In the back of the car with him, President Risto Heikki Ryti was looking at the people, not at the burned-out buildings. Rather, he was looking at their remains; shrunken, blackened husks that the fires had left behind. The car was in a small square, just off the Mannerheiminte. It had been one where people had gathered in vain hope of shelter. There had been one exit out of the square when the fires had closed in, a narrow street. The entrance to it was blocked by a pile of charred bodies, ten or twenty high and five times that number deep. For a second, he wondered what the last minutes of those people had been like, fighting desperately to escape while the flames closed in.
“Why did they do it to us? What did we ever do to them?” Ryti’s voice was cracking with emotion and bewilderment.
“What did we do to them?” Mannerheim could hardly believe the question. “We sank their ships. We shot down their aircraft. We killed their soldiers. We attacked them when we had led them to believe that a truce existed along our front. I think that was enough.”
“But we didn’t attack them. We have never fought Americans.”
“We fought their allies. That’s enough. And their aircraft fight over Kola and that too is enough. We had fair warning. The Americans told us that how we would be treated would depend on how much or little activity we undertook. You have seen the word from Sweden?”
“Of course. We cannot accept such terms.”
“We cannot not accept them. They are the best we will get. If we do not accept them, and make the allies believe that we have accepted them, we will look back and see these terms as generosity incarnate. If anybody is left in our burned-out cities to look back of course.”
“The Germans say they will prevent more such attacks. They are moving additional fighters and low-level anti-aircraft guns around our cities. They say any more such raids will be too costly for the Americans to contemplate.”
“Perhaps. Although I do not think the Germans understand what the Americans are prepared to pay yet. Or what prices they will charge.”
There was a silence as the open-topped touring car left the square that stank of roasted flesh and returned to the Mannerheiminte. The bodies here were more spaced out, spread evenly rather than piled up. Mannerheim looked at the carnage wanting to weep but unable to do so. One thing caught his eye. A couple, charred husks now like all the rest, but holding each other. Between them was the burned remains of a potted plant. Incredibly one of its leaves was green. Somehow, that leaf had escaped the fires and the heat. “Mister President, do me a personal favor and have this street renamed. I do not care to have such a scene bearing my name.”
Ryti nodded wordlessly, looking at the scene unrolling as the car eased down the street. From the roadside the rescue workers stopped their efforts when they recognized the tall figure in the back of the car and their voices carried across the empty space.
“It’s the Marshal.”
“He’ll save us.”
“The Marshal will help us.”
Once again, Mannerheim wanted to weep; the necessity of maintaining the staunch appearance prevented him. While the man who occupied the car was still President, there was nothing he could do. He could stop armies but not the bombers that flew overhead. While Ryti remained President, the bombers would return. Suddenly a deep chill racked Mannerheim’s body and soul. For one horrible moment he believed he was looking at the future, not just of Finland but of all Europe.
“So I must accept these terms?” Ryti asked the question. In his heart he knew the answer that was coming.
“No, you must not. You cannot, because nobody will believe you. We have accepted a truce once, unofficial certainly but real for all of that. You gave orders to break it. You took German bribes to break it. Now, you will send your acceptance of these terms to the Americans and they will wipe their asses with it.”
The sudden, uncharacteristic coarseness shocked Ryti but he knew what the words meant. His term as President was finished. It had just ended, here on the street he would rename as his last official act. In that moment, he knew that he would rename the street after himself. The burned-out, corpse-covered street was a scene that should bear his name. It was his fault this had happened.
“Marshal, it is obvious that I can no longer lead Finland under these circumstances. Will you become Prime Minister and accept the allied terms on Finland’s behalf?” His voice was hopeless, despairing.
Mannerheim stared at Ryti and measured the situation. “No. I am too old and I lack knowledge of the detailed techniques of government to take on such a role. Nor would the allies accept it. There must be a clean break with the past.”
Ryti sighed. Again, he had expected the answer. “Then I must resign from the office of president, and ask parliament to elect you as Regent. At a time such as this, it is necessary that civil and military authority be combined in one person so that there is no doubt over who carries the right authority.”
In the back of the car, Mannerheim weighed the situation then decided on the course that had to be followed. He would have to send word via Sweden that the new terms would be accepted, that the Finnish Army would never again attack allied positions. “The Americans do not like the position of Regent. They think it sounds like a cinema. I will have to be elected as President to avoid any misconceptions about the nature of my office. The Americans understand Presidents.” Ryti nodded. It was not as if he had much choice in the matter, not surrounded by the stench of burned-out city and the heat from the incinerated buildings. “We must hope that the Swedes can make the allies believe that.”
Mannerheim nodded. It all depended on the Swedes and their strange friends in Switzerland. Once again, he looked at the burned-out city and shuddered. The feeling he was looking at Europe’s grave still lingered within him.
The scouts had spotted the train as soon as dawn had broken. Then, they had worked their way back to where the rest of the column had set up its positions. They had skied back with the word that the officers needed to know, past the long lines of ripped-up track that would stop the single surviving great gun. The gun couldn’t pass the blockage. The railwaymen couldn’t repair the tracks under fire. They were all trapped. Ahead of them, the glow in the sky showed where the sun would soon rise. Overhead, the clouds were turning dark, angry red. An old saying rolled through the corporal’s mind.
An old verse, almost a child’s saying but with truth behind it. There was another storm coming. Probably not as severe as the great storm that had started this whole offensive. It would be a bad one none the less. The corporal guessed that the Army would be using that storm to break off and retreat. The offensive had failed. Everybody knew it. Only this long contest between the mechanized column and the American Navy gun was still going on. It had become almost a private war in itself.
The treeline was ahead and the scouts planed into it. They sought out their commander in the prepared positions. Asbach had seen them come in and was hurrying out to meet them. His snow-shoes eased his passage across the packed ground.