In the Finnish service, it is typical to find a looong print-out of an Excel spreadsheet tacked on a wall behind the duty officer's desk. This long combination of A4 sheets, studied and analysed by conscripts like a mythical holy text, lists a vague weekly schedule and possible dates for using accumulated leave days.

One March Monday, our MP company's resident fortune tellers (modern term is "OSINTer" I guess) had interpreted and analysed tomorrow's Excel blocks to be the unit photoshoot day, with a convincing web of evidence to back it up. Sure enough, after breakfast on Tuesday, the photographer's van appeared at the barrack parking lot, visible to our building.

The duty officer called out timetables for morning service; "M05 duty (=summer) uniform, no further equipment, in formation at the backyard at 0815." Very odd. What training could that possibly be for? No winter clothing either; it's March, and well below freezing...

A-ha! It must be the photoshoot. It took about five seconds of confused silence for the company to collectively process this information, before a shuffle of bustling grew to a cacophony of hustling, as the guys rushed to find their best looking uniforms and caps, and police their hair.

About 15 minutes later, our NCO's had us on the gently sloping backyard, lined up neatly into a 5-man deep row, with wider gaps between 4-6 men or so. Possibly between each platoon, don't remember. We were ordered into korkeapolviasento, a kneeling superposition which enables one to do anything, at least if the FDF is to be believed. I don't know what the compatible NATO standard would be.

Anyhow, we're just waiting for the photographer to show up at this point. The instructors are pacing nervously, bet the guy is lat- "Oh yeah, none of y'all had respiratory issues, asthma? Last chance to fess up. [asthma disqualifies from service] No? Cool." PSHOOAAH-AAH-SHOAAH, like a concerto of gigantic beer cans being opened in rapid succession. Metal cylinders come rolling down the wide gaps, drawing a white veil of fog behind them. I instinctively hold my breath as the sickly mist descends upon us. Someone's already coughing nearby, as I'm trying to weld my nostrils shut.

"Take a deep breath fellas, stop holding your breath. Breathe, stay calm. Ok, good. Now everybody stand up. Follow my voice. Get out of the gas, don't leave your buddies. Eyes open." A strong, calming voice bellowed from the mist. It took longer than I expected to leave the poison cloud, and as I'm grunting a steady stream of goop out of my various orifices, a large figure dashes past me. An NCO had dived back into the mist of slime, without a gas mask, to pick up a tripped private drowning in a swamp of his own excretions.

After a debriefing and "riot control with tear gas for dummies" -training, we're off to lunch. Like sharks in a school of sardines, the canteen rush hour gives us all the personal space a Finn could dream of.

After lunch, we're called up for afternoon service; "Parade uniform winter M05, no further equipment. Formation at backyard at 1215, order by height with the giants at the back. ...And wash those faces!"

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P.S. I still have the photos, before you ask.