The Year of Broken Promises - A Finnish Timeline
- Thread starter DrakonFin
- Start date
Eleven: Urho
"An Olympic nightmare. Views of central Helsinki in the next summer". The cartoonist Arvo Tigerstedt imagines the traffic in the Finnish capital during the upcoming 1940 Olympic Games.
Published in the Helsingin Sanomat, Sunday, August 6th, 1939.
Eleven: Urho
The man looked at his desktop, with a pile of memos cluttering his inbox. Work tended to pile up when you travel abroad, he knew. He was kind of itching to get to work, to get the backlog under control, but then he did not have the time for that right now.
Just a few days ago, Urho Kekkonen had returned from Stockholm where he had attended the track and field match between Sweden and Finland. The games themselves had been a resounding success, which Kekkonen as the chairman of the Finnish Olympic Committee had been happy to tell to domestic and foreign journalists. While the athletes and officials of the Finnish national team had returned home on a Finnish Steamship Company passenger vessel, Kekkonen himself had taken an airplane home. As the Minister of the Interior, he did not have the luxury right now for a cruise in the summery Turku archipelago, much as he woud have enjoyed to spend some time with the finest young athletes Finland had to offer. Not only was Kekkonen a sporting man to his core [1], he also had an eye for female beauty. Nowhere was the wholesome ideal of classic beauty and fitness represented as well as among young female athletes, the man had always thought.
Even while Finland's sports victories had continued over the week in the international competition held on the new swim stadium in Helsinki, and even while the Finnish press was full of hype about the upcoming 1940 Olympics, Kekkonen felt sort of gloomy today. First of all, this was to do with the condition of President Kallio. It had been several days now since Kallio's accident, and the president of the Republic showed no signs of recovering from his condition. He was continually unconscious, and as far as the Minister of the Interior knew, some of the doctors attending Kallio were starting to call it a coma.
The conclusion was clear: the president was unable to prosecute his duties, and very soon now, the Finnish parliament would have to convene to elect a new president for Finland. The thing was, though, that it was still the holiday season, the very height of it in fact. Most parliamentarians were spending time at home all around Finland. Rounding them up prematurely would be something of a hassle. Another thing were the bloody wargames starting in and around Viipuri – most of the highest political and military leadership were due to attend, and thus as long as the exercises were ongoing, nothing of importance would happen in the capital, not anything the parliament and cabinet would take part in.
Kekkonen was already thinking about who the new president would be. The National Coalition Party would put up P.E. Svinhufvud, predictably, and he would also have some support – despite the far right having turned against him in the 30s. But then ”Ukko-Pekka” was already pushing 80. Did Finland really need another sick old man at the helm, in times like these? What had happened to Kallio was a warning, the bald man in his late 30s thought. It looked like things were turning rough in Europe. What the nation needed was someone with strength and youthful vigor. The job at hand required someone who had not yet passed his sell-by date.
Unfortunately, that someone would not be Urho Kaleva Kekkonen. The minister was not a stupid man, and he understood that his in the end failed quest to abolish the Patriotic People's Movement had soured the right wing towards him. Hope as he might, Kekkonen was a too divisive figure right now.
The man who seemed nearly predestined to become the next leader of Finland was Risto Ryti. A man on the rise, the central banker representing the Progress Party had support across party lines, he was seen as someone who could unify the country. Nobody hated him, and he was acceptable to the bourgeois parties as well as the Social Democrats. Kekkonen could in fact already see how the presidential election in the parliament would pan out: the SDP and Agrarians would put up people like Tanner and Kalliokoski to represent their parties pro forma, Svinhufvud would get some early support for the NCP, but eventually Ryti would win by a landslide.
The change of president would mean a government reshuffle, too. And while Kekkonen hoped he could keep his post with his party's support, he was not at all sure about that, either. Maybe he was too divisive even for that. He liked to hope that he was needed, but then he knew the saying about graveyards and indispensable men. Despite his own views on what Finland needed, and despite his obvious intelligence and capability, Kekkonen was an eminently replaceable man right now.
The bald man glanced out of the window, to see the tree-lined street running outside the ministry's buildings. A young woman in a light summer dress passed by, a slight breeze playing with the fabric. The bald man's mind wandered. A rather convoluted train of thought made him in the end think about haylofts, pastures and farming, and then he remembered that he would have to call his wife about when he was coming to Karelia. The Kekkonens had bought a farm near Viipuri just the previous year, and now Sylvi had been there to oversee some renovations while her husband was attending to affairs of state even if he should have been on his holiday. Kekkonen was going to attend the wargames as well, and he would use his estate in Vahviala as a base for the outing.
There was a knock on the door. Kekkonen's assistant opened it.
”Minister, Director Säippä's here.”
The Minister of the Interior looked at his watch. He had almost forgotten his appointment with the okhrana.
”Let him in.”
Paavo Säippä entered the room, and Kekkonen told him to sit down.
”So, how's the world looking like from Ratakatu's point of view?”[2]
The Director of the State Police shrugged.
”Nothing too much out of the ordinary. We're seeing an uptick in foreign operatives coming to Finland, though. In the last two weeks, we have identified new suspected intelligence people from Germany, Britain and the USSR, as well. We have of course interviewed most of them. One of them, the British character Max Bosley, even admitted that he works for the British authorities. His credentials check out, though, so we'll just keep an eye on him.”
”The rise in international tensions is apparent from your side as well, then?”
”Certainly. There is something there we would need to talk over...”
Kekkonen knew what Säippä was talking about. If things continued to deteriorate in Europe, and if the USSR kept acting ever more aggressively, sooner or later the State Police would have to start rounding up people deemed dangerous and put them into ”protective custody”. It would be mostly people from the far left, naturally, but not exclusively so. The far right was still very much in Kekkonen's sights as well.
”I expect you to update the lists of persons of interest”, he told Säippä, ”so that if the shit hits the fan, you can take action quickly and effectively.”
The director nodded.
”We're already on it. The holidays are slowing down our work a bit, though, and most men that are not on holiday are tied up in surveillance, and then in the operations with the Coast Guard...”
High summer was thirsty time, and it was also the high season of alcohol smuggling on the coasts. Despite the Prohibition being history, avoiding state taxes on booze was still a source of major profits to the right kind of an entrepreneur. The smugglers still plied their aquatic trade, and State Police detectives were still needed if not to apprehend them, then at least to inconvenience them.
”I'll be going back to holiday tomorrow, myself. To give you my professional opinion – nobody is going to coup the Finnish government in the next two weeks.”
Maybe so, Kekkonen thought. But with you on holiday, and most of the state leadership traipsing around the countryside in Viipuri, not to speak of most the standing military, too, Helsinki will be pretty much entirely devoid of adult supervision in the next ten days to come.
There was again a knock on the door.
”Sorry to disturb you, minister, director, but there's a Mrs. Durchman here, with an... ahem... entourage...”
Kekkonen smiled.
”I'm sorry, Paavo, I've another appointment. If you don't mind. Nurses.”
Säippä grinned.
”Nurses? You've got all the luck in the world, Urho. Well, all right. There was nothing pressing left, anyhow. Have a nice trip to Viipuri, we'll get back to it in a couple of weeks.”
Kekkonen wished his old colleague [3] a good continuation for his holidays, and then looked at the room fill with young women in white, led by the redoubtable Mrs. Aino Durchman.[4]
”Minister”, Durchman said with a smile, nodding.
Kekkonen smiled as well, standing up.
”Director Durchman, ladies. The new nursing school, eh?”
He looked at Durchman and pointed to the chair.
”Please. Convince me.”
...
Notes:
[1] Urho Kekkonen was an active sports enthusiast in his youth, taking part in track and field competitions up to the national level. He won a Finnish championship in high jump and triple jump, and held a Finnish record in triple jump for several years. Since the early 30s, he had a leadership role in the Finnish Olympic Committee and the Finnish Amateur Athletics Association.
[2] Ratakatu 12 in Helsinki was the address of the State Police headquarters.
[3] Kekkonen worked as a detective in the State Police's earlier incarnation, Etsivä Keskuspoliisi (”Detective Central Police”) in the 1920s and knew Säippä from those days.
[4] Trained in the United States in the 1920s, Aino Durchman was a trailblazer of Finnish nursing practice and a long-time director of the Helsinki Nursing School.
...
"Aero's new passenger planes. The Aero Company has ordered two new Condor passenger aircraft from Germany. One will arrive in December and the other in February. The planes cost over 20 million marks, but then they are very large and have modern interiors. The planes will be named 'Karjala' and 'Petsamo', and they can along with the two pilots accommodate 26 passengers, a radio operator and a stewardess. The planes' cruising speed is 320 km/h and maximum speed 390 km/h."
Published in the Helsingin Sanomat, Sunday, August 6th, 1939.
To Be Continued
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I've finally caught up. You spin a good yarn, as usual - I do enjoy the slice of life aspect, and as you say, the interwar film feel comes out very strongly. For some reason it particularly reminds me of the 1932 Conservative election film, which was about a large rural estate whose trusted and kind old patron dies, leaving it to his left-leaning son who tries to reform it along democratic lines, leading to anarchy, crop failure and eventually the ruination of the estate. Needless to say, there's a dose of symbolism there.
The history book segments mixed in are a good strategy, as they let you avoid the most egregious "as you know, Bob" aspects of narrative AH. As to where the actual TL is going, your discussion of the Helsinki Olympics led me to think it was going to be a no Winter War or maybe even no WWII TL, but now I'm led to think it's a
The history book segments mixed in are a good strategy, as they let you avoid the most egregious "as you know, Bob" aspects of narrative AH. As to where the actual TL is going, your discussion of the Helsinki Olympics led me to think it was going to be a no Winter War or maybe even no WWII TL, but now I'm led to think it's a
Communist Finland TL. The situation seems to be very post-Communist, and the fact that they actually went through with moving the city centre to Pasila suggests that something happened to the old one - such as heavier aerial bombardment, perhaps.
Thank you for the comments. You picked a good time for reading the story, as I have a couple more updates lined up for the next week or so. I feel some readers might say that the story is moving too slowly, in comparison to lot of the TLs on the forum, but I somehow like to build it up bit by bit. There's deliberate symbolism, but then like with most of my longer stories, I think there are also themes a-forming I even myself only knowingly realize are there after they have been bubbling in the background for some time. I rather prefer this kind of a mixed style, as I feel that with a pure history book style I'd hamstrung myself and risk the story becoming too skeletal, missing a lot of its flesh and blood.
Let's see where it all goes.
I naturally can't comment on your comments, to possibly accidentally reveal anything about the future of the TL.
The future bits are intended as both an additional framing device for the historical parts and (eventually) also an entire another layer to the story (something like what I did with the Land of Sad Songs). But then that "payoff" is still pretty far in the future, writing-wise.
I for one think that it is quite good, actually. Rushing things for the sake of quickly advancing the timeline feels just lazy to me. So do things your own way
I'm eagerly waiting for some more on Kekkonen, whether he will be a magnificent bastard, or just a bastard ...
But he has the potential to become the President for Life of PDR Finland.How far do you plan on taking it?Thank you for the comments. You picked a good time for reading the story, as I have a couple more updates lined up for the next week or so. I feel some readers might say that the story is moving too slowly, in comparison to lot of the TLs on the forum, but I somehow like to build it up bit by bit. There's deliberate symbolism, but then like with most of my longer stories, I think there are also themes a-forming I even myself only knowingly realize are there after they have been bubbling in the background for some time. I rather prefer this kind of a mixed style, as I feel that with a pure history book style I'd hamstrung myself and risk the story becoming too skeletal, missing a lot of its flesh and blood.
Let's see where it all goes.
I naturally can't comment on your comments, to possibly accidentally reveal anything about the future of the TL.
If I manage to complete this first "book" (August 1939 to August 1940), I have planned to extend the story through TTL's WW2, in more one-year "books", to form the composite "The Years of Danger". The future bits would run a year at most from mid-2009 (TBD), including a number of flashbacks to the decades in between WW2 and the 00s.
It's all highly theoretical at this point, though, and subject to change.
Twelve: Arvo
Twelve: Arvo
The passenger train was leaving behind the Mäntyharju station somewhat to the south of Mikkeli, slowly gathering speed.
Despite the opened-up windows, it tended to be pretty hot inside the carriage that was full of soldiers in their uniforms. In fact, Lieutenant Arvo Vaara felt like he was suffocating.
The next hand was dealt. Arvo looked at the cards he received, and cursed quietly in his mind.
Nothing.
The oldest son of Salomo Vaara was not a stranger to bluffing. In fact he was well-versed with most strategies one could employ in the game of poker.
But then if you constantly got fuck-all from the cards that were dealt to you, bluff would go only so far.
By all accounts, Arvo should have been hungry by now. The train had been on the move for many hours, especially after it had to wait for an extended time at Pieksämäki, to wait for a north-bound train that had fallen behind its schedule. For some reason today, the Finnish railway system seemed to be experiencing some real problems. What the cavalry officer felt was not hunger – it was weakness, energy being drained out of him.
He knew exatly why that was, and it was not just the fact that he had not really eaten all day. By now, he was 1800 marks down in the poker game that had gone on all through the trip.
Opposite him, Sergeant Karvonen looked at Arvo Vaara and licked his lips like a predator.
”Raise, 40 marks”, he said, pushing a small pile of notes and coins across the makeshift table. Two of the other men decided to fold then and there, and then it was again only Karvonen and Arvo.
The lieutenant looked again to his cards.
No, this time they were bad enough to even try to bluff.
”Fold”, he said, feeling a combination of humiliation and anger.
Karvonen winked to him and added the pot to his ever-growing pile of notes.
”Your turn to deal”, he said to the corporal next to him, turning his red face towards the lean younger man.
The corporal looked at both the sergeant and the lieutenant. He had won a few marks himself, but he appeared ill at ease. To Arvo it had looked like the young man was worried that the officer opposite was losing so much, sums that for him probably were huge. Now, he shook his head.
”I'm out, sarge. I'm feeling a little ill, to be honest.”
The sergeant smirked at him.
”Suit yourself. I knew you would not have the stomach for it when the stakes get higher”, he said, and then looked at Arvo.
”How about you, lieutenant?”, he asked, proffering he deck of cards towards Arvo.
Arvo just nodded and took the cards. There was really no option for him than to keep playing, to win back even some of his losses. To mitigate the damage.
And he had been so sure that today his luck would change.
As Arvo shuffled the cards, trying to kindle within himself some new hope about getting into that elusive winning groove, in the outside the fields had again turned into an everpresent forest view. In between the forested hills and valleys, here and there one could glimpse a shimmering blue lake reflecting the clear summer sky.
The train was now reaching normal speed, and there was a hint of fresh air coming in through the partially open window.
Arvo finished dealing the cards, and then picked up his hand.
He was holding three kings right away. It was hard for him not to smile.
Does this mean my luck is finally turning?
As the others also looked at their cards, their faces studiously blank, right then another man in a uniform barged into the carriage.
”It's a train!”, the man shouted, looking mightily shaken.
The gamblers all looked at the man, who in ordinary circumstances would have looked quite the respectable older gentleman with his pince-nez glasses and his greying mutton chop whiskers.
Arvo as well looked at the conductor with his mouth open.
”It is a train!”, the man repeated, his eyes wide, his face frozen in a mask of horror.
He had entered the carriage from the direction of the locomotive.
”On the same track!”, the man enunciated in a pitiful voice.
Then there was a tearing sound and Arvo was airborne, still clutching his three kings.
….
"A horrible collision.
The crashed locomotives just after the accident."
….
September 2009
The woman walked into the large hall, clutching her bag. To get this far, she had passed a gallery of old-fashioned kiosks selling food, small pastries of some sort and what she thought were traditional sweet rolls, coffee, flowers, newspapers, and of course mobile phone subscriptions. There was Televia, there was BearMobile, and then of course there was the ubiquitous orange smile of AT&T's Mobbo. The woman would have thought coming as far as Finland would have allowed her to escape Mobbo.
No such luck.
The woman weaved her way between businessmen in suits, a hugging student couple with backpacks and a swaying drunk who somehow looked like a war veteran.
He looks kind of like Phil, really.
The thought about her step dad was not something she wanted to have right now, so she started looking for the map of the platforms.
No help, what she saw were just huge ads up on the walls of the big hall. Reciprocity, by Realism. Nuukat Nuudelit. Finn-Aero. There was an one billboard advertising the comeback tour of a British rock band, appearing in Helsinki in the Leijona Center, apparently. The woman could faintly remember seeing the lion logo on a big building on her way to the hotel the night before.
”Thank God I caught you”, the man in a suit and a dark overcoat had told her and looked at her matter-of-factly.
”I need to talk to you about the accident.”
The woman shook her head.
”The accident?”
”With the taxi, Miss Farrah. Are you all right?”
Nora Farrah shrugged lightly.
”I guess I am. Nothing appears to be broken. Why?”
The man pulled his hand out out of his pocket and held out a calling card in white, blue and black.
Nora took the card, feeling the expensive matte surface between her fingers.
”My name's Antti Jänö, and I'm with Fennia Legal. I wanted to ask you if you want to press charges... Against the taxi company.”
Nora looked at the man, who was handsome in the way a cookie-cutter young military officer might be. The man appeared totally, well, generic.
”The taxi company? No...”
She took a second to collect her thoughts.
”...I'd rather say it was the cops that were to blame for the accident, not the cabbie, so...”
Antti Jänö answered her words with a slightly crooked smile.
”I can't help you with that”, he said, nodding towards the card in the woman's hand.
”I told you I was with Fennia Legal, didn't I? We don't take cases against Helsinki law enforcement, for obvious reasons.”
Nora was not at all sure why it would have been obvious, but she just nodded.
”OK. Anyway, I just arrived to Finland, Mr... Jänö, and I am not about to sue anyone right now, thank you very much.”
The man in the suit and overcoat smiled and nodded.
”Thank you for telling me that, now I have an answer to give to my boss. Due diligence, you see.”
The man smiled again and again nodded towards the card.
”Don't hesitate to call me if you need any help with... navigating around Finland. Fennia's there to help, haha, like our ads tend to say. As a matter of fact – would you have a number I could call you if my boss needs any additional information?”
”No, sorry”, Nora answered, not feeling sorry at all, ”I don't have a Finnish 'phone yet. Like I said, I've just arrived.”
The man smiled again and nodded to her.
”Allright then”, he said and glanced to his right, apparently causing a similarly dressed man, albeit a bit older and scruffier one, to get up from one of the chairs behind him.
”Thank you for your time, Miss Farrah. Enjoy your stay in Finland. Good night.”
The man left with his... partner?... in tow, leaving Nora to stand there holding his business card.
Haluamme Auttaa Sinua[1], said a black and blue billboard up on the wall.
Fennia Security.
From time to time, she could hear a chime and then a woman's voice in Finnish, apparently announcing trains about to depart.
The sound of the announcements was tinny and pretty low-fi. The woman couldn't understand a word.
She walked on, passing a French fast food chain's outlet and a fat man in a blue overall, standing idly by some floor maintenance equipment. Then, finally, she found a route map. It showed several different railway lines in various colours, apparently representing different rail companies.
To be honest, she could not make heads or tails of it.
After a small while, she stopped an affable-looking man in his early thirties with a messy hair and thick glasses, a black and yellow scarf around his neck.
”Excuse me – do you speak English?”, she asked, and the man nodded.
”I need to get to Leppävaara. Is it the yellow line I need to take? Platform Four?”
The man looked at the big glowing chart for a while and then shook his head.
”No. The yellow line is RailSavonia. Long distance. What you need.... Is one of the companies serving the Greater Helsinki area. Like H-Rata, or PKS. It's the green line – Platforms Ten through Fifteen. Buy a ticket in advance... from a vendor or a machine.”
”Thank you.”
”Eipä mittään[2]”, the man said, making a mock military salute and taking off into the growing crowd.
Platforms Ten through Fifteen, the woman thought, the lower level.
Feeling a sudden urge, Nora Farrah glanced up at the vaulted ceiling of the big hall and saw small rays of light punching through the dirty old window panes, making up a pattern looking a lot like some constellation of unknown stars.
She kept the image on the top of her mind as she made her way down to the darker reaches of the railway station.
...
The escort is following a little bit behind
Making his own tracks
Fearing that he'll get infected with destiny
But that's what it's the least about
When I'm left alone, I know what'll follow
There's really nothing equivocal about it
I'm just somehow returning home
...
Notes:
[1] We Want to Help You.
[2] It's nothing.
...
To Be Continued
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Geez, this screams like a post-Soviet Finland more and more; this is definitely not how I remember my trip to Finland in '12!
Thirteen: Gustaf
"A Finnish officer briefs foreign military attachés about the events of the war games. Near Viipuri, August 1939."
Photo: The Finnish Military Museum.
Thirteen: Gustaf
The old man stared at the young woman. This end of the covered terrace had gone quiet, even if discussion was still continuing in the other end of the long table.
The young woman's face was turning progressively redder.
The older man again looked down on his plate, and his mustachied upper lip trembled with something very much like disgust.
Finally, as it often was, it was up to General Walden to break the deadlock.
”Miss”, he said to the young woman wearing the immaculately white apron, ”you can take away the fish and bring the field marshal the meat option.”
The young woman looked at the old general.
”Sir”, she stammered, ”the meat option? I am not sure if the chef has...”
”Sure he has, miss”, the general and industrialist, Mannerheim's right hand in the Defence Council answered.
He lowered his voice.
”Just take away the fish. Please. Tell the chef that the field marshal will take anything else he has.”
Carl Gustaf Mannerheim was a great admirer of fish dishes. He liked fish in many forms, fried, boiled, poached, smoked. But the one sort of fish he absolutely detested was pike. He did not want to encourage the existence of pike dishes, or the animal itself, by indulging in consuming said travesty of a fish.
The long and short of it was that eating pike was entirely below him.
The chef had not been informed.
Gustaf sighed and looked out across the long table set on the airy terrace of the provincial restaurant. The evening was cooling down after a long, hot day, and Gustaf was in mood of getting some food into his stomach to fortify him after several hours of meeting foreign guests and reviewing troops taking part in the war games arriving to the Viipuri area. There had been a field lunch, sure, but then it had been very light and some time had passed since it.
The fact was that the old cavalry officer was both hungry and thirsty, and, even if he would not have wanted to admit to it, a bit tired.
It all made him somewhat irritable.
Happily, though, the wine they had been served was quite good. Gustaf took another sip from his glass, thinking back on the day. With a glass of schnapps already in his system, in a moment he was feeling a little light-headed.
In the other end of the table, the Prime Minister was telling something to his foreign guests. Given that one of them was the Swedish Defence Minister and another the Commander in Chief of the Danish military, he was using Swedish. Gustaf cocked his head and focused on what the man who looked like the very image of a university professor was saying.
”...In my personal opinion. If we had bought more weapons some years ago, by the beginning of the war they would have already been obsolete! The pace of invention in military technology is such these days – what with tanks and bomber airplanes, and what have you...”
Just then, as if to underscore what the man was saying, Gustaf could hear the drone of aircraft engines in the distance – most likely those of the Blenheim bombers the Air Force was due to give a demonstration with the following day.
”...And so, by not buying weapons that would have been needed to be replaced with more modern ones by the war anyway, we have saved for the Finnish people a pretty penny! We'll buy weapons when we need them, not to be kept in storage, costing the people money for warehousing and upkeep and so on. It is good economy, gentlemen.”
It took Gustaf's entire willpower not to scoff audibly at the Prime Minister's words. You can't arm and outfit an entire military in days or weeks, not when the whole continent seems to be going out of its mind with talks of war. Weapons should be bought in times of peace, when demand for them is low, the old soldier thought. When the war is already on, all nations will hold on to their armaments with tooth and nail. And that is why the Prime Minister was wrong. The field marshal had tried his level best in the recent months to secure funding for the Finnish military for new purchases, but it had not been easy. After the Finnish overtures for defence cooperation with Sweden had been mooted, Mannerheim's recent effort had been to secure loans from the United States to buy significant numbers of modern weaponry. The discussions were still ongoing.
Cajander shared some pun about frugality with Sköld, drawing a chuckle from the Swede, and Gustaf found himself thinking how much simpler things might have been without democracy allowing fools to ascend to high offices of state.
He took another sip of the wine, and then relented. It was not that the Prime Minister was a fool or a simpleton – he was, in his own way, a perfectly intelligent man. It was just that his intelligence was of the university sort, not that of a politician or a soldier. He was not like Mannerheim was, nor like his trusted Rudolf Walden. Not like the bald, shrewd-looking young minister of the interior sitting obliquely across the table from him, either, the old officer thought. Cajander was an academic, a man of theory and abstraction, and as such he was peace-time politician at best. In the current situation that was his chief shortcoming.
It was not that Gustaf had anything against democracy, either. Not as such. Republican governance had its strong points, too– at least when compared with dictatorships like that of Bolshevik Russia, or that of Hitler's Germany. Only if one could make it so that the democratic machine would raise up only men who were up to the task at hand...
Finally, the waiter brought Gustaf his main course – roasted beef with seasonal vegetables. The old man tasted his food and found it entirely agreeable. After a few mouthfuls, his spirits were much improved. He felt good enough to converse some with General Linder across the table, about the political situation in Europe. When the waiter then brought him more wine, he even smiled benevolently to the young woman he had only recently glared at because of the damn fish.
After the dinner is over, Gustaf thought, I need to apologize to the girl. She is, after all, only doing her job.
”...And then we need to wait what comes of the discussions between the Soviets, on one hand, and the British and the French, on the other. Will there be an alliance against the Germans? Or will Stalin still be too suspicious to trust the capitalist nations?”, Linder mused rhetorically. Gustaf was happy that his old colleague did not know about the Soviet demands recently made to Finland. It would have definitely darkened his mood, too.
Mannerheim's thoughts went back to the events of the day. He had seen infantry and mounted troops marching along the dry, dusty roads to the designated war game area, tanks and trucks ending into small traffic jams on narrow roads between trees, artillery pieces being manhandled into position. Successful as the preparations he had seen had appeared, the railway chaos of the day before loomed in the back of his mind. Several people had died, in not just one but two separate accidents. The last-minute additions to the war games had thrown the railway system off kilter, and Mannerheim believed those accidents were then a feature of systemic problems to do with mobilization arrangements.
He would have to task a logistics officer to look into the matter as soon as the war games would be over.
”I would like to propose a toast to our hosts”, he heard a man say in Swedish. He looked to the end of the table to see it was General Prior who had spoken up. With a glass in his hand, the Danish officer was looking at him.
”Prime Minister Cajander, Field Marshal Mannerheim. Ministers, generals, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all, for giving us the opportunity to see Finland, and view the Finnish military in action. A toast to the good fortune of these war games.”
Mannerheim raised a glass with the others, with a practiced, steady hand.
...
"Mounted troopers enroute to Viipuri, August 1939."
Photo: The Finnish Military Museum.
...
Arvo
Lost in thought, Lieutenant Arvo Vaara was grooming his mount for the night. Apart from their personal gear, mounted troopers were responsible for caring for their horses as well. Through his training, the necessity of taking good care of his mount had been drilled into Arvo Vaara. Even now, when he as an officer could have tasked an ordinary trooper to take care of his horse, Arvo considered it his duty to see to the well-being of the horse he would depend on the next day, the one that had carried him through this day as well. ”Take care of your horse, and your horse will a friend that takes care of you. A cavalryman who does not care for the well-being of his mount is not worth his uniform”, Arvo's instructor had told him during his first weeks in the Häme Mounted Regiment.
The night was falling in southern Karelia. The cavalry unit's camp was made on a clearing in a forest next to a road, just on the other side of a small copse of woods from another camp. It included artillery units from Field Artillery Regiment 2. Several other men were seeing to their horses, too, and some were tending camp fires, or doing various sundry work to prepare the unit for the day to come. The night was falling, but it was still warm. The day had been hot and dry, and riding to Viipuri had been a sweaty and dirty job. Especially unpleasant had been the part of the ride where the squadron had tested their gas masks along the way. It definitely had not been the best weather for riding in gas masks. Arvo was sure that some photographer along the way had got some dramatic photos of it, though.
Arvo's current mount was a chestnut mare called Mary, a Finnish warmblood like most of the Regiment's horses.[1] Mary was not a very big or strong, as cavalry mounts went, but she was tenacious and brave, and responded to his commands so well that she seemed almost able to read his mind. Arvo believed that Mary was very smart.
Alone with the mare, Arvo spoke to her in a low, soothing voice, telling her of the last couple of days. He told her about the railway accident, about how when he came to, everything was a mess and then he tried to help injured and trapped people the best he could. Given the conditions of the accident, people on the train had been very, very lucky. Only the two men in the locomotive had died, and an older woman who apparently had perished due to a cardiac arrest. For the rest, there had only been various injuries. Arvo himself was still feeling the effects of the crash in his back, and in his lower thigh where he had a nasty bruise. There was a cut on his arm as well – his uniform tunic had been ruined.
All in all, the accident had been sorted out more easily than he would have thought possible, experiencing it first hand. The local Civil Guards and Lotta Svärd had quickly put together an ad hoc relief organization, and all soldiers aboard the train had worked admirably, led by an infantry major who had after the initial confusion taken command of the scene.
”It gives a man pause, getting involved in an accident like that”, Arvo told Mary.
Mary neighed in return, like it had understood perfectly what the young lieutenant was saying.
Arvo was still brushing the horse's flank when he suddenly heard a voice behind him.
”Vaarra! Here you are!”
Lieutenant Arvo Vaara pivoted around with the brush in his hand.
”Captain”[2], he said, attempting a salute. The older officer waved off the formality.
”Lieutenant Vaarra”, Captain Arnold Majewski said with a smile, abusing Arvo's last name in his usual manner. The closest thing Arvo Vaara had to a mentor as a military officer, for better or for worse, Arnold Majewski was one of the regiment's most well-known officers. At age 47, he still rode with a flamboyant, skilled abandon a few younger troopers could muster. The son of a Polish-born officer from an old noble family, the captain seemed to have the skills of a cavalryman in his very blood. Due to his Swedish-speaking mother, though, his native tongue was Swedish. This all made his spoken Finnish quite idiosyncratic.
Majewski was a legend among his men and in the town of Lappeenranta, and not only because of his military skills. The captain was an easygoing officer who spent what money he had on drinks, good food and women. This was a man who had debts all around town, as well as illegitimate children, it was rumoured. The concerns of ordinary mortals didn't seem to affect the strong-willed man who was always in good spirits and of whom many funny anecdotes made their rounds around the town and the garrison.
”Vaarra”, Majewski repeated, glancing at the man next to him, the regiment's long-suffering veterinarian, ”we're very lucky to find you here. Your presence is required at a... high-level meeting”, he said, beaming.
”Captain, I...”, Arvo started.
”Not a word, Vaarra”, the older officer said, ”Listen. I find that I have here in my possession a bottle or two of fine brandy. And on the other side of those trees...”
He pointed to the west.
”...Is the camp of artillerists...”
The captain turned his head and spat on the ground for effect.
”...And it is our duty as officers of the Häme Mounted Regiment to go and teach those... men... something about the art of playing cards!”
Oh, here we go, Arvo thought quietly.
”Captain, I...”, he started again.
Majewski affected a furious stare at the young officer.
”Do I need to make it an order, lieutenant?”, he asked, raising his voice for effect.
Next to him, the veterinarian, Rantanen, rolled his eyes.
Arvo Vaara threw up his hands.
”All right, all right. Let's go and give our neighbours a lesson, then.”
Majewski grabbed the younger man and patted his back.
”Good man. I knew I can count on you.”
Arvo Vaara had planned to turn in early. The next morning the war games would start out in earnest. But Arnold Majewski was a very difficult man to say no to. And, to be perfectly honest, Arvo was interested to see if his luck had really changed. The railway accident had cut his game with the meaty-faced sergeant short, after all, right when things had started to look up.
The three men walked across the woods, with Majewski detailing to the two others his exploits during the ride over from Lappeenranta earlier during the day.
”...So I say to him: move this smoke-spewing tin can of yours away from the path of my troopers, or I'll take out my bloody can opener and split your little tank in half. After that, the man he made haste!”, the man told his companions in his accented Finnish and laughed heartily.
It did not take long for the trio to find people to play cards with in the artillery unit's camp. In fact, as luck would have it, before even walking the whole way the three men practically stumbled into a small card game between a few officers and NCOs, next to a small copse of trees out of earshot of the camp proper.
To his surprise, Arvo Vaara noticed that Sergeant Meat-Head was among them. He looked at the man, who was appeared equally surprised. The man nodded to him.
”Ah, lieutenant”, the artilleryman said and smiled a crooked smile, ”How's this for a twist in the story? We have played some poker before with this man", he told his unit-mates, "I thought you lost enough the last time, eh?”
The man had obviously already taken a couple of drinks. Grinding his teeth a little, Arvo Vaara sat down on a tree stump. Then Rantanen poured them all drinks out of one of the bottles Majewski had brought along with him.
Taking a sip, Arvo Vaara had to agree that it was very good brandy.
As the south Karelian August evening darkened, a poker game got underway in the light of an oil-fueled lantern. The game itself was fueled with brandy, and Majewski dominated the proceedings with his sheer presence. Arvo was off to a rocky start, but then after a few hands he found his groove. And after that, it seemed that he could not lose. Captain Majewski himself was not really winning or losing, but he proved once again a very useful foil – he distracted the opponents with his stories and expansive personality, and being more used to the captain than the artillery men were, Arvo could leverage this state of affairs to his advantage. Arvo also managed to control his drinking, whereas Sergeant Meat-Head across the makeshift table from him kept getting more drunk all the while. The other artillerymen were not much better.
In the end, it was a slaughter. Unsteadily swaying back to their camp some hours later, when the night had already turned towards a creeping summer morning, all the three cavalrymen had more money on them than they had in their pockets on the way over. Majewski had won some, Rantanen had won more. Lieutenant Arvo Vaara, he had made a real killing. He had won back all that he had lost to the artillery sergeant in the train, and then more. In fact he had totally fleeced the poor bugger.
Arvo didn't feel sorry for the man, though. In fact he found the sergeant wholly unpleasant as a person.
Serves him right.
Having one last drink with Captain Majewski who drunkenly congratulated him, and then making his way to his spartan field lodgings, Arvo Vaara felt a sense of honest victory – never mind if in the next morning a hangover of sorts would surely follow.
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"A gun crew is preparing a field artillery piece for action. Near Viipuri, August 1939."
Photo: The Finnish Military Museum.
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Notes:
[1] A breed developed out of the common Finnhorse (or Finnish Universal), the Finnish warmblood was bred since 1926 specifically for equestrian sports and military use. It was built lighter than the ordinary Finnhorse, for speed and agility.
[2] The Finnish cavalry rank was ratsumestari (ryttmästare), which corresponds to the traditional German rank of rittmeister.
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To Be Continued
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The more things change. This wisdom seems always, always be forgotten soon after the last war. And then it is too late.
Now this is IMO quite the opposite, as it seems to imply that rapid changes in difficult times would be good, instead of training people when there is time? Of course, it might just be the usual grumbling of a tired, old man.
Logistics and especially troop transfers are a nightmare even with modern systems, even more so if they have to be improvised on the spot. It's a good (very, very good) idea to practice while there is still time, but there will always be delays, and problems, and accidents. Wartime conditions and enemy actions make it ten times worse. Of course Mannerheim knows this.
Oh, interesting information, I had no idea.
Good update, war seems inevitable...