The lost weapon.

 

We heard explosions far away.

It was a dark and gloomy November morning. We had been up before sunrise and were served a reinforced breakfast, intended to last us all day without any more food until after sunset.

My entire platoon, all 40 of us, was riding on the open truck bed of a camouflage-painted Diesel truck. The driver was skillful, but we still got stuck in the mud, far from the nearest road, a couple of times. Then we had to get off, to lighten the load, and help push the truck forward to where the rear wheels could grip again.

It was scary. We heard more explosions in the distance.

We were a bunch of scrawny 16 – 17-year-olds. Most of us had come straight from the school-bench with a few exceptions, farmer’s sons. They had more muscles than most of us.

None on this truck bed had ever done anything like this before. Some had joined the voluntary militia at age 14, and received some training on how to shoot, and been on the odd overnight tenting-excursion, but only on warm summer nights. Nothing like this.

We were traveling on a special mission with live ammunition.

This morning, we had awoken in circular tents, 20 in each, with our feet touching and the head at the perimeter. The single tent pole, serving double duty as stove, had only heated our feet. They were cozy, the rest of the body was cold.

This was all different. We heard a machine gun rattling in the distance.

The Diesel engine, in front, roared at times, as the rear wheels were spinning. The progress was sporadic but we were, inexorably, moving towards where the explosions were, and now, machine gun fire was heard.

Our dark green military greatcoats were tightly wrapped around us all, as we sat on the flatbed of the truck. What a sight we must have been? A truck loaded with a bunch of green bags with only a helmet and two eyes to identify us as human beings.

I looked sideways at my best friend, Sven. He was a year older than I, as cold as all, and just as uncomfortable.

Our weapons were either tied to our harness, or held tightly, not to fall away or be damaged during any of the wild gyrations of our unstable mode of transportation.

The uniform harness front pockets were bulging with an extra supply of ammunition. This was going to be a day of serious action.

It was still semi dark. The truck following us had no lights on. Don’t waste energy on lights, the fuel is for getting us there, not to power unnecessary electrical loads. This truck, similar to ours, carried our fording boats and boxes and boxes of explosives. It had gotten stuck too, once, but was much harder to push out of the muck. It couldn’t be off-loaded and lightened.

We were getting closer to the sporadic firing and odd explosion.

The trucks were, eventually, parked in between some dark and wet fir-trees.

Time to unload.

Ooh, that hurt, standing up again after so much pummeling on the bumpy truck. My creaky bones sprung to action.

The second truck carried our most ingeniously designed fording boats. Each was made up from two identical half-boat pieces, attached to make a double ended boat.

They were heavy and hard to put together. It may have been simple in training, but we were cold, the moisture made everything slippery, and not every boat got the centre mounted rubber seal in the right place. They would leak, we knew, but probably not leak enough to cause any of the boats to sink during our short 50-metre river crossing.

There were some more explosions from across the river.

The boats were not very stable but would carry ten men at a time.

Sven and I were in the same boat. The centre seal leaked profusely. All ten of us paddled like crazy to get across before we sank. We didn’t quite make it. The water-laden boat drew too much draft and we had to jump into the near-freezing knee-deep water and walk ashore. Once there we could tip the boat, empty out the water and pull it ashore. Or, that was the idea.

During all of this, priority number one was, keep your weapon dry.

Poor Sven, he tripped and got wet all the way over the beltline of his uniform. That meant that he had to be super-cold for the rest of the day. Someone threw a greatcoat on the ground, and we put Sven down, and rolled him inside, to at least suck as much water out of his heavy winter-type woolen uniform as we could.

He looked better when he stood up again.

Our mission, once we had forded, was to attack up the hillside by the river, through a thicket of trees, then cross a front yard to a farmhouse. Once there, enter it and proceed to seek shelter in the basement, without using any stairs.

“Be aware that the house may be booby-trapped.”

We could still hear the odd explosion in the forest, and some single shots too.

All of us were by now cold and had waterlogged boots. Our weapons were tied to our harnesses in a hither dither way, as we carried the boxes with explosives and in separate boxes, the fuses.

The progress was slow. We made it all the way through the dense forest to the little meadow in front of the farmhouse. Nobody had shot at us, so far.

We were crawling, heads down, over the wet ground. There were several enemies visible in the windows. Our sergeant in charge signaled us to be silent.

Don’t make a sound.

Then, on command, we opened up with our 9 mm Karl Gustav model 45 submachine guns at the persons in the windows. None shot back. They all fell down and disappeared from view.

I had emptied the entire 36 bullet magazine of my gun and swiftly replaced it with a full one. The barrel was too hot to touch. Everyone around me put full magazines in too. The guns were put on the safety catch. We were all well trained on that score. Don’t shoot your friend by mistake.

We carefully approached the house, crawling across the yard.

One must always suspect that the doors and windows are booby-trapped. We used our best demolition skills and blasted our way in. First, we blew a hole in the outer wall and crept in. Our enemies were all lying still on the floor. None moved. Then, systematically, we blew our way into all the other rooms in the house, including the kitchen cold storage. Once in, we were met with chaos, as the preserves in glass containers had shattered, spreading preserved cabbage and mustard everywhere. Johnny, one of the boys in my platoon, cut his hand on a piece of glass. He was the first casualty for the day. A medic was summoned.

They met outside and the blood flow was stilled under an impressive-looking bandage.

Our ears were aching from the explosions, all observed from a safe distance, of course.

Next, how to get down to the basement?

Someone made the wrong choice in the setting. Just about the entire inside of the house collapsed when an excessive amount of floor-mounted explosives were set off. We cleared the room from debris, rigged a rope, and the first soldier was hoisted down.

The sun was invisible above the grey skies, but we could feel that we were nearing the end of the day.

End of mission.

Our day of live ammunition exercise had ended.

Only one recruit had been injured, Johnny. He had a cut in his hand.

The forest got eerily quiet all around us. The other platoons, which had practiced explosion-management and machine gun firing at the nearby firing range, were done too.

We all lined up in the yard in front of the, by now, very sad-looking long-abandoned farmhouse.

“You did well, my boys”, said Lieutenant Hermansson.

He was, as usual, in his perfectly pressed uniform. The two lieutenant’s stars on each of his shoulder lapels were, as always, newly polished and the only light spots on this cold, gloomy, and humid day.

His 1954 model year, always newly washed Ford Prefect officer’s car, painted in camouflage green, was parked in the driveway some 100 metres away. 

Our two trucks had been moved to the same driveway.

Time to wrap up.

That was hard work. Our young bodies suffered from a full day in wet boots, without food, and for Sven, in wet uniform pants.

First, we had to carefully collect the cardboard ‘enemy’ figures that had stood in the windows and doorways. They were full of holes that we put tape over. The spring-charged fall-down-trigger mechanism was reset, and all had to be put in protective bags, ready for the next live ammunition exercise.

No explosives could be returned to storage, once taken out. The unused explosives were put in one impressive-looking pile some distance away. Only one detonator was used to set it off. It was connected with about 150 m of explosive fuse that ran at 7 600 m/sec. It was, in reality, a narrow bead of explosive too.

We had to lie down, far away, to watch. The explosion was impressive, and made one huge hole, at least three metres in diameter and a metre deep. Some pine needles blew off the nearby trees. Otherwise, all looked the same. Sound, alone, leaves no lasting impression.

The boats had to be separated into their original two pieces, stacked, and put back on the truck bed. It was harder to lift the boats up on the truck than to slide them down earlier.

This is when Sven lost his weapon, his bayonet.

Finally, Lieutenant Hermansson bade goodbye,

“See you at the regiment,”

… and fired up his officer’s car. His uniform was dry and clean.  The cloth seats didn’t get sullied.

The truck ride back to the regiment was not as bumpy. We rode on regular roads all the way.

As soon as the trucks, carrying the four platoons in our company, were back it was inspection time. We, hungry, wet, cold, and truly miserable by now, had to stand in perfect regimental order for an inspection. Johnny, with a large bandage on his hand, stood there too.

He was singled out and told:

“You did well but stay away from broken glass in the future.”

The medic, with his wetted first-aid bundle, was complimented as well.

“You stayed near the fighting boys. That is where a medic should be.”

Then, a catastrophic event:

Sven had tried to cover his empty bayonet holder with his jacket, but the officer still noticed that something was missing.

“Where is your weapon, Soldier 925 Rosenqvist?”

He had lost his bayonet, the one for our 6.5 mm Mauser model 1896 rifle.

It was dark by now. This is terrible. After dismissal, some in our platoon gathered around and asked:

“When did you see it last, Sven?”

“When we loaded the boats.”

We changed clothes and went to dinner. It was late. The kitchen supervisor, a gruff lady, was not pleased.

“Why can’t you boys ever finish your exercises on time? You were supposed to be here at 18:00. Do you realize that I now have to pay overtime for the kitchen staff?”

It had been a good day with plenty of interesting stories to share.

Sven was deeply troubled. To lose a weapon would mean that he not only had to pay for it, but also risked time in the slammer, the regimental jail.

My Italian-made Parilla scooter may not have had the best light in the world, but it worked.

“Sven, let’s go back and see if we can find it.”

We had to return by 22:00, or our troubles would be unfathomable.

I drove fast. It was only a few kilometres to the riverside. Once there, I puttered my scooter around, on idle, and shone the light everywhere. Then I left it, still running with the light on, as Sven and I scoured the ground with our military issue map-reading lights until the batteries gave out.

No bayonet.

We barely made it back a minute before 22:00, as the guard on duty prepared to close the barrier to the only entrance to the regimental grounds.

That was a close call.

No bayonet, though.

Military justice is swift and immutable.

One week later, the military court assembled. The entire regiment was seated in the gym. It had seats put up for the 1 000 young soldiers there that year of 1957.

Sven Rosenqvist was called to the stand.

“Did you lose a weapon?”

“Yes sir.”

“That will be punished by seven nights in the regimental jail. On workdays, you report to jail at 18:00 and will be released at 06:00 the next morning. Saturday and Sunday will be served in the jail.

The value of the weapon will be deducted from your pay.” (Four weeks worth.)

Sven went to jail at 18:00. As it happened, our company was on guard duty that Saturday. Sven was liked by many. We gave him cigarettes to smoke in his cell. No other favours could be offered.

The commanding officer came for inspection once. Someone saw him crossing the exercise grounds.

No smoking allowed.

The off-duty crowd opened all doors and windows to vent the tobacco smoke. It was a minus 20 Celsius day, and the whole guard house was freezing cold by the time the officer entered.

“It’s cold in here.”

“We are practicing for being outside, sir.”

“Carry on.”

A few weeks later, Sven was called to the commanding officer.

“Your bayonet has been found. It was wedged into the locking mechanism in one of the fording boats. It has been identified as yours by the serial number.

You will receive a credit for what was deducted from your pay.”

Sure enough, on the next payday, Sven received five times the normal amount.

We, all ten of us in our group, went to a bar, one that isn’t all that particular about age, etc. We all got drunk, or at least very happy. Still, all walked straight enough to make it through the guard house before 22:00 that night.

Sven, eventually, gave up smoking, became an officer in the Swedish army, and retired as a Colonel about 35 years later.

I left the army, a lot wiser, after my mandatory two years. I have never touched a gun or anything explosive since. I retired after a 40-year career as a mechanical engineer.

Sven and I, both over 80 now, are still friends.