A LEVEL PLAYING FIELD

As the soldier stared out gloomily from his seat beside the silent, morose driver, snow began to fall, becoming blizzard like within minutes and continuing its onslaught throughout the lengthy climb. The snowplough struggled valiantly, engine groaning, gears screeching, headlights barely penetrating the white curtain as it climbed through the windswept drifts, higher and higher. Finally halting at the summit of the thickly wooded mountain, its sole passenger dropped in slow motion from the cab, sinking almost knee deep into the powdered whiteness, staring, bewilderingly, through the impenetrable darkness, his eyes being fiercely stung by the flailing ice crystals. At last, he made out the security cabin by the light that suddenly appeared as the door opened and the man he was to relieve of duty exited swiftly. The two, trudging with great difficulty through the cloying, freezing wetness that sucked hungrily at their legs, passed each other; a mutual grunt, their only communication, barely audible above the clamour of the idling plough.

Inside, hurriedly, Private Boris Arlovsky pulled the heavy door closed behind him, vainly attempting to keep the cold without as the ear piercing sound of his transport faded in the distance on its journey back to Vyborg. Twenty four hours until it returned once more. One entire, monotonous day in which he had to stay awake in this God forsaken, remote, frontier outpost.

Though every item of his bulky clothing was restrictive, he gave no thought to removing a single thing; all needed to maintain bodily warmth, including his military ushanka with its ear flaps as well as his reindeer fur-lined, army issue boots. With a deep, resigned sigh, he surveyed his miserable surrounds, cursing himself for his negligence in rifle maintenance, the previous day, which had resulted in the punishment of guard duty in this backwater hinterland.

Half of the cabin interior was taken up by timber, finely chopped, to feed the burzhuyka, his sole source of heat. A crude table and single chair made up the only furniture. No cot, for a sentry man was not, of course, permitted to sleep. Was he expected, as part of his watch, to replenish the wood pile, he wondered. Sod that!

A few old newspapers, months out of date, offered the only respite from unavoidable boredom. Un-shouldering his rifle, a standard issue Mosin-Nagent M9/130, he propped it against the table along with his backpack containing the usual, barely palatable, dry rations. It was then that he noticed the half eaten packet of sukhar, the hard tack biscuit that was a Soviet army staple, only considered edible if a soldier was actually starving for it was more than capable of removing a tooth or two when being consumed and promised several, painful visits to the latrines afterwards.

But these seemed… different; larger, fresher, softer. Upon closer inspection, he found, to his utter amazement, that they contained jam and, obviously, had been left in error by the man he had just relieved; a gift from a loving mother or fiancee at home, no doubt. In his haste to depart this wretched place, his fellow Ryadovoy had neglected to take this wonderful treat and, now, on his way down the mountain, was probably realising his error and cursing himself.

Private Arlovsky’s mouth salivated at the thought of the sweet, sugary indulgence that, by chance, was now his to enjoy.. But, wait, what if the next day’s relief turned out to be this same predecessor, the very man he had just swapped places with? There’d be hell to pay at the changeover. Maybe, just one? One small taste would hardly be missed. No, he banished the thought. He’d only incur further disciplining, might even have his sojourn in this wilderness extended as punishment. With a pang, his thoughts turned to his own beloved mamushka; a wonderful cook.

Suddenly, he was jolted by the sound of a loud ringing; the telephone, a miracle of technology in this wilderness. He tripped over himself as he rushed to answer it, listening silently to the strident voice on the other end, barking orders, demanding obeisance. He snapped out a “Yest”to confirm his understanding and, instantly, the phone call was terminated. Two Finnish soldiers had escaped from the prisoner of war camp on the Saimaa Canal, the previous day, and he was to be on full alert. It was believed that they would, almost certainly, be heading for the border and were to be shot on sight.

For a few, brief moments, Arlovsky’s nerves tingled with anticipation, adrenaline surging, and he reached for his rifle, checking it was fully loaded and, unlike the previous day, spotlessly clean. Instinctively, he moved to the sole window of the hut and stared out but was met with the same impenetrable blanket of falling snow and, beyond that, total darkness, no moon visible. Relaxing somewhat, he considered his situation: it had taken him more than an hour to climb the mountain in the plough so two men, on foot, would surely take several hours to reach this part of the border if, indeed, they came. For there were easier ways to cross the frontier into Finland. All this, he reasoned, calming himself, taking a seat at the table and, with admirable restraint, pushing the succulent looking biscuits away, out of reach and temptation.

He refuelled the stove, then picked up the newspapers and, after sorting them in date order, began to read the oldest, dated September 1939, citing the outbreak of the war in Europe, confirming Russia’s alliance with Germany, yet no hint, not a single word, of the friction between his country and Finland that was to result in the invasion just a couple of months later. War. He was sick of it. What was this evil that empowered men who would never think to place themselves in danger but felt compelled to thrust young men, like himself, into the jaws of death without a second thought? Once again, he cast covetous glances at the sweet sukhar but stoutly resisted seduction and, as the hut grew increasingly warmer, slowly, inevitably, he drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke, he was startled by the unusual brightness that filled the cabin and also by the ice cold numbness he felt. Stumbling up, blood circulating painfully in his feet, he rushed to feed wood to the stove that was in danger of expiring. In violation of his duty, he had allowed himself to fall asleep and he cursed himself for his weakness. Anywhere but here, he would have been shot for this dereliction, he knew. He strode to the window and, looking out, was amazed to see that the snow had ceased falling, the moon visible having escaped the clouds; the reason, now, for the light enthused hut. Bathed in a magical glow, the landscape that his eyes beheld was beautiful in the extreme.

He had to push heavily against the piled snow to open the door, staring out at the ghostly vista, entranced by its wintry magnificence: snow covered trees casting shadows upon the pure white, undulating topography as far as the eye could see. Breathtaking, reminding him, heartbreakingly, of his home in the Urals. Who could believe that such natural beauty still existed, masking the wholesale slaughter taking place on several fronts?

Suddenly, two minute, darkened figures entered his vision in the distance. Hares? Floundering in the deepness of the snow, leaving behind them, tiny, black dots of footprints, they aided each other. No animals, these. As one fell, the other would help him back to his feet; their progress slow but relentless in their determination to get back to their homeland. The escaped prisoners. There was no doubt. For a few minutes, Arlovsky watched on, envious, in his own lonely situation, of the brotherhood that these two fugitives displayed but, with a start, remembered his orders.

Heart pounding, he fetched his rifle for, though he could not help being moved by this display of Finnish heroism playing out in front of his eyes, it fell to him to stop these escapers; to shoot them down as they fled. They were the enemy, after all; the adversaries of Russia in this Winter War and he classed himself as a crack shot. Back home, he’d been noted for his hunting skills.

Carefully, kneeling in the snow, allowing his body to settle as it sank, he took aim, sighting at the tiny, silhouetted figurines. Undecided which of the two to take down first, the luminescence afforded by the moon made these men easy targets as they stood, rooted to the spot. Arlovsky realised that the light from the cabin had warned the escapers that they had been spotted and they had ceased their struggle, awaiting their fate. But something gave the Russian pause and he hesitated.

He, himself, had been a part of the Seventh Army’s invading force the previous December; had seen, firsthand, the courage and defiance of the Finnish soldiers in defence of their Fatherland, fighting against overwhelming numerical odds and superior firepower. That these two, half starved fugitives had almost reached safety despite the treacherous conditions, crossing frozen tundra for hours before climbing high into the snow covered mountains was further testament to their indomitable spirit and, despite his orders, Private Arlovsky felt only admiration for such bravery. A lone, silent tear betrayed his hatred for this abhorrent task that had fallen upon his shoulders

As he wavered, gun levelled, finger on the trigger, a whispered sound carried on the freezing, night wind: the voice of his own conscience. What have these men ever done to you? Doesn’t their courage deserve more than a bullet in an unprotected back? One day, Boris, you may face them again, fairly, on a field of battle but, this night, allow them the liberty that their valour deserves.

Slowly, he lowered his rifle and, stepped back inside the hut, bolting the door behind him; in this way, flouting the madness of his superiors, the war mongers. Screw orders! The rebel, Private Boris Antimov Arlovsky threw more logs into the stove. Then, he sat at the table… and, no more doubts, recklessly, mouth watering, reached, greedily, for the jam filled sukhar.