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For all the epic resistance of the Finns, the outcome was foreordained. Belatedly the Russians realized that an expected easy triumph over a vastly outnumbered foe had become a slaughterhouse. Incompetent commanders were replaced, more and better troops were moved into position, and orders were given to overwhelm and crush the Finns by the sheer weight of massed numbers. But even though they lost on the battlefield, the Finns's pointed resistance kept the Iron Curtain from drawing closed around their land and allowed Finland to remain free, even as other countries fell one by one.
Trotter's love for the Finns, his clear, evocative prose, and his deep knowledge of his subject combine to resurrect a fight that will never again be forgotten.
William R. Trotter was raised in Charlotte, North Carolina, and educated at Davidson College, where he earned a B.A. in European History. He has worked as a regional music critic, a book reviewer, and a freelance historian and feature writer.
Trotter has published twelve books as well as many articles--in The Independent (North Carolina), Spectator Magazine, the American Record Magazine, Film Culture, Military History Monthly, and dozens of other magazines. Since 1987, he has been a senior writer for PC Gamer Magazine.
In 1995, Trotter won the Finlandia Foundation's Arts and Letters Prize for A Frozen Hell, and the book is required reading for the 2nd Marine Division. In addition, his biography of Mitropoulos, Priest of Music: The Life and Times of Dimitri Mitropoulos, was selected as one of the "ten best 'arts' books of the year" by National Public Radio, and one of his novellas has been nominated for a Bram Stoker Award.
William Trotter lives with his wife and their youngest son in Greensboro, North Carolina.
283 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2000
“Every now and then, as the true tragedy unfolded itself, my eyes caught a quick movement from first one table and then another. It was the movement of a man or woman suddenly brushing away tears...I could not understand anything that was being said, except for the proper names. It was words like 'Viipuri' and 'Hanko' that produced this movement- a stifled, spasmodic cry that seemed to come from almost everybody in the room, as if in response to a physical blow.”Not long after, a photojournalist for Life magazine named Carl Mydans found himself sharing a train compartment with three Finnish officers, bound for Sweden.
During the night, all four men maintained a polite silence. The following morning Mydans was dressing and, like two of the other men, discreetly trying to maintain as much decorum as he could inside the cramped quarters. The Finnish colonel was shaving, balancing his razor against the swaying of the train. He caught Mydans's eye in the mirror.The attachment that Finns seemed to have to Viipuri in particular caused me to look it up, thinking that surely it had been returned to Finland by now, maybe by that nice man Boris Yeltsin. Nope. Despite the fact that when you look at the Isthmus on a map, the city is clearly closer to what you'd have to call the Finnish side, it's been part of Russia since the Red Army retook it (the Finns briefly got it back during Barbarossa) in '45. Instead of Viipuri they call it Vyborg, which makes it sound like a technical death metal band, a generic European beer, or maybe a Stallone movie set in the year 2052. It's painful to read about the relevant negotiations (such as they were) between the Finnish diplomats and Molotov, because you hate to think of the Finns granting any concessions at all to these motherfuckers; and yet, completely overmatched in terms of both manpower and weaponry, it was almost certainly the smart thing to do. Finland though slightly reduced remained a free state after the war, and throughout the Cold War years of Finlandization.
“You are an American?” he asked in clear English. Mydans nodded, noticing that the other two Finnish officers were studiously averting their eyes. The colonel began to scrape at his chin once more.
“At least you will tell them that we fought bravely.”
Mydans whispered that he would, indeed.
The colonel carefully wiped his razor, then dabbed at himself with a towel. He had cut his cheek and there was a tiny bubble of blood swelling there. When he had taken care of that, he began to button his tunic. Mydans observed that the officer's hands were trembling.
Suddenly he peered up at Mydans with an expression of anguish. He began in a hoarse, quiet voice: “Your country was going to help...” Then, in a louder voice: “You promised, and we believed you...”
Then he grabbed Mydans by the shoulders, his fingers digging in, and screamed: “A half-dozen goddamned Brewster fighters with no spare parts is all we got from you! And the British sent us guns from the last war that wouldn't even work!”