Colonial Rebellion
Colonel Ragnar Nordström sat quietly on the wooden bench, his head bowed groggily down between his legs. His khaki uniform was scruffy, torn and dirty, and a single large commemorative medal was hanging by a thread on his tunic. The man himself looked bruised and battered, too, though not overtly so.
Nordström was in solitary confinement.
It was morning. The birds were singing up in the trees, and if Nordström peered out from the window, he would have seen that the morning would soon enough turn into a glorious July day.
The door opened with a creak, and a man in a guard's uniform stepped in. His comrade waited in the corridor outside.
”Come with me”, the man said. Nordström stood up. There was no point to overt insubordination at this time, he had decided. It'd only earn me a few extra blows from a truncheon, he thought, wincing slightly.
In the interrogation room, it was cold, unseasonably so. It was probably by design. Nordström almost shivered in his shorts.
A man in a suit entered, to be followed by another one. The first one put a manilla folder down on the table and sat down casually.
”Morning, colonel”, the bald man said, ”sleep well?”
Nordström smiled a thin smile at that. The agent surely knew that the wooden bench was too short for sleeping, and the stone floor too cold and hard.
”Oh, just get on with it, detective”, he said, his eyes just narrow slits.
The government agent looked at his partner and smiled a wider smile. He opened the folder.
”I have good news for you this morning, colonel”, he said.
”So the great powers have decided to reverse their African Diktat?”, the man in the khaki uniform asked, his eyes grim.
”Ha – wouldn't that be something? No, it's not that. I mean news with your case in particular. We are, you see, ready to end the interrogations here and now. Provided you just read the transcript so far and sign it to agree that everything's as it should be.”
Nordström cocked his head at the agent's change of tack.
”I'll do no such thing – you're not getting my signature on anything”, he said, directing a piercing look at the agent.
”Suit yourself, colonel. It would help your case a lot if you co-operated with us, just this little. You're charged with treason, either way. But the sentence itself is something that can be haggled over...”
The experienced soldier said nothing.
”Many of your lot have confessed to all of the charges, you know”, the agent forged on, ”and we're just about to wrap up the whole case with a nice little blue and white bow.”
He smiled again.
Nordström felt anger rising inside him. Towards the Finnish government, and towards its lackeys. Like the agent on the other side of the table.
”You know what's wrong with this country? You people are”, he said venomously.
”Me and Detective Rissanen here?”, the agent asked, raising his eyebrows, ”or do you mean the State Police in general?”
”No, it's not just you or the okhrana – I mean all of you who just meekly accept what Berlin tells us to do. All the way to the king, the biggest traitor of them all."
The colonel spat on the floor.
”That's for our good Kaarle”, the man said.
Like several of his comrades, Nordström was injured in the War for Ovamboland. He now walked with a limp due to an explosive bullet shot by a bloody Portuguese trooper. He had been lucky to keep his leg in the first place. In fact he had been lucky to even survive the primitive conditions in the field hospital.
But they had beaten the bloody porttos back, hadn't they? Over a long string of engagements, the few but proud men of the Finnish Army of Africa had prevailed over the Portuguese Army. With the help of their loyal Ovambo auxiliaries, a necessary help in the conditions where the war was fought in.
And what was won on the sandy plain south of the Kunene River was then lost at the negotiation table. In Hamburg, the Finnish Prime Minister signed away Ovamboland. A stroke of a pen wiped away all the blood lost in the three month war, like the waters of the rain season would.
Try as he might, Nordström could not forget looking at the buildings and piers of Port Finlandia, soon to be named something else, and the multitudes of Ovambo people along the shore, bidding farewell to the ships carrying Finnish soldiers and bureaucrats, merchants and teachers, and their families, in the pouring rain.
Some of them were Nordström's own ships, and they were packed to the gills with people who had made Finnish Ovamboland their home for over two decades.
”The coup was a really bad idea, colonel”, the agent said, interrupting Nordström's reminesces about Africa.
”I hope you can see that now. And I hope Wallenius can see it, too.”
Nordström felt his blood boil, and he could barely avoid jumping up and taking a swing at the smirking man.
”Putting an end to this gutless government was something that was needed to be done, after the damned "Treaty of Hamburg". We, the men of the Army of Africa, could not have lived with ourselves if we didn't even try it. I am sorry for you if you can't understand that. King Kaarle and and his lackey Paasikivi are running this country to the ground. Taking their orders from abroad and betraying the cause of Finland, they're a damn disgrace to the whole nation.”
The agent turned to his colleague.
”Just listen to him, would you? I don't know what it is with this lot, really. Loving the neekeris so much that they want to overthrow the legal government over losing a bit of sand and jungle in God knows where....”
That finally did it. Nordström jumped up from his chair and lunged at the agent.
”You worthless piece of shit! You're no man at all, Kekkonen!”, he shouted as tried to get a hold of the agent's neck.
What followed was not really a fight. The two experienced agents made quick work of the tired colonel, weakened by weeks of interrogations and severe lack of sleep.
When Colonel Ragnar Nordström came to, he found himself lying down. He was in a bed in an infirmary.
”He's awake”, he heard someone say.
Slowly focusing his eyes, Ragnar Nordström saw the figures of a white-clad nurse and a young brown-skinned man. Both looked at him with concern in their eyes.
The man was in an army uniform, and he stepped closer.
”Martti”, Nordström said, smiling now, ”son.”
”Tate”*, young Martti said in return, and took a hold of Nordström's held-out hand.
...
*"Father" in Oshiwambo
Colonel Ragnar Nordström sat quietly on the wooden bench, his head bowed groggily down between his legs. His khaki uniform was scruffy, torn and dirty, and a single large commemorative medal was hanging by a thread on his tunic. The man himself looked bruised and battered, too, though not overtly so.
Nordström was in solitary confinement.
It was morning. The birds were singing up in the trees, and if Nordström peered out from the window, he would have seen that the morning would soon enough turn into a glorious July day.
The door opened with a creak, and a man in a guard's uniform stepped in. His comrade waited in the corridor outside.
”Come with me”, the man said. Nordström stood up. There was no point to overt insubordination at this time, he had decided. It'd only earn me a few extra blows from a truncheon, he thought, wincing slightly.
In the interrogation room, it was cold, unseasonably so. It was probably by design. Nordström almost shivered in his shorts.
A man in a suit entered, to be followed by another one. The first one put a manilla folder down on the table and sat down casually.
”Morning, colonel”, the bald man said, ”sleep well?”
Nordström smiled a thin smile at that. The agent surely knew that the wooden bench was too short for sleeping, and the stone floor too cold and hard.
”Oh, just get on with it, detective”, he said, his eyes just narrow slits.
The government agent looked at his partner and smiled a wider smile. He opened the folder.
”I have good news for you this morning, colonel”, he said.
”So the great powers have decided to reverse their African Diktat?”, the man in the khaki uniform asked, his eyes grim.
”Ha – wouldn't that be something? No, it's not that. I mean news with your case in particular. We are, you see, ready to end the interrogations here and now. Provided you just read the transcript so far and sign it to agree that everything's as it should be.”
Nordström cocked his head at the agent's change of tack.
”I'll do no such thing – you're not getting my signature on anything”, he said, directing a piercing look at the agent.
”Suit yourself, colonel. It would help your case a lot if you co-operated with us, just this little. You're charged with treason, either way. But the sentence itself is something that can be haggled over...”
The experienced soldier said nothing.
”Many of your lot have confessed to all of the charges, you know”, the agent forged on, ”and we're just about to wrap up the whole case with a nice little blue and white bow.”
He smiled again.
Nordström felt anger rising inside him. Towards the Finnish government, and towards its lackeys. Like the agent on the other side of the table.
”You know what's wrong with this country? You people are”, he said venomously.
”Me and Detective Rissanen here?”, the agent asked, raising his eyebrows, ”or do you mean the State Police in general?”
”No, it's not just you or the okhrana – I mean all of you who just meekly accept what Berlin tells us to do. All the way to the king, the biggest traitor of them all."
The colonel spat on the floor.
”That's for our good Kaarle”, the man said.
Like several of his comrades, Nordström was injured in the War for Ovamboland. He now walked with a limp due to an explosive bullet shot by a bloody Portuguese trooper. He had been lucky to keep his leg in the first place. In fact he had been lucky to even survive the primitive conditions in the field hospital.
But they had beaten the bloody porttos back, hadn't they? Over a long string of engagements, the few but proud men of the Finnish Army of Africa had prevailed over the Portuguese Army. With the help of their loyal Ovambo auxiliaries, a necessary help in the conditions where the war was fought in.
And what was won on the sandy plain south of the Kunene River was then lost at the negotiation table. In Hamburg, the Finnish Prime Minister signed away Ovamboland. A stroke of a pen wiped away all the blood lost in the three month war, like the waters of the rain season would.
Try as he might, Nordström could not forget looking at the buildings and piers of Port Finlandia, soon to be named something else, and the multitudes of Ovambo people along the shore, bidding farewell to the ships carrying Finnish soldiers and bureaucrats, merchants and teachers, and their families, in the pouring rain.
Some of them were Nordström's own ships, and they were packed to the gills with people who had made Finnish Ovamboland their home for over two decades.
”The coup was a really bad idea, colonel”, the agent said, interrupting Nordström's reminesces about Africa.
”I hope you can see that now. And I hope Wallenius can see it, too.”
Nordström felt his blood boil, and he could barely avoid jumping up and taking a swing at the smirking man.
”Putting an end to this gutless government was something that was needed to be done, after the damned "Treaty of Hamburg". We, the men of the Army of Africa, could not have lived with ourselves if we didn't even try it. I am sorry for you if you can't understand that. King Kaarle and and his lackey Paasikivi are running this country to the ground. Taking their orders from abroad and betraying the cause of Finland, they're a damn disgrace to the whole nation.”
The agent turned to his colleague.
”Just listen to him, would you? I don't know what it is with this lot, really. Loving the neekeris so much that they want to overthrow the legal government over losing a bit of sand and jungle in God knows where....”
That finally did it. Nordström jumped up from his chair and lunged at the agent.
”You worthless piece of shit! You're no man at all, Kekkonen!”, he shouted as tried to get a hold of the agent's neck.
What followed was not really a fight. The two experienced agents made quick work of the tired colonel, weakened by weeks of interrogations and severe lack of sleep.
When Colonel Ragnar Nordström came to, he found himself lying down. He was in a bed in an infirmary.
”He's awake”, he heard someone say.
Slowly focusing his eyes, Ragnar Nordström saw the figures of a white-clad nurse and a young brown-skinned man. Both looked at him with concern in their eyes.
The man was in an army uniform, and he stepped closer.
”Martti”, Nordström said, smiling now, ”son.”
”Tate”*, young Martti said in return, and took a hold of Nordström's held-out hand.
...
*"Father" in Oshiwambo
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