They lugged their blankets and mattresses to the storeroom, where chaos reigned as never before. The quartermaster was beside himself. Corporal Mäkilä hailed from Laihia, a town renowned as Finland’s stingiest – and he had not been raised there for nothing. Thriftiness was Mäkilä’s passion – to such a degree that the term ‘pathological’ would not have been out of place, had the men been aware of such fine psychological distinctions. He kept the shelves in impeccable order, stocked with all the finest equipment, unmarred by any worn-out items – which he distributed to the company. He even spent his free time in the storeroom, checking the inventory against his account book over and over again. An ongoing feud prevailed between Mäkilä and the company. The men coming to trade in their equipment made their clamoring demands, only to be met with Mäkilä’s low-voiced – and thus, all the more stubborn – refusal, which he typically checked only upon receiving express orders from the Captain. The most excruciating moments of his military career were those in which he was obliged to stand by and watch, turning red and clearing his throat, as the officers cherry-picked the best equipment for themselves, enjoying the privilege of their rank. A low muttering would emanate from the storeroom for a long time after such an incident, and any man who dared enter would be met with a reception even more offputting than usual.
Unlike most quartermasters, Mäkilä dressed himself in the shabbiest garments to be found in the storeroom. He was quick to point to his own scarecrowesque attire as grounds for his refusal. ‘Of course, everyone wants to walk around dressed like a brigadier general. But we have to make do with what’s left, when the actual officers keep snatching everything right out of my hands. You all want riding breeches and patent-leather boots, but then where will they be when you actually need them?’
Such ‘actual need’ as would induce Mäkilä to surrender gear voluntarily was not likely ever to arise. As the son of a big farm-owner in Laihia, Mäkilä often received packages from home, which he would furtively sneak off to the storeroom so he wouldn’t have to share them. Once the mail arrived so late that Mäkilä had already undressed for bed. His package was dispatched to the corporals’ barracks, putting him in a tight spot. He didn’t dare get dressed again to take the package away, but if he kept it in the barracks he would be forced to share its contents. Mäkilä fended off the men temporarily by mumbling something about sharing things in the morning, and hid the package under his pillow.
That night, a cautious rustling of paper began to issue from Mäkilä’s bed, prompting the lights to flood back on as Hietanen’s voice boomed through the barracks, ‘Guys, wake up! Mäkilä’s sharing his package!’
Suspecting that Mäkilä might try to pull something during the night, the others had organized a rota to stand watch, just in case – and now they descended upon the package’s luckless owner by the dozen. Mäkilä sat on his bed, blinking his eyes and gripping his package to his chest, concealing it beneath the corner of his felt blanket. No physical blows were dealt, but every possible psychological pressure was applied in full. All in vain, however – for, as Mäkilä assured them, ‘It’s just clothes. There’s nothing to eat but a couple of rye crackers. And those aren’t even worth trying to divide up. It’s just the underwear I wrote home for – there’s nothing to eat.’
Not so much as a crumb made it into the men’s clutches, and for weeks afterwards their jeering and abuse fell on Mäkilä’s deaf ears.
The men did recognize that Mäkilä had his merits, however. The machine-gunners faced none of the usual supply-chain thievery that usually diverted chunks of the soldiers’ spartan rations to a circle of insiders, and this was due solely to the fact that Mäkilä was scrupulously honest in performing his duties. Once, one of the squad leaders from Mäkilä’s barracks had appealed to his sense of camaraderie to try to get something from the storeroom, but that turned out to be a mistake. Mäkilä just stared at the ceiling, going red, blinking his eyes and clearing his throat in his typical fashion. Then he indignantly declared, ‘You should be aware that all rations are shared on the mess hall table. The provisions I receive from the battalion are set according to company headcount, and I weigh them on scales and divide them up for meals. The only way to get extra food in the army is by stealing.’
The company’s unexpected departure presented a severe trial for Mäkilä. It pained him to watch the men detailed to help him carelessly rolling up blankets and mattresses into unruly bundles, but his book-keeping prevented him from getting mixed up in the matter. It was equally distressing for him to watch men dumping their equipment all over the floor in their impatience to be off.
‘There’s all the gear for Old Lady Rahikainen’s boy! Gimme a receipt, now, huh?’
Mäkilä was beet-red. Beet-red and clearing his throat. And it says a lot that this man, who had never sworn in his life, who clasped his hands in prayer furtively under the table at meals so the others wouldn’t see, now sputtered, ‘My God, what a sorry state of affairs this world is in! Sure, just drop your gear wherever you want, like a dog drops shit. Nobody gets a receipt until I’ve taken an inventory!’
Just then a fellow from the Third Platoon walked in, the guy the Captain had ordered to trade in his boots. He was turned away, and so had to fetch Hietanen to come and back him up. Hietanen had already managed to get himself into a card game, and so, annoyed at the interruption, he hurried to the doorway and hollered, ‘Boots for Salonen on the double! Cap’n’s orders.’
‘I do not have time to give out boots. And that Cap’n gives orders as if we were in America, where there’s more stuff than anybody needs. Just go crying to your Cap’n and he’ll order me to give out whatever it is you’re hankering after!’
Now Hietanen was hacked off, too. ‘Jesus! It will never cease to amaze me how you hoard all that garbage back there. How in the hell anybody can love those ratty, tatty rags so goddamn much is beyond me. Some pretty, affectionate girl, well, sure, I can understand that just fine, but Christ! Plain old rags? Nah, you got me on that one, I’m stumped. Pre-tty damn strange if you ask me. Just thinking about it makes me feel like somebody dropped an anvil on my head.’
Even Mäkilä’s patience had its limits. He stammered for a moment before the words came. ‘Take it all. Take whatever you want. Here, clear the place out. Call over the whole platoon and deck yourselves out. We’re clean out of those spurs with the nice clink, but we’ll divvy up the best we’ve got.’
‘Look, I don’t need any jingle bells, but I am taking boots for Salonen. Those, grab those ones there. Just swap your old ones and let’s go.’
Salonen exchanged his boots and they left, but Hietanen was so tickled with amusement at the whole situation, and particularly his victory, that he couldn’t resist hollering from the door, ‘Don’t you give up hope, now! There’s enough ratty tatty rags to go around!’
Mäkilä moved a pair of gloves onto a different shelf and seized a pile of mattresses, then lowered it back down to the ground. His voice cracked as he said bitterly, sulking, ‘Just take a-anything you need. It’s not worth keeping track of anything around here anymore. Call in the whole battalion so they can stock up on riding breeches – and seam-stripes, too. The machine-gunners are going to set out dressed like real gentlemen. Just got to dig up some of those patent-leather boots…’
One of the men opted to take Mäkilä’s speech at face value and, pulling a new shirt out of the bundle, started taking off his old one. Mäkilä watched for a moment, racking his brain for the most vindictive possible punishment. His shrill voice cracked as he screamed, ‘Ge-et down!’