The events of the novel cover Finland’s Continuation War, aka the Second Soviet-Finnish War, which erupted just a couple of years after the first one, the one more commonly known as the Winter War. Both conflicts occurred within the larger scope of WWII.
Now, I’m not at all familiar with Finnish history, so understanding this narrative properly took some research. There are endless thorough documentaries to be found on the internet. I have watched some of them and really enjoyed them—I just love deep-history dives.
Unknown Soldiers is hailed as Väinö Linna’s magnum opus, a classic of Finnish literature and one of the best war novels out there. I don’t doubt that in the least, as that’s the first thing I noticed—the author’s incredibly powerful, yet simultaneously accessible, down-to-earth prose. I rarely mention authors’ writing styles in my reviews and tend to focus on the plot and the characters much more.
Not this time though, not when Linna’s beautiful prose is literally the first thing I noticed. It shines through even in translation. By the time I was done reading the first chapter alone, I had already made a dozen annotations of certain sentences and paragraphs I found breathtaking. Pick any quote from this book to read and you’ll immediately be able to tell that Linna is a deeply insightful storyteller who understands the nature of the human psyche perfectly. And is able to convey it to the readers so vividly and effortlessly, to boot!
The narrative starts shortly before our… Regiment? Corps? Unit? Platoon? A bunch of guys in the military? Sorry, I’m not too familiar with army lingo. Anyways, shortly before they’re informed they’re to head out to meet the Russian enemy troops. You can feel palpable fear and excitement in the air as these very young men suddenly go from civilians to soldiers, at least on paper. Emotionally, however, very few of them are actually prepared to step into an active combat role. Save for a few exceptions, all they’ve known of army life so far boils down to playing cards with the guys and messing around in the camp. Their first contact with the enemy sees them freeze with terror and become unresponsive. It also costs them the life of their captain.
There is no one protagonist, but rather an ensemble cast of characters, a core group of guys Linna has us follow as they head out into danger and death. As for me, I singled out a protagonist for myself—Koskela, a taciturn, down-to-earth guy who previously fought in the Winter War and knows how great a toll armed conflict can take.
The background information on Finland’s history and its questionable role in WWII is certainly helpful to understanding the troop’s movements and the motives behind their superiors’ decisions, but is not crucial to reading this novel. While this is a fictional account of the Continuation War Linna imbued with his own experiences, it focuses much more on ordinary people thrust into an unimaginable situation than it does on the political situation. The characters we meet along the way as we watch how firsthand experience of the war’s brutality shapes them—that’s the core of this narrative.
Linna gives each man a thorough description. It takes just a few paragraphs for us to learn who he is, what he looks like, where he comes from and what his political leanings may be. Some hate this inhumane situation they’ve been forced into, while others take a sadistic sort of pleasure in killing. Some are Nazi sympathisers, while others subscribe to Russian communism. Some swallow Finland’s propaganda of a noble death in a fight for the homeland, whereas others are aware of the discrepancies between fact and fiction.
As I already mentioned, Koskela is my favourite character to follow. “Quiet Koski”, the men have nicknamed him for his reticence. He knows that war is pointless and stupid, but pushes aside his disgust so as to do his job. Despite all his efforts to desensitise himself in order to be more effective, brutality—especially needless brutality—invariably stirs feelings of revulsion in him. Never is this more apparent than when the men have a POW situation on their hands.
Which brings me to Lehto, a needlessly cruel bully who dehumanises not only the enemy Finland’s facing, but also his fellow men-at-arms. A cynic who ridicules every instance of fear or vulnerability, Lehto comes across as the last person you’d ever want wielding a weapon. Yet, he’s also strangely sympathetic at the same time.
Riitaoja wears his fear on his sleeve, is a stutterer and frequently becomes unresponsive when bullets start to fly. He’s a bit childish, not in a bratty way, but an endearing one. I guess childlike would be a more fitting word. He also seems completely out of place in this setting, as if he isn’t quite aware of what’s going on, nor why he’s here. Yet, he also comes across as a bit too pathetic and even useless in crucial situations.
Then there’s Kariluoto. He’s highly idealistic and believes in the songs of old about disciplined soldiers who never show fear, never complain about their circumstances and are so fiercely patriotic that they let basic human needs fall by the wayside in pursuit of something bigger than themselves. Kariluoto dreams of a career in the military and is constantly thinking of what’s proper and honourable, which is why he takes the time to write to families of the fallen men.
It bothers him that neither he nor his men live up to this fantasy standard of a perfect Finnish soldier. He believes they should demonstrate more awe and reverence for the situation they’re in but, instead of belting out patriotic songs, his men turn to bawdy ones about girls. Kariluoto’s naïve idealism gets challenged at every turn and, in the end… Well, we all know enough about both history and fiction to know what war does to idealistic men. His entire character arc is essentially about fall from innocence.
The universally hated Lieutenant Lammio, the crazy, but endearing Rokka, the short-fused, but humane Hietanen, the crafty, fickle boaster Rahikainen… We get to meet all of them and we get to find out exactly what it is that makes them tick. Linna’s characterisation is just that good.
Regardless of the decisions Finland’s leadership made, it’s clear those decisions have nothing to do with the men on the ground. These are just ordinary fellows, following orders, hoping their efforts will somehow benefit their country. There are no good guys or bad guys, no villains or heroes, just a bunch of ordinary humans.
I really like their interactions with Russian POWs. They perfectly demonstrate how ridiculous this whole idea of allies and enemies is. The guys fighting for the other side are not monsters with fangs for teeth, but nearly identical in all the respects that matter to the core cast of characters. Salo’s empathy in particular is so touching. Out of all the men, he is perhaps the one who realises the most that the other side is comprised of humans just like him.
Then there’re the battle scenes. My Gods… I suppose we all already know that war is hell, but Linna makes you feel that on a visceral level. The reading would speed up in my head during these tense moments, my pulse would rush, I wouldn’t even blink for minutes and I would clearly hear the rata-tata-tata in my head. It is nothing short of miraculous that Linna manages to transport the reader there, smack in the middle of some chaotic battle where you can’t tell left from right, nor friend from foe. Chilling stuff.
The death scenes are particularly well written. I won’t spoil anything, but this is a war novel, so multiple characters’ deaths are only to be expected. Linna delivers these scenes in such an unassuming, almost casually conversational manner, yet the prose, for all its simplicity, is so freaking potent. Linna had me sympathising even with characters I’m not particularly fond of.
Their deaths in these unforgiving circumstances all come in a gruesome fashion. Some die as unsung heroes—the titular unknown soldiers—others as cowards or tragically unfulfilled figures. The deaths that hit the hardest are of those characters who still naïvely long for salvation, even actively expect it. But then it doesn’t come. And those last few terrifying moments cement that realisation. And then they die, in agony and terror. And I wince every single time as if physical movement will somehow erase the grotesque scene from my mind.
On and on it goes like that, for years, as these young boys mature to men in the harshest of ways. By the end, it becomes evident to nearly all of them that this is a war they can’t win. The closing chapters focus on Finland’s retreat and it is during this stretch particularly that the fighting intensifies even more and the men start dropping like flies, one after another. Some of the deaths would leave me reeling for hours, grappling with the fact that this is possible, that death can take you regardless of how righteous, charming, endearing or beautifully complex you are.
Aaand I’m done reading. Final annotation count: 117. My Gods… That’s roughly one per every four pages. Yup, that sounds about right. That’s how brilliantly amazing Linna’s prose is.
Reading these sixteen chapters, despite everything, was a joy. They were filled with misery, death, hunger, cold, loss, even humour and the odd stretch of respite and joviality. The narrative in no way, shape or form glorifies war, nor does it portray soldiers as unrealistically virtuous, patriotic or brave. On the contrary—Linna demonstrates how mind-bogglingly dumb and pointless the entire thing is, even when fought for seemingly noble and justifiable causes.
Linna’s characters are all real—men who yearn for home, for normalcy, who rebel against rigid army standards and continually butt heads with inept superiors. Their camaraderie and the bonds they created amongst themselves were both my favourite and least favourite part of the novel. Favourite because this novel begins and ends in the army, with leaves and the home front mentioned in passing, but never really shown, so these bonds in a way truly were all these guys had to rely on.
Least favourite because it’s gut-wrenching watching these characters constantly having to say goodbye to their friends as they hold their hands and try to convince them their wounds aren’t really all that serious. Then the friend dies and the rest make jokes about it, pretending it didn’t really mean anything. Just another guy, just another statistic. But then, every once in a while, one of the guys would wander off to the nearby woods on his own to sing, cry or scream his lungs out.
I kind of wish there was an epilogue of sorts, one last chapter to tell the readers what became of the handful of survivors and how they dealt with the trauma in the aftermath of the armistice, once they could actually afford the luxury of processing the emotional toll war had taken on them. I cannot even imagine the mental stress caused by the weight of that constant strain, when you’re in a position in which you always have to stay on your guard, perpetually conscious of the very real possibility that the next breath you draw might be your last. Nor do I want to.