AH Vignette: The Northern Front
In the mind of Captain Laxén, days were starting to fuse into each other. It had now been several days since he had last been able to get any actual sleep. The enemy attack was just not letting up, and Laxén's battalion was continually bitterly engaged with the attacker, who kept pouring seemingly inexhaustible resources into their attempts to break the front on this sector.
Laxén stepped outside of the makeshift bunker, and light poured into his head. Illuminated by the luminosity of the bright winter's sun, the captain stood there a while, trying to get his bearings. His breath steamed in the freezing air, and only now Laxén remembered to lower his head in case enemy snipers were scouting that part of the defenders' trench running between the few bunkers and command posts that had been constructed along the line.
Around the captain, sporadic gunfire could be heard, in the distance he could also spot the unmistakable tearing sound of a machine gun.
One of ours.
There was a lull in the battle.
Laxén turned around to face his messenger, a young corporal who likewise stood there in a hunched posture, the cold air pinching the skin on his face.
”Corporal”, he said absentmindedly, ”run up to the second company's command post and tell Lieutenant Hoffren to join me at Draken. We need to go through our notes about the recent enemy action for my report to Division... And corporal...”
He went quiet, for a while, like contemplating something. The young man was waiting.
”Ahem, captain?”, he finally asked.
Laxén was roused from his thoughts.
”...And keep your head down, please. The last thing we need are unnecessary losses due to stupidity.”
The man saluted Laxén quickly and vanished behind the corner of the connecting trench.
The captain himself made his way towards Draken, the battalion's command post, cursing the everpresent cold all around him. As luck would have it, it probably was the coldest winter in living memory. To fight a war in such conditions... Happily, though, the cold seemed to pose a bigger problem for the enemy than for the defenders.
They are not people of the north, the captain thought yet again.
Laxén passed two riflemen, grimly scanning the terrain towards the enemy, with frozen, white fields and, here and there, collections of tree stumps where small patches of forest still used to stand before the fighting begun. The men acknowledged their commander with nods, the captain understanding that it was more important right now to stay vigilant and ready than to insist on parade-ground manners.
As Laxén was passing the men, one of them suddenly spoke out.
”Captain – aircraft!”
Now the deadly tired officer could also hear the slight drone of the engines. He fumbled for his small binoculars and raised the cold things to his eyes. After a moment of searching, he could see the approaching dots, in an elegant formation.
He knew what would be coming.
”Take cover, boys”, he said, when suddenly Lieutenant Hoffren was also there.
That was fast.
”What is it, captain?”, the younger officer asked.
”Dive bombers.”
”Shit.”
Laxén stared at the aircraft approaching high up, and when they started their dive, he could also hear the blood-curdling noise of the planes' sirens.
Stukas.
”Quick, to the bunker”, Hoffren shouted and half-dragged the captain towards the nearby Draken.
The men only got inside and closed the door when bombs started going off around them. The bunker shook, and soil and dust fell down from the ceiling. Covering their helmeted heads on the bunker floor, the two men waited for the attack to end.
In a few minutes it did. But Laxén was sure there would be another wave in no time. And soon, his messenger put his head in the door and shouted.
”Fighters!”
”So get in and take cover, you bloody fool!”, Hoffren shouted.
”They're ours, sir!”, the corporal retorted, with a sudden and unexpected smile.
The two officers clambered up and exited the bunker to see the rare air support.
And there it was. Four fighter aircraft had arrived to the scene, just like magic, and in pairs they were engaging the enemy.
Laxén tried to see what kind of aircraft they were, wiping soil from his tired eyes, and could not immediately place them. They were sort of stubby, and Laxén scanned their sides for the Air Force's markings.
Instead of the three yellow crowns on blue, he unexpectedly saw a blue swastika.
”Finns!”, Hoffren exclaimed as well.
And so they were. Sweden's allies made their appearance on the front, for the first time Captain Laxén could remember.
High up in the air, the four faster and nimbler aircraft worked murder among the dive bombers. The Swedish soldiers in the trench raised a ragged cheer as a German plane after another fell out of the sky in flames. The Germans had not expected Swedish air cover on this part of the front, and now got their comeuppance in the form of severe losses.
As the last surviving Stukas fled if they could, the Finnish pilots seemingly opted to abandon pursuit, waved their planes' wings to the men in the trenches, and turned around to take their planes back to Trollhättan for ammo replenishment.
Up in the cockpit of his Brewster fighter, Lieutenant Jorma Karhunen of the Finnish Air Force scanned the snowy countryside below him, seeing the trench line dividing the areas held by the Swedish Army and the German attackers on the Scanian front and smiled to himself. It was good to finally be able to contribute to the fight, and now he could already paint two Stuka outlines to his tail.
Somehow, Karhunen had the feeling there would be many more such outlines to come before the war was out.
Last edited:
