Smell is a powerful force. It has a magical ability to throw one back into their memories. Into their dreams. Into their nightmares. Tapio hated it.
For instance, the scent of the morning mist creeping through the trees brought up memories of home. Of hunting with his father. Of foraging with his young daughter. Of shivering in a crater in the spring of 1917.
When Tapio opened the old trunk, the scent that hit him did a similar thing. There was the heavy scent of leather, which brought to mind his first day being handed them at a staging area much like this. Some oil, which brought up hours spent polishing and waterproofing his kit during the war. There was some staleness, some mildew-esque unpleasantness. This reminded him of his return home after the war. His cabin was left empty. His home stale and dusty.
And metal. His nose brought him first to the top of the trunk. On top of folded wool and leather, his polished Spangenhelm sat waiting. He lifted it, marveling at its weight. It was cold to his touch. His calloused fingers picked up the scratches and dents over its polished surface. Turning it over, he could see the rugged liner, It's condition was worn and heavily used. Saying it survived the war would be borderline lying.
Setting it aside, he looked down into the trunk. Somewhere in here was his uniform. A greatcoat. Two pairs of pants. A jacket. Rolled neatly to the side were various leather belts and ammunition pouches making up his webbing he never expected to see again. And poking out underneath some folded leather was his sword. His soldier's sword in scabbard. He brought that out next.
It had felt like ages since he last set his eyes on it. Last he looked at this stuff, he was homeward bound. He was happy. The war was over...
The tent flap was cast aside. Tapio was brought back into his head, turning to his new visitor.
Oran Kristiansen was standing next to him, arms full of various leather belts and pouches.
"You aren't planning on going dressed as that, are you?" he grumbled.
Tapio shook his head, putting aside his sword.
"You must hurry, then," said Oran, "Or else you might as well fight in your undergarments."
Tapio smirked at the joke, but his heart sank at the memory of some of his comrades actually needing to defend themselves in undergarments. Or less. He shook the thought out, and grabbed hold of a stack of seal-leather clothing.
Seal leather liners were standard issue for Nordic Soldiers at the beginning of the Great War. While their neighbors in Rusviet, Saxony, and even Polania relied heavily on furs and wool to warm their troops, the Nordic Kingdom was famous for the use of waterproof seal leathers to help insulate and keep their troops dry.
This was extremely important for Nordic Soldiers, specifically, who were all trained in amphibious tactics deemed too risky for other Europan neighbors. The leather helped insulate the soldier from below zero waters, harsh icy-rain, and prolonged snow warfare.
The pants were more like chaps, and went over the underclothes. Tapio was sure to ensure they were tucked effectively into both of his combat boots. He secured the ties all up along both his thighs. Next was the tunic, which he slipped on over his head and began to secure.
He let out a short gasp when he yanked the ties tight, and was shocked to find his breathing restricted. He looked down, but had issues seeing the problem. Heading to a full standing mirror provided in the tent, he was shocked to see the ties not closing the tunic all the way. He had appeared to grow since last he wore this.
He frowned, looking very annoyed at his stomach. He had not been over indulging. He did not feel like he had.
"Ah, the survivor's gut," said Oran.
Tapio tried to hide his annoyed glare, but settled for not even looking in his direction.
"We are 19 no more, yes?" said Oran, who allowed himself an annoyed chuckle, "You know what I did? I actually had a custom one cut out when I got home. I never knew when I would be called on again and my old one... it was ragged. Got refitted."
"Do we have time for a refitting?" asked Tapio sarcastically.
"I very much doubt that," said Oran, "I would make due, do not make yourself a corset. Say a prayer we do not go for a swim, eh?"
Tapio growled his response, adjusting his ties for easier breathing.
Tapio was buttoning the shirt when his next visitor arrived, Oscar. Tapio's eyes fanned into flames.
"You, boy," he said, "What are you playing?"
"Playing?"
"You fool. Your place is here," said Tapio, "This will not be a game. There is a very good chance we will be engaging Rusviet troops in battle."
"I am aware," said Oscar, "I actually came to find you. The quartermaster is not approving my-"
"I forbid it," said Tapio, who pulled on his blue-grey pants over everything else, "You will thank me when you are alive to travel the world. You want no part of this."
Oscar huffed, visibly getting more upset. He looked to Oran, who widened his eyes and looked away. Oscar shook his head.
"I am sorry if I upset you, but I am afraid it is out of your hands," said Oscar, "I have already spoken to my superiors and Hersir Larson. They actually want a messenger on this trip. I am to follow up with the relief force when Hammakko is secured."
He swallowed, blinking frantically, "Or, retreat early and bring news of our failure should we be unable to secure Hammakko."
Tapio groaned, closing his eyes, "Unbelievable."
"Perhaps this will be good for the young man," said Oran, "Those eager for war should experience it. It will age his views as a cellar ages ales."
"Please, we both know it would be much better if they never experienced the war," said Tapio, "or this one. What was all that 'to end all wars' nonsense if our children-"
"Hey," interrupted Oscar, "I am not a child! I am 19. Barely a younger brother to you! You cannot be more than 40!"
Tapio sighed, "You have me there. I am 27."
Oran winced and groaned. Oscar blinked in surprise, averting his eyes. Tapio narrowed his gaze on them.
"What?" he asked.
"Perhaps the war did too good a job aging you," said Oran, "Colonel grump may have a point."
"Fine," spat Tapio, grabbing his leather webbing and beginning to assemble it in practiced motions, "Go if you like. But you will never be able to un-experience this mission. If you end up shooting yourself in the foot with that launcher don't come crying to me."
"You're impossible," Oscar turned to leave, but turned back to eye Tapio's things, "You aren't seriously going to wear that, are you?"
Tapio followed Oscar's gaze to his helmet sitting beside his trunk.
Tapio returned his attention to his webbing, "It is still a part of the Uniform, from what I can gather."
"What is wrong with the helmet?" asked Oran, "The helmet is protective. It strikes fear into our enemy."
Oscar shrugged, "It's a little old fashioned. You look ridiculous."
Oscar turned and walked out of the tent. Oran looked to Tapio, then took off his helmet and examined it. He shook his head and put his helmet back on.
"Maybe you were right," said Oran, "Perhaps he does need to be forged in the fires of war."
Tapio sighed again, "That was not what I meant."
Tapio arrived at the launch point just behind Oran. He was fully dressed now, with his webbing underneath his great coat, and his sword strapped in its proper place, his axe switched to the opposite way. Oran suggested he get outfitted with grenades and extra ammunition before they left, so he made his way to a quartermaster's truck that had parked not far off.
Tapio walked over to it and found Oscar arguing with the quartermaster.
"I told you, I'm assigned to a new unit now," said Oscar, "This was fun while it lasted but I require a more practical sub machine gun."
"And I told you, we're dolling out weapons all over the place," said the man, "I do not have any extra to assign to you, Private."
"But surely you can reassign this to someone," said Oscar, gesturing to the launcher on the table in front of him.
Tapio shook his head, but perked up when he saw Hersir Larson marching up to the truck.
"What seems to be the problem here?"
"Ah, Hersir," said Oscar, "I am attempting to trade in this cumbersome-"
"No, denied," she said, picking up the launcher and shoving it into Oscar's arms, "Thirteen rounds, if you would Staff Sergeant."
Oscar's eyes widened in fear, "P-Please, Hersir. I beg of you. I am truly not proficient with this weapon."
"Have you used it?" she asked, her arms crossing in front of her.
"I... well... not well," said Oscar, who turned to see Tapio, "T-Tapio. Would you inform the Hersir of how bad I am with this."
Hersir Larson shot Tapio an annoyed look. Tapio shrugged his shoulders.
"He may not be comfortable, but he has used it. Killed one of the invaders, too."
"One kill?" Larson looked skeptical.
"Only one, madam. Hersir!" Oscar stammered, "I would be much better off with... a submachine gun. Or a rifle."
"Understandable. How many kills have you with a sub?"
"I... uhh... none."
"And a rifle?"
"Uhm, Hersir-"
"How about a pistol? Sword?" Hersir Larson took a step forward, getting into Oscar's face, "Private, have you ever killed an enemy with any other weapon besides the one you are holding."
"It... I..." Oscar gulped, "It was just a leg!"
"Sounds to me like you have the most experience with that weapon, private," said Larson, smiling, "Lucky for you, I'm short heavy munitions on this mission. I'll need you in case we run into a mech. Load up and meet me below."
"I... H-Hers-sir! I must-"
"Glad you see it my way, letter boy," Hersir Larson turned away from him, walking toward Tapio, "See you below!"
She reached out as she passed, holding back Tapio. She crossed her arms at him again.
"So, you are Tapio Virtanen? I heard what that Chief said to you," she said, before lowering her voice, "The Butcher of Rovaniemisk? You expect me to believe that?"
Tapio felt annoyed, and didn't try to hide it. However an exclamation from behind him told him it did not matter.
"No way. The Butcher of Rovaniemisk?" said Oran, "I have heard of you. You are-"
"Aware of that name," spat Tapio, "And I would like to correct you, my Hersir, I am Sergeant Tapio Virtanen. Only Virtanen."
"From what I hear, you are-"
"A damn hero," said Oran, laughing, "A legend! What are you doing out here?"
"Forgetting," said Tapio, "Avoiding getting drafted into the next war."
"Doing a great job," scoffed Oscar as he passed, his large messenger bag overflowing with grenade shells.
"I was more on the path of... scarred," said Hersir Larson, "There were few survivors. I am worried-"
"I'm fine," answered Tapio.
Hersir Larson punched Tapio's shoulder, causing him to take a step backward and blink in shock, "I am worried about my men. Those under my command. If you are a liability you put your brothers at risk."
Tapio rubbed his shoulder, "I will not be a liability. I will be fine."
"I am not satisfied with fine," sneered Larson, "Especially since what little I can gather, you are my best bet at an Aesir."
"Hey," said Oran, "I'm a sergeant too."
"You don't have Virtanen's record," said Larson, "Can you hold it together and help me keep this force together?"
Tapio was not happy. Aesir was nothing to take for granted. It was the equivalent to other nation's Lieutenants. You helped execute the plans of the commanding Hersir, and in some cases get input in said plans. Aesir were also directly in charge of training and inspections of soldiers. It had its benefits, like pay and command, but it also came with an understanding.
Conscripts are not made Aesir. He would be gaining a title. A rank. A social understanding. He was a warrior. He was capable of being Hersir. He would defend the King's lands.
Tapio shook his head.
"Oran would be more appropriate," said Tapio.
"I have made my decision," Hersir Larson said, "Do you officially object? Or are we done discussing this?"
Tapio said nothing. After a moment, Larson nodded.
"Get prepared, Aesir Virtanen. The mechs are coming around, and we leave shortly after. I am going to fill our ranks with some infantry. I'll be back shortly."
She did not await a response. It was not a discussion. Tapio had been ordered.
Oran shrugged, patting Tapios shoulder.
"What an honor," said Oran, "Your family will be proud."
"I don't have a family," said Tapio, turning to the quartermaster's truck, "Not anymore."
Oran watched him go, nodding, "She's right. Maybe you aren't all there."
Tapio found himself glaring at them. He attempted to adjust it twice, but he allowed himself to slip back into a scowl.
Three mechs walked up the large path between tents, to the area outside the camp. They had rectangular, boxy bodies. Their four legs ended in tight feet, giving them the appearance of crustacean legs stabbing at the ground as they walked. On top of their bodies, a small turret where the bulky barrel of a vickers machine gun stuck out like a snubbed nose. The front connected into a peak, resembling a ship's bow but looking more like cobbled scrap metal.
"It looks like an Isigrim," said a soldier standing not far off from Tapio, "If a child heard one described and attempted to make one from memory."
"Great," said Tapio.
Where they were launching from was a blank field on the edge of the camp. Although the Sleipnir was no longer at this spot, you could clearly see other Drekkar ships in the distance. Two more were walking in from the West, their horns announcing their arrival.
Several more soldiers had been gathered, looking as apprehensive as Tapio at the prospect of their journey. Oscar stood not far away, his face looking like a child seeing a mech for the first time.
The shambling mechs came to a halt in front of the group, and a hatch was thrown open next to the turret. The blacksmith from the meeting climbed out to sit on the ledge.
Hersir Larson marched forward, helm in her arms. In a large quiver stretching down the length of her back rested several javelin-like pole arms. You could clearly see her short hair, tied back to heap out of her face. It showed her glare.
"And what are these supposed to be?" she demanded, "You told the Warchief this was armored support."
"This is armor," said the blacksmith, knocking on the hull of the mech, "And we will be supporting you. I call them the Stridsvalker M/14!"
"It's junk," frowned Oran.
"It's a prototype," said the blacksmith, "They are... battle ready. After this mission they will be standard."
"Unbelievable," said Hersir Larson, "You are supposed to be a blacksmith!"
"And I am," said the man, "These things are based off a Saxony prototype the King bought. They couldn't pull themselves across the room until I got a hold of them!"
"If they can pull themselves to Hammakko I'll be surprised," said Larson.
"They will work just fine!" said the man, "Or my name isn't 'Aksel Moller'."
"I don't care what your name is," shouted Larson, "If you slow us down, I swear I will split your head open myself!"
"Speaking of which, we should leave," said a voice who approached the group.
Tapio recognized the man walking up from the meeting. It was the dark skinned Albion man, still wearing his kilt. He now fastened a cape and thick rifle. It was shorter than the rifle Tapio carried, but Tapio shuttered to imagine the size of the round that rifle could fire.
"Can I help you?" asked Larson.
"I am Captain Liam MacLean," said the man, "I have offered my services and they have been accepted by Chief Sorenson."
"Warchief," corrected Larson before shaking her head, "How is this my responsibility? Why are you here?"
"I am joining you," said McLean, "I mean no disrespect, but this is not up for debate and you are-"
"Fine, let's move," ordered Larson.
She placed her helm on her head, and turned and began to walk away from camp, toward the road to Hammakko. Several soldiers fell in line behind her. The blacksmith Moller quickly hopped into his mech.
"Really, this guy?" said Oran, falling in next to Tapio, "He's wearing a dress!"
"I am unfamiliar with your word, 'Dress'," said McLean, quickly coming up next to them, "However, if it what I believe, I suggest you not block my shot in battle. It would be a shame to hit you instead of a Ruskigger."
Oran clenched his jaw, but he did not reply. Tapio shook his head.
"Rusviet, in Nordic," corrected Tapio, "Let your honor be shown, not told. Respect is earned."
"Let's get to earning," said McLean, who quickened his pace, heading up the line.
"His Nordic is good," said Oran, "Let us hope his intentions are as good."
"For now," Tapio sighed, "I'll take his aim over his intentions."
Tapio took another look behind, ensuring no soldier was left behind and the mechs were keeping pace, which they quickly caught up and began to overtake the foot soldiers.
With a final, longing glance at the staging area, it's rows of tents, it's lines of mechs, Tapio turned away. Lifting his own Spangenhelm to his head, he lowered it, and it fit as it always had. He was cast into a familiar protective shell.
All at once, he was drafted again. He was marching with the familiar weight of a rifle, the familiar blindness of the helm, and a strange calm. There was no uncertainty. They were marching as ordered. They were marching to a battle.
Tapio's heart was as calm as it had been in months. They were marching to death, and it did not bother him as much as the silence of waiting.