Chapter 1 #3
"That's you, shithead." Kalni??'s gravelly voice carried from behind them.
And then, turning back to Jakob, added, "Just good Swedish training, eh?
" A chorus of good-natured groans rose from the squad.
The Latvian sergeant had been needling them all afternoon about candy-ass Swedish precision versus true Finnish grit, playing up the rivalry that simmered between the volunteers.
They claimed a spot at one of the long tables, boots scraping against the worn floorboards as they settled in.
Jakob found himself wedged between Bergstrom and a lanky volunteer whose name he hadn't caught yet.
The lieutenant's elbow knocked against his as they tore into the dark rye bread, sending drops of soup spattering across the scarred wood.
"Watch it, asshole " Holmgren called out, protecting his bowl with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.
"Some of us want to eat our soup, not wear it.
" The table erupted in laughter, and Jakob felt something loosen in his chest. The familiar banter reminded him of meals at Riddarhuset, though the faces were different and the language far filthier.
His spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl as rifle fire echoed in the distance from the range.
Steam rose from his bowl as Holmgren launched into a story about his last leave in Helsinki, gesturing with his spoon and nearly clipping the private next to him. The men leaned in, already grinning at what promised to be another of the Corporal's infamous tales.
Jakob tore off another chunk of the dense rye bread, using it to soak up the broth. His muscles ached from the afternoon's drills, but it was a good ache – the kind that meant he'd achieved something, even if it was something small.
"Speaking of Helsinki," Bergstrom cut in, setting down his spoon with a decisive clink. "Had to get new winter shit last month. Fucking shopkeeper tried bending me over for double on boots." He smirked, scanning the table. "Had to Jew him down just to get a fair price."
The bread turned to ash in Jakob's mouth. His spine stiffened, though he kept his face carefully neutral. The old familiar weight settled in his chest – the choice between speaking up and staying safe, between pride and survival.
Around him, conversation continued unabated. Kalni?? asked about the quality of the boots. Someone else complained about supply shortages. The moment stretched like a tripwire, waiting for his next step.
His mother's voice echoed in his head: "Choose your battles wisely, Yasha." But he thought of her bent over other people's laundry, of the shopkeepers who'd turned them away, of the whispers that followed them through Uppsala's streets.
"Funny thing about prices," Jakob said quietly, his voice cutting through the chatter. He kept his tone light, almost conversational, "They don't have much to do with religion, just profit." He shrugged, smiling, trying to look affable.
The lieutenant's fork paused halfway to his mouth. Something flickered across his face – recognition, perhaps, or embarrassment. The silence that followed felt thick enough to cut with a knife.
Holmgren cleared his throat and launched into another story, this one about a disastrous attempt to requisition supplies in Lapland. But Jakob caught the way Bergstrom's shoulders hunched slightly, the way he studied his soup with newfound intensity.
The moment passed, and the men all tucked into their soup, their mouths too busy for idle chatter.
Later, once the meal had been finished, they lingered around the table with tin cups of coffee, clinging to the warmth of the stove and the gathered bodies before trudging back to their chill and uninsulated barracks.
The coffee tasted bitter and burnt, but Jakob wrapped his hands around the tin cup anyway, letting the warmth seep into his fingers as the mess hall slowly emptied around them.
"So, Swedish pretty boy," Virtanen leaned forward, scratching his balls through his pants.
"What made you drag your pampered ass to Finland instead of staying safe at home fucking every milkmaid in Sweden?
" Steam curled from his cup of their poor excuse for coffee, mixing with the stale cigarette stench that followed him like a second skin.
Jakob took a careful sip, buying time to frame his answer. "Sweden's neutral, but that doesn't mean we all have to sit on our asses." The words felt rehearsed, even to his own ears, but they were safe.
"Must be shit back home," Kalni?? grunted, his calculating green eyes studying Jakob over the rim of his cup. "With Crown Prince Karl Fredrick suddenly sucking seaweed. Fucked up way to go, that accident."
The coffee scalded Jakob's tongue as he swallowed too quickly.
He forced his features to remain neutral, though his heart hammered against his ribs.
"Yeah, fucked up," he managed. Jakob swallowed hard, fighting the ever-present aching need to be at home with Hal, where he could offer whatever support or comfort he could.
"The new Crown Prince seems..." Virtanen waved his hand vaguely, searching for words. "Kinda soft in the middle."
Jakob's fingers tightened around his cup.
He wanted to defend Hal, to tell them about his quiet strength, his brilliant mind, the way he could quote Sun Tzu and Clausewitz from memory.
Instead, he shrugged. "I was at the academy with him.
Prince Harald's got his head in books, but he's smart as hell. "
"Shit timing to switch horses," Kalni?? observed, spitting on the floor near his boot. "With the whole fucking world going to hell." He jerked his chin toward the distant sound of artillery practice.
The coffee had gone cold in Jakob's cup, but he kept his hands wrapped around it anyway, anchoring himself to its solid presence.
"Sweden'll manage," he said carefully. "We always have.
" He thought of Hal and his face on their last night together, pale and determined as he sealed the letter Jakob into the literal fire to protect him from the might of the Swedish crown.
"And our Crown Prince knows what the fuck he's doing. "
"Speaking of fucking doing," Virtanen stretched and stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Early wake-up tomorrow. Move your asses." The others began to rise, and Jakob let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, grateful for the conversation's end.
November 15, 1939
Mikkeli, Finland
Your Royal Highness,
I trust this letter finds you well. The journey from Stockholm proved uneventful, though the Baltic in winter offers its own particular breed of excitement.
I confess I found myself thinking of our discussions about winter strategy during the crossing—your insights regarding the challenges of winter navigation were, as always, remarkably prescient.
I have been assigned to a specialized unit under Commander Erik Tamm.
The posting is... unconventional, but I believe it will provide valuable experience.
Today, I had the opportunity to demonstrate some of the marksmanship skills you so patiently helped me refine during our practice sessions at Riddarhuset.
I find myself grateful for those hours spent at the range, though I doubt you would approve of some of the modifications these veterans make to their weapons.
The Finnish winter is as fierce as promised, though the cold here feels different from Stockholm's—sharper, more demanding.
It reminds me of childhood winters, though I try not to dwell on such memories.
The pine forests here would capture your interest, Your Highness.
They hold the same solemn dignity as those passages of Tennyson you once shared with me.
I remain, as ever, your most faithful servant,
Jakob Eliasberg
Private, Volunteer Corps
Finnish Army