25 July 1907, Tornea, Finnish Lapland
Stern duty had held a greater appeal to Lieutenant-Colonel Brede in the days before he had tasted small-town garrison life. Even in times of war, the pace of life – of existence – in a place like Tornea did not change much. For a brief, hectic period there had been reinforcements, troops scrambling to emplace field guns facing the port and fortifying the waterfront, before it had become clear that the Germans and Dutch would not land here. But of course – and that, too, was as fact of life for garrison officers – that had meant being pushed aside, meant bossy, arrogant officers closer to the centre of power taking over the show. Now General Alekseyev had withdrawn most of those troops south again, to catch the Germans in the flank and squeeze their supply lines. Brede had been left behind, with a choice selection of men that no better-connected, more Russian or more noble officer wanted. Of course, half the number would have been adequate to the duties the garrison had. There was not as much freight coming across the bridge to Haparanda these days, though the number of trains was still higher than in peacetime. Shipping had practically stopped – what sane captain would risk the German warships cruising the Baltic these days? So the men not engaged in checking papers or supplementing their pay with some kind of craft were mostly posted along the coastal roads to alert him if any of the Dutch Mariniers showed up.
For the lieutenant colonel, it meant a lot of paperwork and occasional rides to check the guardposts. That part of his duties was enjoyable, and he preferred not to leave it to his subordinates – extremely superannuated company-grade officers of no particular asmbition or distinction. He relished the scent and sound of the broad expanse of forest, so much like his native Estonia and yet so alien, the strange trongue of the locals Lapps and their quaint customs. Especially in the bright light of the midsummer sun that, at this time of the year, still barely set, it was as close to paradise as anywhere with so many mosquitoes could be. Smoking his pipe and pleasantly tired after his day's outing, Brede was heading through the main gate to headquarters when his clerk met him in the street, rushing headlong out of the building. A sentry stopped him. Good – that kind of behaviour was unbecoming. But so was the guard's hat! Brede squinted in the low, golden light to catch a clearer view of a cap with the brim upturned, a bit like a bush hat, when a man in an officer's uniform stepped in front of his horse and beckoned him to stop.
A Swedish officer's uniform.
Accompanied by Swedish soldiers.
Lieutenant Colonel Brede swallowed hard. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, half knowing the answer. Another military intelligence screwup. They had been told the border was secure.
“Good evening, colonel.” the officer said, firmly taking hold of the bridle as he spoke in formal Swedish. “My name is Captain Fredriks, of the Swedish army. I believe you may not yet have been apprised that a state of war exists between the Kingdom of Sweden and the Russian Empire. The courier sent to inform you was stopped by our cavalry along the coastal route. The town is under our control.”
Brede's shoulders slumped. For a brief moment he had envisioned drawing his revolver and shooting his way out of the trap, but what would the point be? There were guards posted in the barracks and no doubt elsewhere in town. No Russian troops were to be seen anywhere. With a heavy sigh, he dismounted and offered his sabre. Looking over his shoulder, he could see a train heading east across the bridge, another following. Swedish regiments pouring into northern Finland – the province almost denuded of troops in Alekseyev's grand pincer south. Damn all generals!