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The corridor smelled faintly of oil, damp wool, and resignation.

I walked slowly, hands behind my back, boots echoing with more authority than I currently possessed. This was supposed to be an inspection. In reality, it felt closer to an archaeological survey of a unit long abandoned by logistics.

“Private Eriksson,” I began, stopping by the first bunk.

He snapped to attention with admirable enthusiasm, nearly knocking over what I first assumed was a cleaning rod. It wasn’t.

“And… what exactly is that?”

“A slingshot, sir.”

Of course it was.

His issued rifle—once an AK-5C—lay in pieces on the bunk. Rust had claimed it completely. The barrel looked like it had spent a decade at the bottom of the Baltic.

“I see,” I said, because what else was there to say.

“It’s accurate up to twenty meters, sir. Using standardized pine cones.”

“Standardized.”

“Yes, sir. I sort them by weight.”

Naturally.

I moved on.

At the next station, Corporal Lundqvist was carefully taping together what appeared to be three empty magazines and a wooden stick.

“Improvised baton, sir,” he explained before I could ask. “For close combat.”

“Because your sidearm?”

“Missing since last winter exercise, sir.”

“Of course.”

Further down, someone had mounted a flashlight onto a helmet using string and what I strongly suspected was chewing gum. In the corner, two soldiers argued quietly over the optimal drying time for something labeled ‘experimental powder’, which turned out to be crushed match heads.

I paused in the middle of the room and took it all in.

Uniforms patched beyond recognition. Boots with soles that told stories of their own. Equipment that had long since given up pretending to function. And yet—despite everything—there was focus. Improvisation. A stubborn, almost admirable refusal to quit.

Private Eriksson gave his slingshot a test pull. It snapped back with a sharp, optimistic twang.

I exhaled slowly.

“We want to fight,” I said, mostly to myself.

A few heads turned.

I looked at them—this collection of ingenuity and shortage, of determination held together by tape and habit.

“We really do,” I continued.

I gestured vaguely at the room.

“But it’s going to be difficult…”

Eriksson caught my eye, still holding his carefully selected pine cone.

“…with caps and pine cones.”


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