first towards the enemy, with the quarters on the Southern end of the trench and with the fighting positions on the front and on the side. It was smart construction: Any attacker assaulting us from the front would be trapped in a deadly field of enfilading fire from a concrete casemate placed right outside the trenches. The casemate was, however, very hastily constructed. The wooden scaffolding had not been removed and it was half finished, but it provided enough frontal cover that it was considered ready for use. Inside the casemate was a Maxim machinegun set up on a wooden log with the primary leg of the tripod dug into the top. The two front legs were rested against the concrete, giving the machine gun a level field of fire.

No mans land between the trenches consisted of about 300 meters of largely open ground with a frozen river in the center. From what we were told upon our arrival, Soviet troops had attempted to cross the river multiple times with heavy casualties, but failed to penetrate our defenses. As I peered over the parapet through a periscope, we could make out these dark, eery lumps buried under a thin sheet of snow. The dead told their own tale, you could tell where the assault had begun and where it had ended. The last body was twenty meters to our immediate right, behind the previously mentioned casemate. Behind that body was a group of another 30 Soviet dead. There were no Finnish dead in no-man's-land, we were ordered not to counter-attack but to hold our positions. At all costs. Word from above to our battalion HQ suggested that the Soviets were going to mount a strong push in the area to secure access to a network of bridgeheads across the river, from which they could safely transport infantry and goods. For tanks they would require a pontoon bridge, the river's ice was too frail to support an armored assault.

Me and Hänninen were given the first night of guard duty after a day of maintaining equipment and mending broken sections of the trench. Our duties included replacing logs shattered by artillery shrapnel and shell. In addition to which, we were meant to rewire an "alarm bell" system to the main quarters. In case of an attack during the night, or even during the day, we would send out a "silent alarm" by pulling the string. It was an easy, intuitive system with little risk of discovery in case of an enemy attack. On our way to the primary dugout, the Soviets lobbed a few artillery shells behind our lines in an effort to catch possible resupply efforts off guard. They didn't kill anyone, but they certainly shook the hell out of us. We thought it was heading right for us, but the tell-tale whoosh passed overhead. Hänninen, having heard an old wive's tale about cannon shells leaned over and whispered to me: "If it passes, it screeches. If it's for you, it just exhales." He patted me on the back with his mitted hand and pointed towards our observation post: "There."

After a minute or two of shuffling through thick snow that had built up in the trench, we sat ourselves down in a small wooden cubicle without a top. On the walls were "weapon slits" where one could take a look through, or use the periscope provided. We preferred to look through the slits, as any source of light would possibly glint off the periscope and reveal our position to the enemy.

It wasn't long before morning came. It was a rather boring night with occasional movement from the other side of the field, but nothing in our direction. Hänninen, having warmed himself up by pressing up against my side got up first and picked up his rifle. He dusted off his winter "jumpsuit" camouflage and straightened his helmet out. He motioned for me and pulled me up, pointing me in the direction of our quarters. On our way back through the connecting trench we met up with Järvi who greeted us in his typical cheerful fashion; "Bloody cold night you guys had, have a feeling the day's going to suck just as hard." I patted him on the shoulder as we passed and briefly shared a moment, just him and me. I looked at him and gave him a push back in the direction of the guard post, an unspoken "be careful out there" sneaking between us. Nobody wanted to admit it, but we were all scared to death. Day guard generally only had one person unless we were on elevated alert status, so Järvi was alone.

A number of things could happen when you're in a guardpost alone: The Russians regularly sent out "guard-snatch" patrols that dug their way through the thick snow and knocked the guard out as silently as possible, then dragged him over to the other side of no-man's-land without anybody noticing and interrogated them there, before putting them in front of a firing squad. If you were lucky, you'd end up as a prisoner of war, but if you weren't so lucky they'd accuse you of being a spy and then shoot you on the spot. At least these were the horror stories told by the previous company who had been in our position. We never found out how they knew what happened to prisoners, but their casualty counts were quite high so we trusted that they knew better than we did. We were still green, after all.

It was shortly before mid-day when the night guard was resting inside the quarters. The previous company had outfitted them with wooden lavets laid across from top to bottom against the walls, sort of like improvised beds so that nobody would have to sleep on the floor. The quarters was safe, the logs surrounding us were at most points at least two meters deep covered in about 3 meters of earth. That would easily stop most artillery shells, but a direct hit from a large one would kill off everyone inside, depending on the warhead type. In exchange for safety, we traded personal hygiene. There was very little in the quarters to keep clean and mostly we just concentrated on the important things: That being, staying alive. We knew that in a highly active combat zone like this we would eventually be replaced. You couldn't wash outside, because if you did you'd freeze up. It was something like -25 Celcius at the time, during day. The temperature dropped even lower during the nights.

We were conversing about food. Dreaming about home, or our girlfriends, for some of us our wives. We had a pretty fun time discussing our personal fantasies about what life would be like when we returned home, or if we'd all come back home in one piece. A man from the back of the room who's name escapes me at the moment said something along the lines of "They may take my legs, but they'll never take anything above that, and god help them if they do." He said, mumbling from a state of half paralyzed sleep and upbeat activity. Everyone was sort of in a daze, dazed at the fact we were finally knee deep in it. Dazed at the fact that there was somebody on the other side wanting to kill us and that our primary objective out on the field was to kill them before they got you. Oddly enough nobody seemed to have a problem with killing. Some of the guys said things like "If you're having a hard time shooting people, imagine you're shooting uniforms. Imagine they're just paper targets that shoot back, but personally I prefer treating them with the same dignity they give us: Recognizing us as human beings." At which point, the room erupted into a lazy, drawn out chuckle that seemed to last for seconds. Occasionally somebody would start laughing without actual warrant for it, having remembered a joke told many days ago.

Pekkarinen was sneaking out of the door at the time, he was tasked with relieving Järvi. He opened the heavy bolt locked wooden door and stuck his head outside, keeping it well below the parapets to avoid drawing any attention. He left the door ajar as he ventured to get his rifle from a nearby improvised rack. Then abruptly threw himself back inside with great haste. "Everyone on the floor!"

I rolled off the lavet and hit the floor face first.

It felt like the ground had split open. My ears were ringing and it felt like I had been lifted into the air, my entire body was vibrating like an electric razor. It was like as if I had been placed in a giant church bell and someone drove a truck into it. The noise was terrible, it was as if my head was being split open by two extremely angry construction workers armed with iron bars, beating my head in blow after blow. Slowly, but surely the world began coming back to me but the shaking and great noise didn't stop. It was like something out of a movie: The ground was moving underneath you and things were falling off shelves, the lights were flickering. An oil lamp fell over against the wooden floor and set it aflame, but Heikkilä smothered it with his body. I got on my knees and tried to crawl forward, reaching for whatever might have fallen off my person in order to get some order into what was happening. The shaking still hadn't stopped, it was like an earthquake. The pounding in my ears grew greater and then finally, pop.

I felt something warm run down my cheeks.

"Kontiola, you're bleeding!" Heikkilä screamed over the noise and tackled me back to the ground and gave me a quick physical with his swift hands. He ran his fingers and palms against the back of my neck and against my head, feeling for puncture wounds. But he found nothing. He leaned against my face, his nose almost touching mine. He was screaming, but I could barely tell what he was saying. "Your ear drums! They've burst! You're OK!" He bellowed. Several others in the room were in the same condition. Blood and clear fluid was trickling down their faces. Many of them had already reached for their helmets.

And then it was over. Dead silence as we had experienced several days before. For a minute we didn't do anything, but then someone screamed. "Järvi's still out there!" Morane, a strong bulky individual from the Karelian Isthmus was the first man standing. He screamed as he went out of the door, "Everyone into the trench! Take your battle stance." Scores of men began pouring through the small doorway, grabbing their rifles from the rack in the doorway. One by one the rack emptied. It must've taken less than 20 seconds for all 25 of us to pile out of the building. Other bunkers in the area were already doing the same. The entire company was out in force, but stretched across defensive positions that in total spanned over 4000 meters of ground from all sides. There was smoke in the air, it burned my nostrils. Chordite? Or battle gas? Either way, into the trench we went. I was the first man to round the corner to the guard post. Inside, I saw Järvi pressed up against the wall shaking like the devil had possessed him. I tackled him to the ground, "Järvi! Are you hurt? Is everything OK in there?" I repeated my questions several times, knocking on his helmet. Järvi finally snapped out of it and nodded, "I'm OK."

Morane came down the same pathway, motioning back towards the main trench. There was a great ongoing commotion in our positions with men scrambling to find their friends or what equipment they had left in the trench. Suddenly this was it, the real deal. We had just received our first shower from enemy artillery with many more to come, but what came next none of us could expect.

A dreadful whistle.

"Hit the dirt!"

Ka-bang. Bang. Boom. Woosh. More artillery grenades pummeled our positions. It was an inferno of fire from what I assumed were heavy guns several miles East. And the shells were landing close to their intended target: Us. We squealed as we buried ourselves against the bottom of the trench. Each man placed his hands against the back of his neck and prayed for dear life. The second barrage was over as soon as it began and we all got back up again, clustering through the path. "Find a spot and stick to it!" Morane growled, now in his element. Morane had already seen action in the civil war and was our most senior NCO at hand. Our Lieutenant was nowhere to be seen. In the trench I encountered my very first experience with death. A man was still pressed up against the side of the trench, grasping the back of his neck. I knocked on his helmet and tried to turn him around, but quickly put him back down again. My mitts were covered in blood. Black blood. You usually think blood is red, but in great amounts it looks black. The snow on the bottom of the trench began to change colour, taking on a purplish and clarette color. Heikkilä stopped by and pressed his fingers against the fallen man's neck. "Dead." He declared and moved on, rifle tightly pressed up against his side. I moved on quickly and followed him.

Morane was still screaming. "Man the casemate! Man the gun!"

A faint voice from inside the concrete structure screamed in reply: "Gun is manned, locked and cocked!" I took my position right next to the casemate and laid my rifle against the parapet. I pulled the bolt to the side, pulled it back and loaded it with my first stripper comb, and then pushed it back in again. I was ready.

Morane was scanning the front line with his pair of binoculars, eyeing the moving snowdrifts and watching the treeline in front of our trench. "Hold your positions! Hold them!" Some men at the front began singing:

"This oath we have held true, we've pushed against the foul east.

All of us who could hold a spear, pike or sword.

And we'll hold onto what's ours, now and forever.

The shackles of slavery shall never weigh us down.

We'll die in battle, that we wish to show.

This oath is unbreakable.

This freedom can't be shattered."

Halfway through the first stanza we heard a mighty roar. It was almost like an animal, like a bear that had just been shot. And it grew stronger, and worst of all: We felt a tremor. A constantly growing, expanding tremor. We began lifting ourselves over the parapet to see. Out of the forest line in front of us zigzagged an ever growing stream of men onto the icy river, forming a steady front. They were about 20 meters across the ice when our machine guns began firing. Tak-tak-tak-tak, taka-tak-tak. Short, lethal bursts of fire sprayed across the entire front. But even over the constant gunfire, we could hear them screaming. Howling for our blood, they came across like a merciless tidal wave of grey and brown-clad infantry. We could see their pointed bayonets, I could feel my gut turn upside down. I wanted to vomit. There must've been hundreds of them.

The man at the front of the assault screamed something unintelligible, but we heard his voice clear as day. Like a sabre through flesh, it cut our ears.

And simultaneously, Morane howled a reply. Not to them, but to us.

"Fire at will!"

I felt my finger squeeze the trigger. Bang. My hand reached over to the bolt to load another round into the chamber. It was like I was an automaton, I didn't have my own free will. I lined up a man in my sights and closed my eyes. I forced them back open again, then pulled the trigger. A white puff erupted from his chest and he fell over, disappearing into the cloud of men who were still advancing undeterred by our fire. And we just kept pouring fire into them. They didn't seem to care or even feel their casualties mount, but we knew that with each round poured into the mass of men our chances of hitting them grew greater. Return fire scittered off the trench parapets and pinged off the frozen stones placed to support the logs. The Maxim gun to my right kept firing, but his bursts stretched longer. With each pull of the trigger I could feel myself growing tired, but my fear forced me to go on. They were now across the river and closing in on us, coming uphill through the unbearably thick snow with pure, unwavering power of will.

Morane and a few others were emptying entire magazines into the advancing force from their submachineguns. Burst after burst, they sprayed what little was left of their valuable ammunition and then switched over to hand grenades. They began lobbing them down the hill. Thud. A scream. Another thud, more screaming. And then silence.

The attack had stopped. I had just shot a man, maybe more. I wasn't sure. But I sure felt great about it. I learned to instantly regret it. I took a peek over the top of the trench and was visibly disgusted at the sight. Dozens of bodies littered the foreground of the trench, some were still moving. Wounded. Across the river, I saw another few dozen men retreating back into the forest. Sporadic firing still erupted throughout the line, but Morane calmed us all down by ordering us not to waste ammunition on retreating troops. Their fight was over. For today.

Out on the icy river we all observed a dark figure crawling towards our lines. He was screaming, lifting his rifle at us and bellowing what with little strenght he had left in his lungs. He was screaming for Stalin, still desperately flopping through the snow like wounded seal. He must've screamed for a good few hours, then sank into eternal silence.

On my return back to my quarters, I took a look at my watch.

This entire ordeal had lasted little more than 15 minutes from the impact of the first shells.

[Agares Tretiak]

This is becoming more and and more engrossing for me.

[Zacharias Bardasch]

I am thoroughly enjoying the read so far. Was reading it last night with deep enjoyment of the descriptiveness of both the environment and the feelings and events that formed your grandfather's experiences. I must ask where I can get this when it's done; in English, of course.

[Ron Bleac]

The text itself could be even more "descriptive" if I could include the dozens of illustrations that he's made by himself. Photographs, AAR's and other attached notes will be made available as he works his way through his memory. He has about 30 or so photographs taken in 1939 alone, with several dozens more all the way to the end of the war.

[Agares Tretiak]

Wooow. Seriously, this is a rare opportunity to have a first hand account and also to see a single man's unique perspective on a war a lot of people in the US don't even know happened.

[Trinity Heckroth]

Ron. I love you.

[Ron Bleac]

I sat down in the quarters and huddled onto my lavet. I looked at myself. My boots were covered in black grime and ice that was now melting in room temperature. Morane was the next man through the door and looked at me from under his helmet. "Good job out there, Kontiola!" He shuffled past me and sat down by the wall on the opposite side of the room. He slouched to the floor.

I pulled off my mits and observed the discoloration created by a combination of grime and blood from the dead guy in the trench. I lopped them over to the field oven and said I'd let them dry out before I even bothered to wash them. They smelled like wet dog put through a smoker. And at that moment time just sort of flew forward, like somebody had moved the vinyl on a gramophone.

The next time I opened my eyes the room was full again. I counted 23 guys, one was out guarding. But where was our missing sheep?

"Who's missing?" I piped up, holding a hand up to draw attention to myself.

"Järvi is." Morane said. His tone of voice was rather striking, generally he was an upbeat guy with a great big dirty grin on his face, but this time was different. I didn't even have to ask. "Järvi took a hit to the noggin from a big piece of shrapnel. Went right through his helmet and nailed it to his skull. Ended up dead on the trench floor before he knew it, must've been a quick way to go." My heart sunk. Järvi was 21, a little older than me at the time but he seemed like the least likely guy to get his brains scrambled by an artillery shell. He was always calm, collected and always extremely careful. The first man on the ground when something whistled. Guess he just had a shitty strike of luck, his last one that's for sure. By that time he had already been dragged off the line, sent back to the staging area on a horse cart pulled by two guys. There his body would be washed, clothed and placed in a pinewood box, then sent back to his home town on train where his family would receive his earthly remains.

During that night, the Soviets put up their usual "light show." They launched flares, several of them at a time and it'd light up the entire area. We didn't see them from inside the bunker but we heard the tell tale "poff" of the explosive charge. Occasionally, we'd hear our machine gun firing bursts into the dead of night. I fell asleep shortly after 1 AM, I'd have another stint of guard duty in the morning.

It seemed to come all too soon. As soon as I had woken up I shoved a hint of bread into my mouth, rinsed it in with water and off I was. I was in the same guard post Järvi was in shortly before he was killed. Hunched behind a snow barrier I kept a constant eye on our Easternly neighbour with a telescope. They were clearly up to something, what it was I didn't know. They would occasionally lob an artillery shell over to keep our eyes off of them, but that didn't stop us from watching. By us, I mean other guardsmen in the area. The elevation of the ground was such that a position 200 meters away could put their eyes on the same spot I was looking at, giving us the chance to compare our information and what we had seen. Occasionally we'd send runners to confirm what we had spotted. We'd scribble our sightings onto a paper note with anything available. A typical one would look something like the following:

"08:12 Soviet soldier spotted keeping warm by jumping up and down repeatedly.

08:15 Soviet soldier sits down in guardpost to drink tea(?).

08:20 Soviet soldier reads something.

08:42 An additional group of three guys joins.

08:45 Exchange of guards, original soldier leaves and another one take his place. The rest of them disappear back into the trench.

08:50 New guardsman picks his nose.

10:45 Another exchange of guards."

After a few hours of watching, we had created a comprehensive list of their guard routine. They changed guards every two hours. We changed every three, as our guardsmen were delivered warm food to keep us awake and well. We were also told that if we saw anyone crawling towards the wire, or was abnormally close, we should shoot them. We'd pop our heads over the parapets, take them into our sights and shoot them. But we had to be quick, we knew the Soviets had marksmen on their line and wouldn't hesitate to shoot a careless guard. Generally, snipers are portrayed as people who pick off high value targets. Soviet snipers weren't any different, but they'd also shoot anyone who was stupid enough to lift their heads too high. They were absolutely lethal, very good marksmen with fantastic equipment. Telescopic sights, with specially manufactured rifles. They were in much better condition than other firearms that the Soviets held. How did we know? We didn't, but a much better trained, more disciplined fighter like a combat marksman would know how to maintain his equipment properly. Our neighbouring company had a run in with a Soviet sniper during chowtime, that very day. When we had the chance, our food was prepared in large "soup cannons" behind our lines, at least 100 meters away from the front trenches if not even more. This way, most food kitchens would be safe from artillery bombardment or enemy fire. Our neighbouring company had just gone to chow, shortly before mid-day after repulsing a Soviet probing assault. They had left 12 men in the trench to maintain a minimum guard. From what we heard, the Soviets had taken a beating but had retreated in an organised fashion. A fighting retreat.

The field cook was passing around moose stew combined with a side of some sort of mash. A Finnish soldier ate from his field pack, a short and stout tin or steel package with a lockable lid. Food could be stored in there for some hours and it would remain relatively fresh, but good luck trying to keep it hot. It was very useful, but hygiene was poor. After eating, you'd hang up the pack to dry, then beat it with a spoon after some hours to shake off the dried remains of food inside. It worked OK. After food was served, the field cook began hanging up his own pack. He had eaten last, to make sure that every man in the company had something in their stomach for the coming day. His hand reached over to a treebranch where he had already hung up something like three to four packs. His head was in between the metal containers, when the rest of the company heard a soft 'pling', accompanied by a "kracow," an echoing explosion. The field cook was frozen in time for a few seconds before spinning around violently. His head was spewing a small fountain of blood as he plopped to the ground like a wounded squirrel. He twitched violently. Not once, but twice, then he was dead. The bullet had passed from the upper right side of his skull through the bridge of his nose, tore into his left eye, then come out of his left cheekbone. It had popped his eye nearly clean out, it was bulging out of his skull like a broken lightbulb. His nose was a mess of blood, bone, cartilage and hanging strips of skin from his forehead combined with what the company assumed to be bits of brain.

That night, the neighbouring company brought in a Finnish sniper who they placed directly adjacent to the position the cook was shot at. We were observing from perhaps 100 meters away. From his position, he was asked to identify the area where the shot most likely came from. Using a telescopic sight, the sniper pinpointed possible locations under moonlight. He hid himself in a snowbank to prevent detection as he did this, he was laying on his stomach. It must've been something like -30 Celcius, at least. That's enough to freeze your balls clean off if you're not wearing the proper kind of underwear. The company lieutenant waited about 45 meters away to not interfere with the marksmans seemingly precise work. The soup cannon was near the Lieutenant. With this information, the sniper processed possible firing points. The bullet had entered the cook from the right side of his skull, went through the bridge of his nose and then torn into his left eye. Where could the Soviet sniper possibly be? Slowly, carefully, the marksman slid his sights along the treeline. No enemy positions. The upper right side of his skull. He began lifting the telescopic sight in a zigzag pattern, letting his ever watchful gaze slide across the thick branches of the frozen pine forest. Suddenly, he halted and motioned for the Lieutenant.

They had found the bastards firing nest. Roughly 10 meters above ground level, on a hill in a pine tree with no top was a wooden platform with a ladder rested against the side. It was silhouetted only because it was missing the top. That must've been where the shot came from. After rough estimations, the Lieutenant and the marksman concluded that the platform was roughly 600 meters away. The Soviet sniper was aiming for the cooking pans that had caught his attention due to the metallic surface glinting off light. They marked down the position and moved on, then ordered all observers to go to bed as well. Tonight we would have two men at each guard post.

The next morning, they prepared a wooden mannekin with a Finnish officer coat and a fur hat. They brought in another field cook as well and ordered him to prepare dinner for their "guest of honor." The cook agreed and put the soup cannon to boil. After about an hour of preparation, the Finnish "officer" was rolled into the area on a pre-prepared rail pully system that had been constructed out of four sets of planks and wheels that were carved out of solid wood. Thus, the mannekin would jump up and down as if it was crossing small hills, drops or branches on the ground. At around mid-day, they began their great deception. The mannekin rolled towards the soup cannon very steadily. From 20 meters, it looked really stupid, but from 600, it must've looked very convincing. A telephone line had been brought over to the Lieutenant who was supervising the entire thing, he had the receiver held up to his ear with the transmitter against his lips. After serving the 'officer' dinner, the cook retreated out of sight. And there he was, the mannekin sitting in a snowbank enjoying a delicious pan full of steaming water. A dinner for Kings, truly.

Ka-bang.

The mannekin moved forward as a bullet ripped through the wooden neck. The Private at the end of the tow line yanked it hard, bringing the doll down as if it was a real man. It was laying out of sight of the Soviet sniper now. The Lieutenant reached over for his lifeline in this lethal game of jeopardy.

He lifted the transmitter to his lips again and spoke. "Attention! Volley fire on my mark! Fire!"

Kathoom. An ominous cloud of tumultous sound rolled over us, accompanied by a terrible shriek. This was followed by a steady stream of explosions. I counted 6, but there could've well been more. No more than 10, however.

Observing the Soviet firing position through a telescopic sight, the marksman gave an A-OK handsignal. The pine tree and everything surrounding it was gone. A loud cheer erupted from our neighbouring trench, screams of "hip-hip-hooray," "take that," and assorted vulgar expressions for forced oral sex followed close in tow.

That day, the Soviets were very quiet.

The next, however, was entirely different. We were called up for a general gathering first thing in the morning. The trenches were to be left with minimum guard and our two companies would meet roughly 150 meters away where we usually congregated for field mass. We were to be addressed personally by some brass from someplace important. Where exactly, we weren't told. We didn't even know the exact time this meeting was supposed to take place, but by 8 AM in the bitter cold, we were standing in a three ranked parade line with all of our battle gear in tow. Boy, we looked miserable. 2.Company marched in shortly after us, forming directly to our right. From them, we established a sort of mirror image of how we must've looked like. Our uniform and camouflage was tattered by battles past, with dirt, frozen mud and soot. We were all very tired as well, even though we had received relatively little Soviet attacks.

The area we were in was far from a parade field, but more like a frozen swamp. Trees, small, big and tall surrounded us from all sides with the occasional large boulder in between. Thus, our lines were pretty much zigzagging past any obstructions. We waited for another 20 minutes or so, keeping ourselves warm by jumping around and speaking to eachother. Our wait was awarded by the appearance of a middle-aged looking man in a white fur coat. By rank, he was a major. But by height, he wasn't much. He was shorter than most of us, but had the attitude of a giant. He stepped onto a boulder after saluting our company commanders briefly, one gleaming boot rested against stone and the other on the surface of the frozen swamp. His name escapes me.

He made a speech, which I remember word to word.

"Men! Volunteers! Conscripts! Reservists! Soldiers of the Finnish army, nation and state! I have come here to address you on a matter that is no doubt very grave. So far, you have been in contact with Soviet forces. You have taken your first casualties and had your first, very real experience of warfare on this front of ours. You have held your line and done an amazing job against superior firepower, manpower and supporting elements. However, I did not come here to praise you. I have come here to inform you that all of your leave passes have been cancelled-"

Both companies sighed in unison.

"Hold up, guys. That's not all. I'm sorry to take a brutal crap on your hopes of getting some proper shut-eye behind the lines, but we need you here. We need you now. We need you to hold this area to the best of your ability, our entire force around us depends on this 800 meter stretch of trench. Other troops in the area have already been notified, but I am here to address you personally. You must hold this river. If you buckle and retreat, the Soviets will be able to build a pontoon bridge across the river and into our territory, effectively outflanking most of our defensive line. In other words: You are the legs which we stand upon. Yesterday, I was seated in the headquarters of our 4th Army Group with General Hägglund, leader of our defensive efforts on this section of our national front. We were assessing our current battlefield situation. I am here to repeat this report to you: Ammunition situation, poor. Medical supplies situation, poor. Casualty replacement rate, poor. Artillery ammunition situation, abysmal. Air support options: non-existent. Possibility of relief: non-existent. Casualty rate, good so far. But this situation is about to change. The Soviet army has seen it fit to concentrate the 164th, the 56th and 128th Infantry Divisions directly in front of your position. You are facing roughly 45000 men, with a mere 600. This culmination, concentration of forces means the following: An impending, strong assault. I have come here to repeat a telephone conversation that General Hägglund had with Lieutenant Juutilainen. Hägglund questioned Juutilainen: Will Kollaa hold? His reply: Kollaa will hold, unless the orders are to run. Are you of the same opinion?"

"Kollaa will hold, unless the orders are to run!"

I needed to shit really bad.

[Ron Bleac]

All we could do was sit and wait. It felt like the constant rumble of artillery didn't stop for hours. Impact after impact sent miniature earthquakes through our chests. The roof of the dugout had begun to collapse, but it still provided precious cover for each and every one of us. The interior was anything but warm, however. Cold air was pouring in from gaps created by artillery shells or shrapnel. Every other moment a shell would land close and we'd all duck our heads. Not that it'd be of any help if one landed directly atop of us. We were battle weary, our nerves were frayed. One step closer to oblivion. We were ripped up pretty bad, with many of us bearing minor wounds from the past days of fighting. But so far, not a single Soviet had crossed the river and lived to tell the tale. They had tried everything in their arsenal: Tanks, aircraft, infantry charges combined with artillery. But the worst was yet to come, we felt it. The intensity of the barrage only grew stronger and some of us began to scream as the shells landed closer to our position. Others were shaking, some just sat still and waited. If I would have to use a word to describe it, it was like a ship at sea. We rocked, rolled back and forth as the shells came in. Artillery that never ceased in overtures of war. We all ducked down low as the door of the dugout was crushed by an explosion which showered us with wooden splinters. One guy was particularly unlucky, a piece of pine roughly 6 inches in lenght buried itself deep into his right arm. He was OK otherwise, but would require minor surgery to have the piece removed.

The barrage went on for some hours. There is no real need to say anything about what happened in the dugout during that time. Nothing happened. We sat still and anxiously awaited the shell that would put an end to our misery. But that shell never came.

The guns faded away, replaced by the tumult of a crowd charging across the river.

"The Russkies are coming!"

Without a word, we piled out into the trench and took our fighting stance. I laid my rifle against the parapet and began firing. I was firing blindly into the great cloud of grey infantry approaching us. They came like an orchestra with all the instruments playing out of tune, with the infantry rushing forth in an unorganized blob. Some of the infantry ran straight into yawning gaps that had been blasted into the frozen through stream, where they became perfect targets for machine gun fire. They became their graves, with blood pooling at the bottom. We gunned them down to the last man. In short three to four round bursts, our machine gun did a lethal but precise job. The field in front of us was again, left full of dead and dying that were now piled up in heaps across the river. The wounded were crawling or walking on the field, trying to make their way back to their own lines.

"Hold your fire! Conserve your ammunition!"

Before we could do anything, they came again. Another wave of grey clad infantry charged headlong towards our positions. There must've been at least two hundred. It was an insane frontal attack conducted right after another one. A tragic waste of life once great. They were either completely out of their minds, or incredibly brave. We mowed them down like hay to the scythe, rank after rank. The new assault stopped in its tracks right where the first one did and was again killed to the last man. All together, there must've been nearly 400 dead.

And then they came again. Across the open ground like their comrades before them, Ivan advanced at a break-neck pace seemingly enraged or boosted by the sight of their dead. Bayonets fixed, this wave of infantry came over the river faster than the two other waves. Then everything went wrong.

I heard a scream from my immediate right: "The MG's jammed!" This meant that we only had one machine gun active on our left flank. It was pouring down as much as fire as it could into the advancing mass of men, covering the gun on the right in a desperate bid to buy time. Our rifles, including mine, clattered at increasing pace. I didn't have time to take aim, I just slid the bolt back and forth again, pointed it at the nearest man and fired. I was burning through my ammunition quicker than I ever had before. Round after round, I shot what must've been the equivalent of a standard infantry squad for ourselves. The most shocking thing about defending against an infantry charge is not the fact you're outnumbered and outgunned, but the moment you start recognizing facial features as the enemy closes range. But that's also incredibly bad news, I stopped firing with my rifle and grabbed a box of hand grenades that had been laid out nearby. Unscrewing the bottom cork, I pulled the porcelain ball at the end of the priming cord and tossed it like a champ. The grenade landed in the middle of a group of advancing infantry and exploded. It brought some of the men off their feet, but the very front ones kept advancing. At a moment when it seemed like the enemy was going to get into the trench, the Maxim gun on my right clattered to life and began destroying the enemy at close range. Rifle caliber bullets ripped through the enemy ranks in a deadly enfilade, bringing down the runners to our immediate front.

But even through all of our efforts, it was too late. The very front of the infantry assault vaulted at speed over the shredded barbed wire and suddenly, I was confronted by a Soviet infantryman staring me down. He raised his rifle first and fired clumsily, but I didn't feel pain. The bullet passed, I believe, between my legs. I raised my rifle and fired before he could chamber another, bringing the man down to the bottom of the trench. The bullet strook him square in the chest. I moved forward and was confronted by another Soviet, this time with a fixed bayonet. He lunged at me but I pushed his bayonet to my left with the rifle in my left hand, then socked him in the face with my fist. I reached for my puukko* (*puukko = short bladed knife) and stabbed him first in the hands when he tried to defend himself, then in the side and in the chest. He began to choke and chortle, spitting and shouting incoherently. I took my rifle, closed my eyes and silenced him for good. Another Soviet jumped in behind me and a comrade rushed to my aid. Morane pulled around the trench corner like a speed demon and tackled the man to the ground from behind. Using his puukko, Morane despatched the man under him and nodded at me. He ran past me at full sprint and disappeared.

Another group of our own troops rushed past me. Two of them staid behind at my request to hold that particular section of the trench. The machine gun to our right and left was still firing, meaning that the enemy assault still continued. We thought to ourselves, how many could there be? The fire fight had not subsided, meaning that the Soviets were still pouring into the trench or were being held back by the sheer volume of lead. We soon got our answer as to what truly was going on. A group of about 6 Soviet infantry, all with bayonets fixed, dropped into the section to our right. We engaged them with a sidearm and a grenade before moving into close combat. I was at the front and I knocked down the first man with the butt of my rifle as he rounded the corner. The man behind me killed him while he was still on the ground. Now alerted to our presence, the Soviets turned their attention to us. They began to put down furious rifle fire through the passage way, preventing us from advancing towards them. A guy I simply knew as "Jere," short for Jeremias, waved a grenade in front of my face. I nodded and Jere took my place at the front. He pulled the priming cord and leaned over to throw the grenade, but the volume of rifle fire made him drop it. The primed explosive rested right in front of us. Jere did what he had to do, he rushed directly into the line of fire, picked the grenade up and tossed it. Simultaneously, he was hit twice in the chest by Soviet rifles. He looked back at us and smiled, his eyes rolling back in his head quite grotesquely. He fell in front of us, but the grenade made short work of the men who had shot him. We checked if he was still alive but moved on as there was nothing we could do. The remaining two of us shot an enemy who tried to climb back out of the trench and another man who was making a run for it through the passage way.

I was in a trance like state, focused on the current job. We rolled around another corner rifles at the ready, confronted by another Soviet rifleman who fired and hit the man behind me. Unable to turn back and help, I was to first engage the man in front of me. I raised my rifle and pulled the trigger. Click. I was clean out of ammunition at the worst moment possible. Realizing what had just happened, the Soviet soldier grinned triomphantly, but before he could finish his shit-eating grin and shoot me, I threw my rifle at him like a spear. The man swung his barrel away from me and went off balance for just long enough for me to tackle him, knife at the ready. I lunged at his throat, but he turned my slash away with a swift punch to my jaw and a kick to my groin. I was seeing stars by the time I hit the ground, but held the mans rifle under me, determined to not allow him to wretch it out of my possession. I had a serious problem: I had dropped my knife and thus, the only way to defend myself. But it seems that my Eastern neighbour on top of me hadn't noticed, or just really liked his rifle. I turned around just in time for him to get on top of me and he began to choke me, at which point I grabbed ahold of my helmet and conked him across the skull with it. He recoiled from the force of the impact but kept choking me. So I hit him again! And again! And again, repeatedly until his grip came loose and I could breathe again. I could see blood running down his cheek, but the man was still clearly combat capable as he grappled for his rifle again. So I conked him on the head again, poor bastard must've had a mighty headache by that point. I kneed him in the groin, pushing him off of me and pulled out from under him, scurrying to my feet and to the other side of the trench as quickly as I could. The mans rifle I tossed out of the trench, he'd have to climb back up to get it. But knowing that he couldn't continue to fight due to the loss of his battle weapon, the man crawled back over the opposite side of the trench and ran back into no mans land.

I crawled back to my fallen friend and checked for signs of life. His chest was heaving and his breath was leaking out of him with a tight ”squeak” each time he struggled for oxygen. ”Is it bad?” He asked, motioning towards his side. I leaned over to look and ripped his suit open, revealing a bloodied entry wound under his third rib on the left side. It was wheezing and pouring forth a steady stream of blood. I took a fresh breath into my lungs and screamed for a surgeon. Suddenly the man under me kicked me in the chest, throwing me to the side. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but my breath became paralyzed as I heard the loud crack of a rifle. Then another.

I swung around and opened my eyes, another Soviet soldier laid at the bottom of the trench. He was spazzing uncontrollably. The man under me poked me, turning my attention back to him. He had his rifle held up against the trench wall, the chamber was empty. Another dark blotch began to form on his stomach and he reached over and held me behind my head, pulling me close to him. ”You take my rifle, find Morane and tell him to send a runner to company HQ requesting urgent help! Make sure the machine guns are functional and that everyone's where they need to be! Push the commies out of the trench!” He screamed and sputtered in my face. At this point I noticed his lapels. The man was a Lieutenant. Our Lieutenant.

”Everyone's where they need to be, sir. You just sit back and relax.”

”Before you go, how bad is it?”

”Doesn't look too good, sir.” I grimaced with great sympathy and patted him on the shoulder.

”Is that so? Well, pull me up then, boy!”

Minutes later, he was resting himself upon my shoulder and I was dragging him towards the front trenches. As we struggled forward, the clatter of machine guns and rifles grew stronger. I saw Morane at the front casemate pouring belt after belt of ammunition into no mans land, with two men laying snow on the top of the barrel. As I crawled further, I witnessed the destruction in the front trench. There were men, both Soviet and Finns propped up against the sides of the trenches. Some were crying, others were praying and many were dead. There were disembodied limbs, feet and insides hanging from the barbed wire from grenades and artillery shells. And all over, the smell of death and burning flesh.

”Put me down here, thank you.” The Lieutenant said and spat out a chunk of blood. ”Prop me up against this side, facing the enemy advance.”

I did what he told me to, propping him up with his back to the wall so that he could see over the parapet.

”Give me a gun.”

I handed him the nearest one, a Soviet rifle with a twisted bayonet. ”This'll do.”

He lifted his arm towards sky and yelled with what little he had left in his lungs.

”The line must hold! Hold the line!”

And then he began firing.

At this moment the Soviet advance had stalled and sunk into confusion. The ground in front of our trenches was littered with enemy dead and wounded, with infantry that was still in fighting condition trying their best to advance. They'd pop up, fire their rifles and lunge forth, then lay back down again. More were still pouring in from across the river, with many falling to our gunfire. I slipped away from the front and ran to the casemate to find Morane.

He was still firing, roughly ankles deep in spent shells. ”Morane! The Lieutenant is wounded but he's telling us to send a runner to company HQ and request urgent reinforcements!”

Morane swung his machine gun to the left and ordered the man next to him to take over. He screamed over the gunfire: ”I've sent a runner and received no reply yet. For now, we hold the line!”

“Armor alert! Tanks! Enemy tanks!”

[Agares Tretiak]

Oh shi-

[Ron Bleac]

Final paragraph.

I laid there choking on my own blood. My back and head burned with the heat of a thousand suns and it felt like I had just been crushed by a steam locomotive. I couldn't see out of my right eye, nor could I feel anything with my left arm. With great effort I managed to move the fingers of my left hand, one digit at a time. My ears were ringing. I couldn't see for fucks worth, everything was very, very blurry. I felt the blood trickle down my throat, or maybe that was my saliva. I did not know at the time. All I knew was that I had been knocked down by something very large.

My back was very, very wet as if I had just taken a swim in a large, warm lake. I had been manning a machine gun at the frontal guard post and had been knocked down by this great glowing ball. The first thing I saw through the blur and glow was spent brass casings melting their way into the dirty snow, I knew I had to keep firing. If you didn't keep firing, you'd be dead. I first placed one foot against the frozen surface of the guard post, then rose to one knee while holding the logs the trench was constructed out of. I struggled up the wall by my fingernails and looked around through the red mist in front of my eyes. Kokko was laying against the trench wall with his jaw still moving as if he was attempting to speak. As I eyed this young man clad in white washed clothing, I noticed a large red blotch growing by his stomach. He had been hit badly and I crawled to his assistance, opening the canvas on his chest and sides with my knife. It was not a pretty sight. His small and large intestines were potruding out of a gaping hole, the smell was terrible. The stench was a mixture of acrid smoke, human excrement and blood. Kokko lifted his arms onto my shoulders and told me what I already expected: "You're hurt. You must lay down. Come lay by me, it is nice and warm here. We can lay here together and rest." He said faintly, his large blue eyes staring out from underneath his tattered fur hat and helmet. His gaze was crystallized onto my face as I worked feverishly at his insides, shoving them back in with my bare hands. He began to whisper, his voice occasionally growing to a great painful wail before dying down.

"I don't want to die here. I've never even had sex. Nobody loves me but my mother." He said, spittle landing across my face as I leaned in close to give him whatever comfort I could in what I knew were his final moments. There was nothing I could do for him and I knew it. I didn't have the energy to help him nor did I have the means to crawl out of the trench and fetch a surgeon, being wounded myself. I dug into my field pack to find some form of field dressings but ended up undoing my belt to assist Kokko, who was at the time in much worse condition. I fastened the belt around him to hold the wall of bloody mass back in his stomach. It was only after several minutes that I noticed that Kokko was no longer crying and that he had turned pale. His suffering was finally at an end and that meant I could finally leave this hellish place. On all fours I crawled through the destroyed trenchworks, encountering both our own and enemy dead on the way. It felt like a bad dream, I felt like any moment now I would wake up somewhere warm, somewhere safe and somewhere better. Someplace where I could fill myself with something other than stale bread and water melted from snow, a place where I could sleep soundly and not fear shells or enemy patrols. A place where I wouldn't have to be so terribly sad anymore.

Jarno had been propped up by the trench wall with his submachine gun resting against his chest. Matias was at the end of the trench floor on his back with eyes fixated on the clear skies. He was at peace as well. I came across Joonatan who was still firing frantically off the lip of the trench with no particular target. He was simply firing his weapon because he was afraid, the sound of the gunshots creating an aura of safety around him. He was still alive and fighting by the time I reached the end of that particular trench. I remember that it was J shaped and by that time I was at the bottom 'hook.' The fighting at that particular section of trench had been so violent that enemy and friendly dead still laid motionless in a great big heap, onto which I had to climb.

It was at that point that I was pulled out of the trench by a pair of helping hands. My initial response was that of self defense, cluthing for my firearm in case my saving angel was of the communist persuasion. The man quickly disarmed me and placed my weapon by my side. He removed the magazine then pulled back the charging handle, leaving me relatively harmless. I opened my eye and attempted to squint at him and in my daze, I must've muttered something about a password and if my memory serves me right, I received the correct answer. The man's coat was dark brown and I noticed a very fancy belt hanging across his chest and waist, the leather was of fine quality and clearly the work of an expert in his field. On his right side was a holster with a small sidearm in it which he kept his hands far away from, signalling that he meant no harm. His gentle hands ran across my chest and shoulders, feeling for wounds. It wasn't until he noticed the snow under me had begun to change color that he turned me around. It turned his friendly, helpful smile into an instant frown.

Several days later I awoke in a field hospital. I had been through two emergency surgeries, one of which removed over 20 pieces of shrapnel from my lower back. The other one succeeded in removing 6 coin sized pieces from my right side, just below the ribs. My wounds had been left open and washed thoroughly to prevent contamination through soil or debris in my flesh. For the next few days I would be in and out of the operating room with surgeons working carefully at removing the largest pieces of shrapnel in my back. The largest piece was roughly the size of an ink pen, it had penetrated right below the third rib on my right side and had bludgeoned a lung, but not punctured it. A large amount of wooden splinters were also removed from my upper back and buttocks. In total, I was peppered with over 60 pieces of shrapnel in varying shapes and sizes, including wooden splinters. Roughly 20 metal scraps of these were removed during my initial stay in the hospital and another 10 in surgeries throughout my life. I never regained full eyesight in my injured eye but whatever remained I was very grateful for. My hearing was permanently damaged. My right knee took 2 years of rehabilitation to regain full functionality. I had also become infertile for a long period of time due to blast injuries to my testicles and groin. The extent of my physical injuries was great, but the extent of my mental injuries is even greater. From those I will never recover and I regularly have to see my friends die again as if the Lord himself winded my life back to that very moment, prior to the artillery strike that I was wounded in. I am incapable of writing with my right hand and experience prolonged periods of shaking. I have nightmares even when I am awake and a recurring dream about Kokko, going over what I could have done differently to save his life.

My combat unit sustained an 86% casualty rate in dead, wounded and missing. Most, if not all of my friends died. If they didn't, the war fundamentally changed the way they lived their lives. Yet through all this, I have survived and learned to lead a new, better life. I write daily, enjoy long walks in the parks near my house and the company of what family I have left. I enjoy good food and physical labor, or swimming when the opportunity presents itself. Over the years I have met several veterans of the battles I fought in, from both sides of the conflict. Most of the men I knew have been gone for a very, very long time. However, what happens during an armed conflict grants a person a very deep sense of appreciation for his fellow soldiers, a sense of appreciation that transcends political opinion or nationality. That deep within we're all the same young guys with loved ones back home and that none of us are born evil or good.

I think I did pretty OK with my life. Pardon the rambling.

I'm not done yet, though.

And then I went off to war again in '41.

[or10nsharkfin]

It's not often you read the perspective of the German soldiers during World War II, but this is very intense recounting. Your grandfather certainly has my respect for not only fighting against insurmountable odds, alongside a vastly outnumbered force, but for surviving the assault with everything intact.

[Desereck Creeggan]

Ron. If this ever gets published or put in any sort of paper form I want an English translated copy. Seriously, this is the Finnish Night. Thank your grandfather for me.

[Ron Bleac]

Excerpt from the final page of the entire book with a short description of events at the battle of Tali-Ihantala

I could see the "Sotka" *(T-34) tank closing in from the end of the road, followed by a small stream of infantry in brown battle jackets. The large tracks of the battle tank kicked up thick dust as it trundled along towards us and the engine roared with great defiance, spitting out black smoke from the exhaust pipes at the rear of the vehicle. To our shock, the tank began picking up speed, the barrel of the gun pointed directly at our position. We began looking for immediate identifying insignia, or anything that could give away the nationality.

Our dreams were dashed.

Short bursts from its coaxial machinegun killed two men to my right, Erkki and Karhu bit the bullet before they could move away. I, knowing that the tank would likely continue driving down the road with complete disregard for its own safety, dove into the ditch and propped my weapon against the edge. With short pulls of the trigger I began firing at the squad of infantry using the tank as cover, hitting three or four before I was forced back down by return fire. The Soviet infantry squad then pulled off of the road and disappeared into the forest, presumably to tend to their wounded.

Jarkko crawled up behind me and gave me a piled-up charge (* a large improvised weapon consisting of a staff and three large slabs of high explosive tied onto it, with a priming cord acting as a primitive detonation mechanism), "Don't miss." He said and began retreating back down the ditch. Private Otso, a new addition to the company stretched his hand towards me from my left and asked for the charge. Otso had played baseball in the junior league prior to entering the military and had shown me his skill at throwing various objects before so without thinking, I handed the charge to him. Otso requested covering fire with a wave of his arm and the 16 men behind us began firing at the tank, drawing its attention away to the sides of the road. The coaxial gun continued spitting fire.

The new addition to the company then clambered his way up the ditch and onto the main road itself, completely exposing himself to the enemy tank. I saw him yank the detonation cord out of the staff and he began a sprint towards the armored monster. Foot after foot, Otso began picking up speed. As he closed in the covering fire from our troops intensified to undistinquishable shots, each automatic weapon expending entire magazines and belts of ammunition in assistance. When he was within ten meters of the tank, he began fumbling with the priming cord and slowed down. Several sharp bursts of fire rang out from in front of him and I saw him fall, with the tank still rumbling towards him.

"Get out of there Otso, you'll be crushed! For god's sake man, get off the bloody road!" I screamed.

Otso reached for the charge and began crawling back towards friendly lines, a trail of clarette following him closely. The T-34's coaxial gun traversed and dropped down onto him, the barrel pointing square at his back. But he refused to fire. Instead, he picked up speed. The young private obviously in a state of panic continued to crawl directly to us with the tank angling steadily towards him but advancing at a slow pace. Otso was exhausted and halted, laying flat on his stomach.

Just as the tank was about to crush him, something happened. He reached for the priming cord and pulled it completely off of the explosive. He then hugged it to his chest and intentionally rolled himself directly under the track of the vehicle. The explosion ripped the track clean off of the tank. Seconds after the now decommissioned tank crew attempted to evacuate the vehicle to surrender, waving an improvised white flag from the tower. We allowed the crew to slowly evacuate the vehicle and put their hands up and with a wave of a hand, ordered them to approach. When the men were within 5 meters of our positions, we shot them dead. I was the first man out of the ditch and onto the road to inspect their bodies. I reached at their pockets with greedy fingers and ran through their personal belongings. I picked up a small wallet from who I assumed to be the driver of the vehicle and opened it. The small leather pocket revealed a photograph of an attractive young woman with dark hair, sweet, rosey cheeks and a soft smile. She was leaning against a man who I assumed to be the driver who we just shot. With my school Russian I was able to decipher the text on the back, "From Tatyana to Alexey with love: I will wait for you, sweetheart!"

Janne walked up to the bodies next and stared at the picture for a moment. "That's a mighty attractive babooshka (*degoratory term used in Finland for Russian women. In Russia, Babooshka stands for "grandmother") you got there, Matti. Is she single?"

I laughed and gently nudged the corpse splayed out on the road, "Well, she is now!"

Me and Janne continued to search through the bodies, discovering all kinds of interesting things. None of the crewmen carried personal documentation and we assumed that it was in the tank, but they all carried other materials which we deemed to be of interest. For one, we discovered a small paper package in the back pocket of who we assumed to be the gunner. It was small, orange in colour and had text printed on the front. I read it out loud to Janne with my poor English.

"U.S Army Field Ration D. To be eaten slowly in about half an hour. Dissolve by crumbling into a cup of boiling water to make a beverage. Ingredients: Chocolate, sugar, skim powder milk, cocoa fat, oat flour, art. flavouring." I said and handed the package over to Janne.

"I assume art means art as in, artistic?" He said and spun the package around in his fingers.

- "Yeah, I think so. I assume the art is on the inside since it must be colourful. You know, not to expose yourself to the enemy while eating during the day in a camouflaged position."

"I didn't know they made powdered milk out of skin. That's Ffffing sick."

- "Silly Americans."

Janne unwrapped the strange box and revealed a small aluminum foil covered bar, which he quickly undid. He realized that what he was holding was a chocolate bar and held it up against the sun.

"Where's the art?"