Chapter 1 #2
Jakob shook his hand, noting the calluses and firm grip.
"Commander Tamm is out on patrol. Won't be back for an hour." Kalnins glanced over his shoulder. "Virtanen! Go find the Commander. Tell him we have a new recruit."
A stocky man with a shock of sandy hair nodded from across the room, setting down what looked like a half-disassembled field radio. "Sure thing. I needed to stretch my legs anyway." His accent carried hints of American English as he grabbed his coat and squeezed past them.
Kalnins stepped aside. "Come in. No sense waiting outside."
Jakob entered what could only very generously be called a barracks.
The space had clearly been repurposed—old hooks still protruded from ceiling beams, and patches of different-colored wood revealed where walls had been removed.
The scent of pine tar and gun oil hung in the air, mingling with coffee and woodsmoke.
At the center of the room, two men hunched over a table covered with equipment, their argument filling the space.
"The manual clearly states—" began an older man with and a meticulously trimmed mustache, jabbing his finger at a disassembled rifle.
"The manual was written by some dickhole who's never had to use this piece of shit in minus thirty," interrupted his companion, a broad-shouldered man with graying blond hair and weathered hands. "Sand the firing pin like this, and it won't freeze up."
"And when it misfires and blows your hand off, Holmgren? What then?"
"Been modifying these for fifteen years, Bergstrom. Still have all my fingers, don't I?"
Neither man acknowledged Jakob's presence as Kalnins guided him further into the room.
Kalnins jerked a thumb toward a wooden bench near the wall. "Sit. Commander will be back soon enough."
Jakob nodded and lowered himself onto the bench, which creaked ominously under his weight.
The room buzzed with a strange comfortable — these men didn't have the rigid discipline and hierarchy of the academy, but something more organic and unpredictable.
They moved around one another as Holmgren and Bergstrom continued their heated debate, oblivious to his presence, their hands comfortable and sure on the weapons.
"You're going to get someone killed with these modifications," Bergstrom insisted, his accent carrying the crisp edges of German-influenced Swedish.
Holmgren snorted. "Isn't that the point?" He assembled the rifle with practiced motions, his hands moving almost too fast to follow. "If you do it my way, it might be those Russki bastards who die and not us."
Jakob shifted on the bench, suddenly aware of how formal and alien he must look, dressed up in his academy uniform. The starched fabric must make him look stiff and artificial among these men in their worn, practical clothing. He resisted the urge to loosen his collar.
The door swung open, letting in a blast of cold air.
A lean man with salt and pepper hair, a neatly trimmed beard and weathered features stepped inside, removing his gloves with quick, efficient movements.
Commander Tamm, Jakob presumed. The room's energy shifted subtly—no one snapped to attention, but conversations paused, and eyes flickered toward the newcomer.
Tamm's gaze swept the room, passing over Jakob without acknowledgment before settling on Kalnins. He crossed to the Latvian, and the two men spoke in low voices, heads bent close together. Tamm nodded occasionally, his expression giving nothing away.
Jakob waited, back straight, hands resting on his knees. The seconds stretched into minutes. Finally, Tamm clapped Kalnins on the shoulder and turned, his sharp eyes finding Jakob.
He approached unhurriedly, studying Jakob with the same clinical detachment one might use to evaluate a piece of equipment. He stopped a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back.
Tamm studied Jakob carefully, his weathered face revealing nothing. The commander's gaze lingered on Jakob's academy uniform, taking in the pristine fabric and polished buttons with what seemed like mild amusement.
"So, you're the new odd duck that Mannerheim wants us to take on." Tamm's voice carried a hint of dry humor as if sharing a private joke with himself.
Jakob maintained his composure, meeting the commander's gaze directly. "Yes, sir."
Tamm circled him slowly, hands still clasped behind his back. "So. You shoot, Commander Mannerheim says. What else? What skills did they teach you at Riddarhuset that might be useful to us?"
The question seemed casual, but Jakob recognized it for what it was—a test. He straightened his shoulders.
"I'm trained in irregular tactics, sir. Nighttime operations, mountaineering, surviving in harsh conditions — cold weather specifically. I speak Russian and German fluently, but no Finnish."
"We'll have to work on that." Commander Tamm said. "But most of us here speak Swedish anyway. Russian, though… that could be useful." He rubs his beard thoughtfully. ""And tell me - have you ever worked with explosives? Or done any fieldcraft beyond the standard academy drills?"
"Limited experience with explosives, sir." Jakob admitted. "Basic demolitions course - setting charges, understanding blast radius. Nothing complex. My focus was on artillery." Jakob concluded, with a blush.
"Precious little of that on the front, but we make do with what we can.
" Tamm said, glancing around the barracks.
"But what I really want to know, Your Highness," Tamm continued, looking at Jakob directly with his icy gray-blue eyes "is how you handle yourself when things go wrong?
When the textbook answer isn't going to cut it? "
"I improvise, sir. I've been doing it since I was ten. You improvise, or you don't survive."
Tamm's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something close to approval. He exchanged a brief glance with Kalnins, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Tamm turned to address the room. "Gentlemen, meet our newest addition—Jakob Eliasberg from Riddarhuset Academy."
Jakob stood straight, acutely aware of the scrutiny from every corner of the barracks. The tension in his shoulders built as the silence stretched.
"Academy boy, meet your new family," Tamm continued, gesturing around the room. "You've already met Sergeant Kalnins. The argumentative pair are Lieutenant Bergstrom and Corporal Holmgren. The American-sounding one who fetched me is Corporal Virtanen."
Bergstrom gave a curt nod, his posture military-precise. Holmgren merely grunted, still focused on the rifle parts spread before him.
Virtanen stepped forward with an easy grin. "Welcome to the misfits, Private Eliasberg." His accent carried hints of the American Midwest beneath his Swedish. "Don't mind these two—they've been having the same argument since '36."
Tamm pointed toward a narrow cot in the corner. "That's yours. Stow your gear."
Jakob moved to the bunk, setting down his pack. The mattress was thin, the frame weathered, but it was his—a small territory in this unfamiliar landscape. Tamm and Bergstrom watched him, carefully, as he set down his bags.
"At least he won't need boots or a coat." Bergstrom said to Tamm. "I'm pretty sure I can rustle up a couple of tunics and a cap or two for him from supply."
"Do that." Tamm said. "Snow camo, too. I don't care who you have to bribe to get it." Tamm's gaze fell on the rifle case Jakob had brought. "Riddarhuset issue?"
"Yes, sir." Jakob reached for the case, unlatching it to reveal the Mauser M96.
"Academy standard," Bergstrom commented, interest flickering in his eyes.
Tamm lifted the rifle, examining it with practiced hands. "Well-maintained. You any good with it?"
Jakob hesitated, caught between modesty and honesty. "I qualified top of my class in marksmanship, sir."
A collective sound—something between amusement and skepticism—rippled through the room.
"Did you now?" Tamm handed the rifle back, his expression unreadable. "Gentlemen, I believe we need some fresh air. Grab your weapons."
Fifteen minutes later, they stood at the edge of a makeshift range behind the barracks. Wind whistled through the pines, carrying the scent of snow and resin. Targets stood at varying distances—some official military silhouettes, others improvised from scrap wood.
"Three shots each," Tamm instructed, nodding toward the farthest target. "Eliasberg first. Show us what Riddarhuset teaches these days."
Jakob chambered a round, aware of the veterans watching. He breathed in the cold air, letting his training take over. The rifle settled against his shoulder, familiar and solid.
Three shots cracked in quick succession. The distant target showed three holes, tightly grouped.
Holmgren gave a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned."
"Beginners luck," Bergstrom muttered, but his tone lacked conviction.
Tamm's face remained impassive, but Jakob caught the slight nod of approval. "Your turn, Kalnins. Let's see if the Latvian Army can match Riddarhuset."
The sharp scent of gun powder clung to Jakob's clothes as he shuffled through the mess line behind Kalnins, his fingers still tingling from the cold metal of his rifle.
Steam rose from the enormous pot of lohikeitto, the rich aroma of dill and salmon cutting through the perpetual cigarette haze that hung in the air.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since dawn.
"Did you assholes see Eliasberg's last grouping?
" Holmgren elbowed past two privates to catch up with Jakob.
"Three shots, nearly the same damn hole.
Like he made a deal with the devil." The stocky Corporal's face split into a grin as he held out his bowl for a ladle of soup.
"Or he's jerking off the rifle at night. "