large winch into position between two massive red pines on the shore. It was a heavy contraption with a hauling power of twenty tons. They anchored it to the massive pine trunks with thick cables. A smaller winch, set up on the opposite shore, pulled the big winch’s tow cable into the river.
Kurko took a dive, leading the heavy end of the tow cable down with him. He was out of sight for a long time. Then he emerged, snorting. He gave a shout: “Haul away!”
The tow cable tightened; the tops of the pines swayed, but the winch’s anchorage held. The riverbank’s girdle of floating logs sank under the pressure of the cable, which slowly wound itself around the hub of the winch. A minute later, a mighty rusty howitzer rose out of the water: a six-incher. German-made. Kurko splashed to the shore in glee and took a swig of the brandy. “To warm myself up,” he explained.
The rusty weapon was hauled onto a truck and fastened down. Vatanen made a note of its weight, since the crane sported a hydraulic balance.
All day long, Kurko swam from shore to midstream and tirelessly pursued his exhausting work. Eleven pieces of heavy artillery were hauled up, a score of antiaircraft guns, one fifteen-ton tank, and many boxes of ammunition. The whole caboodle must have been dumped during the German retreat in the Lapland War, but it was amazing that the cache had not been spotted before.
“And now drive it off to Kolari Station. You’ll find the railroad cars there waiting, reserved in my name. Load this stuff on them, and here’s the bills of lading.”
Kurko handed the truck drivers a bundle of papers.
“As soon as you’ve got the stuff in the trucks, come back for the rest, even if it’s night. You’ll get the money in a week, and you can have my signature now.”
Kurko signed for the haulage costs, and the great trucks rumbled off. Vatanen had been somewhat flabbergasted by the spectacle, and he was not the only one. The people from Meltaus had heard about Kurko’s new role and were marveling at his business transactions.
The next day the last of the war materiel was hauled out of the river, and in the early afternoon the vehicles made their last trip from Meltaus to Kolari. Kurko said he’d sold the scrap metal directly to the steelworks in Koverhar, on the south coast; now all they had to do was wait till Friday, when the money would be wired to the bank in Rovaniemi. Ovako, the firm, would pay for the scrap metal only when it was on the factory rails.
A reporter from the Lapland News turned up, but too late. He tried, with journalistic cunning, to worm some news out of Vatanen and Kurko, but had no success. Kurko was helping Vatanen break up the last raft. The big winch had been taken away, and when the reporter asked if it was true that a hundred guns had been found in the river, Kurko chortled: “A hundred guns! You must be crazy. This is a raft disposal, not an arsenal.”
By Friday, the work on the rafts was complete and the two men were in Rovaniemi. Vatanen signed for his pay in the TVH office, and Kurko sat impatiently in the downstairs room of the Lapland Restaurant. He’d been calculating the return on his business.
“The costs were 2,870 dollars, including your five hundred. Ovako pay 8 cents a kilo at the works, and there were 96,000 kilos, or nearly 100 tons. So figure it out yourself. The whole thing should be 768,000 cents: 7,680 dollars! Take away 2,870 dollars for costs and what am I left with? A cool 4,810 dollars. Nice little sum!”
In the afternoon, the check arrived.
Kurko was so happy, he wept in the bank.
“I haven’t had money like this since 1964, when I spent three months straight felling at Kairijoki. Now, pal, I can take off ... God knows where . . . Oulu, even!”
Kurko departed.
Vatanen decided to leave town, because there was an item in the Lapland News : legally, weapons the Germans left behind belonged to the Allies. An army major was reported as “very surprised”
Kurko took a dive, leading the heavy end of the tow cable down with him. He was out of sight for a long time. Then he emerged, snorting. He gave a shout: “Haul away!”
The tow cable tightened; the tops of the pines swayed, but the winch’s anchorage held. The riverbank’s girdle of floating logs sank under the pressure of the cable, which slowly wound itself around the hub of the winch. A minute later, a mighty rusty howitzer rose out of the water: a six-incher. German-made. Kurko splashed to the shore in glee and took a swig of the brandy. “To warm myself up,” he explained.
The rusty weapon was hauled onto a truck and fastened down. Vatanen made a note of its weight, since the crane sported a hydraulic balance.
All day long, Kurko swam from shore to midstream and tirelessly pursued his exhausting work. Eleven pieces of heavy artillery were hauled up, a score of antiaircraft guns, one fifteen-ton tank, and many boxes of ammunition. The whole caboodle must have been dumped during the German retreat in the Lapland War, but it was amazing that the cache had not been spotted before.
“And now drive it off to Kolari Station. You’ll find the railroad cars there waiting, reserved in my name. Load this stuff on them, and here’s the bills of lading.”
Kurko handed the truck drivers a bundle of papers.
“As soon as you’ve got the stuff in the trucks, come back for the rest, even if it’s night. You’ll get the money in a week, and you can have my signature now.”
Kurko signed for the haulage costs, and the great trucks rumbled off. Vatanen had been somewhat flabbergasted by the spectacle, and he was not the only one. The people from Meltaus had heard about Kurko’s new role and were marveling at his business transactions.
The next day the last of the war materiel was hauled out of the river, and in the early afternoon the vehicles made their last trip from Meltaus to Kolari. Kurko said he’d sold the scrap metal directly to the steelworks in Koverhar, on the south coast; now all they had to do was wait till Friday, when the money would be wired to the bank in Rovaniemi. Ovako, the firm, would pay for the scrap metal only when it was on the factory rails.
A reporter from the Lapland News turned up, but too late. He tried, with journalistic cunning, to worm some news out of Vatanen and Kurko, but had no success. Kurko was helping Vatanen break up the last raft. The big winch had been taken away, and when the reporter asked if it was true that a hundred guns had been found in the river, Kurko chortled: “A hundred guns! You must be crazy. This is a raft disposal, not an arsenal.”
By Friday, the work on the rafts was complete and the two men were in Rovaniemi. Vatanen signed for his pay in the TVH office, and Kurko sat impatiently in the downstairs room of the Lapland Restaurant. He’d been calculating the return on his business.
“The costs were 2,870 dollars, including your five hundred. Ovako pay 8 cents a kilo at the works, and there were 96,000 kilos, or nearly 100 tons. So figure it out yourself. The whole thing should be 768,000 cents: 7,680 dollars! Take away 2,870 dollars for costs and what am I left with? A cool 4,810 dollars. Nice little sum!”
In the afternoon, the check arrived.
Kurko was so happy, he wept in the bank.
“I haven’t had money like this since 1964, when I spent three months straight felling at Kairijoki. Now, pal, I can take off ... God knows where . . . Oulu, even!”
Kurko departed.
Vatanen decided to leave town, because there was an item in the Lapland News : legally, weapons the Germans left behind belonged to the Allies. An army major was reported as “very surprised”
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