DUE to the daylight raids, the hours before dawn were usually the safest travelling. When Harold Denny, Desmond Tighe and I started out from Rovienemi on a two-hundred-mile drive through the Arctic, we left at two o’clock in the morning. The temperature was thirty-two degrees below zero, which was considered a moderate day. I wore a ski-ing suit, a windbreaker, a sheepskin coat, eight sweaters, four pairs of socks, three mufflers, two pairs of gloves, and somehow survived. A mile and a half outside Rovienemi we passed a large white sign tacked to a tree. We flashed a light on it and saw, written in English, German, Swedish and Finnish: “Arctic Circle”.
When the Soviets slid over the world’s roof-top from the Petsamo port on the Arctic Ocean, they began the coldest war in history. Never before had war been waged so far north. Soon the icebound forests, scarcely inhabited save for herds of reindeer, rang with the sound of rifle bullets and the crackle of machine-gun fire. The Russians advanced sixty miles down the “Great Arctic Highway”, but in spite of repeated attempts to penetrate farther along the road—which swept down through Lapland to the centre of Finland—they were checked by Finnish patrols working in the deep forests through which the Highway was cut.
The Finnish front line was a series of patrol tents and machine-gun posts scattered through the woods. Every time the Russian mechanized columns tried to advance along the road, the Finns crept through the forests and cut their lines; sometimes blocking the icy road by knocking out a tank, sometimes laying mines and cutting off their supplies in the rear.
When the three of us started out from Rovienemi to visit this front, accompanied by Hugo Makinen—a Finnish Press officer—fellow journalists who had already made the trip told us we wouldn’t get much ‘copy’; the fighting had more or less come to a stalemate. Not to discourage us they added that the scenery was well worth observing and assured us we could all write very nice little pieces on Old Mother Nature. As it turned out, the trip was one of the most uncomfortable any of us had made. The Russians chose this particular moment to open up an intensive bombing attack on the Arctic High-way, to prevent Finnish reinforcements from reaching the front.
At first, things were quiet. We drove all night through desolate white forests, the Northern Lights making eerie patterns against the sky; for five hours we didn’t pass a single car or see any sign of life except for an occasional reindeer that ran across the roads startled by our headlights. As dawn was breaking we stopped at a farmhouse for breakfast.
The family consisted of a farmer and his wife, a little girl of ten, and two boys about fourteen. They lighted a fire, brought us coffee and rolls, then gave us an account of the bombings of the last few days. In the midst of the conversation the telephone rang, and one of the boys came back with the news that the morning raids had begun and three planes were now headed in our direction. (There were no sirens in the district and it was up to the operator to warn everyone.) There was a scramble for coats and the little girl, who seemed to regard it as a great joke, led us out of the house through the woods to a large pine tree. Underneath the branches was a small tent with four rugs inside.
A few minutes later we heard the sound of engines and three bombers appeared, flying fairly low. When the planes were over the house, one of them swooped down with a loud roar; there was a burst of explosives that sounded like a bunch of giant fire-crackers, followed by the staccato noise of machine-gun bullets. When the planes passed we ran back to the house to see what damage had been done and found that the bombs had landed in a field twenty or thirty yards away. A few seconds later a boy came ski-ing breathlessly up the road.
We discovered it was he and not the farmhouse that had been the target. He had forgotten his white coat and the Russians evidently had spotted him moving against the snow. They had dropped eighteen small bombs, then tried to machine-gun him. It seemed an extravagant gesture to say the least. Desmond commented dryly: “If that’s any indication of the lines along which Soviet economy is run, no wonder there are hungry people in Moscow.”
Although there was a large and comfortable inn at Ivalo some fifty or sixty miles away, ‘Mak’, our press officer, refused to travel along the road until dark. As brave as lions on the battlefield, the Finns were almost foolishly overcautious on the home front. When the air-raid sirens sounded, whether you liked it or not, you were pushed into a shelter. In Helsinki, the journalists wore special badges allowing them to move about, but on a trip you were at the mercy of your press officer. It seemed to us our chances were just as good one place as another, but we were unable to persuade ‘Mak’ of this, and didn’t continue our journey until late afternoon.
It was the most uncomfortable day I have ever spent, for the farmer was convinced the planes were after his house and would soon return to bomb it. Every time the telephone rang with a warning he insisted we take cover under the pine tree in the yard. We pleaded and argued, but it was of no avail—each time we were pushed out into the bitter cold. A good five hours crouched under a tree in the snow gave us a small idea of what life had become in Finland.
We finally reached Ivalo in time for dinner. It was a small road-junction village that had the distinction of being the most bombed spot in Finland; nearly four thousand bombs had been dropped on it, but most of them had landed in the fields and lakes and surprisingly few houses had been destroyed. The village was almost entirely evacuated, but the local store was still doing business; you could buy chocolates and raisins.
The inn where we dined was run for road-workers who were patrolling and repairing the highway. The atmosphere was like a huge lumber camp; half a dozen girls bent over large cauldrons helping with the cooking, while streams of men came stamping in from the cold, rubbing their hands and shaking the snow from their boots. Everyone ate in the kitchen because it was warmer nearer the stove, and we all sat down at table together for a dinner of reindeer steak, boiled potatoes and milk.
Just as we were ready to leave there was an air-raid alarm. Harold, Desmond and I looked at each other and groaned. We urged Hugo to let us go on, anyway, but he shook his head stubbornly. A gong resounded through the inn, the girls put on their coats, picked up their blankets and led the way to the shelter. The shelter was made of logs buried deep beneath the snow. The temperature must have been forty degrees below zero, but Harold, Desmond and I seemed to be the only ones who minded, for the girls kept up a spirited flow of conversation as though they were out on a party. We sat there for over two hours, while we counted the thud of twenty-five bombs.
When the all-clear finally sounded, Hugo telephoned to army headquarters and asked what the situation was. He came back with a grave face and told us the Russians were bombing the road all the way up to the front. We didn’t know it then, but the Russians were preparing a new offensive; the Arctic Highway was the only road over which supplies could be sent to the Finnish soldiers, and this was the beginning of a desperate attempt to cut them off. ‘Mak’ wanted to turn back, but we begged him to go on. Not that any of us were particularly brave, but, after driving a hundred and fifty miles and suffering hours of boredom and cold, to return to Rovienemi without a story seemed unthinkable.
We finally got our way, and the drive was not a pleasant one. To begin with, although ‘Mak’ was more than particular where air-raid shelters were concerned, he allowed the chauffeur to drive with his headlights full on. As ours appeared to be the only lights in the entire Arctic forest, it seemed likely they would be noticed. With the engine running and the windows closed, it was impossible to hear the sound of aeroplanes, so we had to stop every few miles, get out of the car, and listen. We passed through an isolated stretch of woods, and as we neared a farmhouse a group of men stepped into the path of our lights and waved us frantically to stop. One of them told us another alarm had sounded and the bombers were near. We decided to take cover in a field as soon as we heard the engines, and began walking up the road to keep warm.
It was a strange night, with the stillness of the forest broken only by the low sound of men’s voices, with the snow-covered pine-trees taking queer shapes in the darkness, and the Northern Lights playing across the sky like gigantic searchlights. I was looking at the sky when suddenly I noticed the largest star I had ever seen. I thought it was a peculiarity of the Arctic until a second one appeared. One of the men ran up and told us the Russians were dropping parachute flares to illuminate the countryside. Nowadays, when London is bombed, there are dozens of flares in the sky, but these were the first any of us had seen; moving slowly earthwards, with a terrible beauty that lighted the way for destruction, they seemed almost uncanny. The farmhouse telephone rang, warning us the planes were headed in our direction. There was no shelter, so a sentry led us across the road to a small bridge two feet above the frozen lake and told us to crawl under. First I went, then Desmond, then Harold, then half a dozen Finns.
Desmond’s last assignment had been in Egypt. “If anyone had prophesied two months ago I’d soon be lying on the ice in the middle of the Arctic Circle,” he gasped, “I would have told them to have their heads examined.” All Harold could say: “My God, and we’re paid to have brains!” Fortunately, we didn’t have to stay there long, for the roar of motors grew loud, then soft again, as the planes headed eastwards. We crawled out and saw one of them, fully lighted, moving across the sky—a bitter testimony to Finland’s lack of anti-aircraft guns.
We didn’t arrive at the front-line sector until the early hours of the morning. A sentry was waiting for us in the road. We parked the car and walked to a shack some way in the woods. Inside were half a dozen officers sitting round a table. They were all over six foot tall, rangers who’d spent most of their lives in the forest. The Major apologized for the delays we’d had in arriving and ‘Mak’ translated his remark: “When we get some anti-aircraft guns we’ll promise to keep the Highway clear.”
The shack was warm and comfortable, but the doors and walls were drilled with bullet-holes where the Russian planes had machine-gunned it. As we were warming ourselves by the fire a woman suddenly appeared from the next room with a pot of coffee and some rolls. She was a middle-aged woman, a placid, motherly type. Ordinarily she worked in a shop in Helsinki, but when the war broke out had joined up with lottas volunteering for service in Petsamo. She had the distinction of being the only woman serving at the northernmost post. We asked if she didn’t get frightened when the planes machine-gunned the house, and the men laughed and said she was the calmest of the lot. Then the Major told us in an off-hand voice he would be unable to take us any farther up the line as the Russians had attacked with two companies at eight o’clock and the battle was still going on about a mile away.
“Where are they headed?” I asked nervously.
“This way. But don’t worry, they won’t get through.”
Thank God, I thought, I’m covering this war from the Finnish side. I strained my ears for the sound of rifle fire, but could hear nothing. I pictured the Finns slipping in and out of the trees, then the sudden flash of knives, and wondered how many grotesque corpses the morning light would find. The dark, lonely forest seemed terrifying enough from the inside of a shack, and I pitied the poor creatures at the mercy of the stealthy huntsmen.
We learned that only eight hundred Finns had stemmed the whole Russian Army in this neighbourhood. The Major told us that aeroplanes provided the greatest problem, but added that he had an expert machine-gunner who had already shot down three. He showed us a brief-case belonging to a Russian pilot. Inside was a copy of Pravda, a few charts and a card with an elementary multiplication printed on it.
Harold asked if the Russians had learned to ski yet and the Major hesitated. “Well. When they’re really in a hurry they take off their skis and run.” Everyone laughed, for there was nothing the Finns enjoyed more than jokes at the Russians’ expense.
It seemed strange to be sitting sipping coffee while a life-and-death struggle was going on only a mile away. Before we left the telephone rang with a message to say it was over and the Russians had been driven back. The Major put on his coat, strapped on a rifle and disappeared into the night. On our way down the road a large white ambulance came racing past us and we wondered what the casualties had been.
We spent the next day at a lumber camp a few miles behind the front, which ‘Mak’ declared was the safest spot in Finland due to the deep shelters. One of the lumbermen’s wives offered to give us coffee, but the alerts sounded so continuously from dawn till noon she never had the time to prepare it. We protested to the camp manager, asking him if it were necessary to take cover at every warning, and he replied: “Indeed it is. The place is packed with dynamite. If a single bomb drops, the whole camp is likely to go up.” ‘Mak’ looked startled, but made no comment.
We left for Rovienemi at dusk and the trip was uneventful save for a final incident. Some miles from Ivalo we heard a wild rumour the Russians had dropped a parachute squad in the vicinity and were warned to be on the look-out for them. At that time no one took the idea of parachute troops seriously; nevertheless, driving through a particularly deserted stretch of forest, it was difficult to dismiss it completely. Suddenly we turned a bend in the road and saw a man standing in the path of our lights. He was wearing a white suit and a white helmet. He waved us to stop and the chauffeur drew his pistol, got out of the car, and advanced cautiously.
I needn’t say it was a relief to find he was only a Swedish volunteer with a motor-cycle that had run out of petrol—if you can imagine running out of petrol in the middle of the Arctic.
We siphoned some off into a bottle and waved good-bye.
* * *
Rovienemi had been badly bombed in our absence. The main street was a mass of charred timber where the wooden houses had burned to the ground, but the principal objective, the bridge across the Kemi river, was still intact.
The proprietor of the Hotel Pohanjovi, where the journalists were staying, was badly shaken by the experience. As the Russian bombers had a habit of coming back to the same spot for several days running, he refused to allow anyone to remain in the hotel during the daylight hours. In spite of a good many protests, we were pushed out at eight-thirty in the morning and instructed not to come back until three. In peace-time Rovienemi was a winter sports centre and a few miles from the hotel there was a very good ski-run and a large pavilion where we could get coffee and sandwiches. There was also a shooting range, and once we held a competition.
As we represented half a dozen different nationalities, we paired off in teams and made it a small Olympic Games: England, France, Finland, Sweden, America, Germany. The Finns won, and I am ashamed to say I let Walter Kerr down so badly America got the booby prize. Herbert Uxkull, a Baltic German, who worked for the United Press, turned to Eddie Ward and said in a melancholy voice:
“I suppose you and I really ought to be shooting each other.”
“Good God, why?”
“The war.”
“The war? Oh, you mean the other war! Come to think of it, I suppose we should. Extraordinary how one forgets.”
Extraordinary, I thought, what a mad world it is: that was the only time I heard “the other war” mentioned. In fact, it was difficult enough to think about the one at hand when you went down the ski-run with the sky above you a warm thick blue and the sun sparkling on the snow. The only thing to remind you of it was the odd experience of weaving in and out of the machine-gun emplacements scattered through the woods.
I use the word ‘weave’ fancifully, for if I did a quarter of the run on my feet I was lucky—or, in fact, if I got to my feet at all. Once down, I usually stayed down until someone came to my rescue. A young Finnish army lieutenant took pity on me and made a practice of following me down the run to lend a helping hand. Each time I floundered in the snow he pulled me up, saying: “There, there, I’m sure you’ll do better next time.”
I never did, and on the occasion I needed him the most he wasn’t there. One day Herbert Uxkull, Eddie Ward and I were ski-ing across the frozen Kemi river on our way back to the hotel. The river was pitted with bomb-holes where the Russians had missed their aim at the bridge, and as we were in the middle of it the air-raid sirens sounded. We hurried for cover. I tried to kick off my skis, but could only unfasten one. I heard the roar of engines; Eddie and Herbert shouted at me from the top of the bank, but I promptly fell down and got so tangled up I couldn’t move at all.
“For God’s sake,” shouted Eddie, “can’t you cut out the acrobatics?” He came running down the bank, unfastened my ski and pulled me up. The sound of the planes was louder and the three of us crawled into a flimsy bathing-hut waiting for a shower of bombs. Three planes came roaring overhead only five hundred feet from the ground, but to our astonishment we saw they were Finnish fighters—British Gloster Gladiators flown by Swedish pilots. They were the only fighters I saw the whole time I was in Finland; soon the all-clear was resounding triumphantly through the town.
* * *
The Russians with their relentless and continuous air attacks were evidently trying to copy the methods the Germans had used against the Poles. When the Germans attacked Poland they had every objective in the country mapped out; the objectives included railroad junctions, roads, bridges, telegraph communications, radio stations, telephone buildings, and power plants. After forty-eight hours of accurate and intensive bombing they had broken the communications from one end of the country to the other and paralysed the operations of the enemy.
In Finland the Russians scored no such great success; after two months of bombing, the trains were still running, the roads were still intact, and although I drove many miles about the country, I never saw a bridge that had received a direct hit. This did not mean that the Russians always missed their objectives. They hit many roads and railroad tracks, but the Finns, in spite of the need for every able-bodied man in the army, realized the importance of keeping their communications open. Fast-working road patrols were organized to repair damage as soon as it had taken place. The thick layers of ice on the roads prevented bombs from doing any great damage, and the small craters could be quickly filled in with snow. As for the railroads, most tracks are built in sections, and it was estimated that a hundred men could repair thirty miles of track a day. Although train journeys took from four to five times the normal time, all through the war you could travel to any point in Finland by train—and well-heated ones at that. This meant that the distribution of food was possible and even out-of-the-way villages were well stocked with meat, potatoes, bread, butter and milk.
In spite of the heavy raids few lives were lost. Day after day there were anywhere from five to eight hundred planes over the country, yet the casualty lists each night numbered no more than thirty or forty people. This was due first to the fact that three-quarters of Finland was composed of forests and lakes and the houses were widely scattered; and, secondly, that people obeyed the warnings and always took refuge in shelters.
The damage done to property, however, was far greater than I had seen after two years of war in Spain. Most of the Finnish houses were wooden houses that burned to the ground when they were hit by incendiary bombs. The Russians claimed they were bombing only military objectives, but the words stretched a long way. Military objectives were no longer limited to munition factories, airfields and troop concentrations, but appeared to include the entire communications of the country. Scarcely a town or village could consider itself immune. For example, the Russians didn’t confine themselves to railroad junctions, but claimed that even the railroad lines running through the country villages were legitimate objectives. When a village was wiped out by bombs wide of their mark, it still came under the heading of military operations.
So many hospitals were hit that the red crosses were removed from the roofs. A story went round (I never learned whether or not it was true) that when one of the Russian pilots was questioned as to why he had bombed a hospital he replied that his commanding officer had instructed him to go to a certain town and had marked the objective on his map with a red cross. He had taken it literally.