Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 7) By KATZMAREK(c) ----------------------------------------- Author's note. This is a work of fiction based on fact. Opinions and interpretations of events expressed are my own and as such are entirely contestable. This remains my property and may not be used for gain without my express permission in writing. ---------------------------------------- "Hey,"'Oz' asked the man, "we're looking for a girl." "Who isn't?" replied the man. "A special one, this man's wife," 'Oz' continued, pointing at John. "She's supposed to be in a gun crew here, you heard of her?" "Up here?" the man said in surprise, "he should take better care of her. You a spy?" "No," 'Oz' shrugged, "I'm an Australian." "Good, don't like spies." "Hey," John called, "what about Benin?" "He a spy?" the man asked. "No, a New Zealander. What about the man's missus?" 'Oz' asked. "This 'Benin,' a New Zealander?" "Spanish, 'Mujeres Libres'," 'Oz' explained. "Ah, a lesbian! Does she do men? What's her price? Is she pretty? Hey lads?" the man called, "anyone seen a whore serving a gun?" "Y'think I'd be in the fucking infantry?" one soldier replied, "fucking artillery get all the perks." "Yeah," another said, "anyone seen a dead gunner?" "I did, dead drunk!" said the first man. "Yeah, everyone ducks when our guns go off. Except the Fascists," muttered someone else. John and 'Oz' tipped their caps and wandered off. ----------------------------------- 'The 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya' is therefore ordered to reverse course, via Lisbon where you will rendezvous with the Tanker 'Alma' and the support ship 'Anadyr,' before proceeding back to the Baltic Fleet's anchorage, Kronshtadt,' Admiral Gorshin read, 'no exception has been made to the international treaty banning the passage of Soviet Naval vessels through the Dardenelles into the Black Sea.' "A pity," the Admiral told Rhykov, "it's rather nice, the Black Sea, this time of year. I have a dascha near Poti. My wife, Katka, loves it there." "Admiral?" Rhykov wrinkled his brow, "I wonder if we can pause for a while off the Ebro Delta?" "Why?" "We have some agents... we have not heard from them for some time. One of them is a good friend..." "You have friends in the GPU?" Gorshin asked in mock surprise. "We have loyalty," Rhykov said, stung, "loyalty to our superiors, to our comrades, to the service. Would you leave any of your crew behind on some foreign soil?" "Even if I was ordered to abandon them?" "Yes." "No," Gorshin grinned, "of course not. I would do everything in my power... even if it meant bringing home a corpse. And I would expect the same if one of my children was killed in active service. I will speak to the Engineers. I'm sure our engines are due to break down soon. A delay of three or four days would seem to be most likely." "I'm surprised you've never been caught. Your ships' Political Officers can't be very diligent in their duties." "My ships' Political Officers are Party men, not Navy. As such they can be bullshitted to, as few Russians haven't a clue about the sea. Stalin has never so much as paddled a korabl across a pond. There are advantages in being a land power rather than a sea power." "Your seaplane, Admiral, is it servicable, by any chance?" "My Air Officer would fill in the details, but I understand it still works. Best possible combination, he tells me, German airframe and Russian engine. A Heinkel, you know?" "I know, a KR1. It should have the range for what I need." "Oh? And what do you need it for?" The two men's heads moved together in conspiracy. -------------------------------------- The newcomer crept quietly into the dugout, which served as the Howitzer crew's rest area. He sought out the Gun Sergeant who was dozing in his alcove. He gently put his hand on his shoulder and shook him awake. "Get the crew together," he whispered, "we're going to move the gun." "Where? Who says?" he said, "and who the fuck are you?" "I'm Gregory," the newcomer told him, "I'm with the Russian Secret Service. We must get these guns moved. There's going to be an attack in the morning." "Who says?" "Intelligence! Fascist planes have been arriving at their airfields over the last few days. Their armour have moved up into ready lines. Infantry, everything, is moving up to the front. They have all these positions marked," he told them throwing around his arm, "we think you'll be attacked by aircraft at dawn." "How do they know?" "How do you think they don't know? Anyone can wander over there or here," he said, "just dress as a peasant and heard a flock of sheep. We have new positions prepared further back. You need to move tonight while it's dark... and no noise. Here are your orders... from General Miaja." "Not from the Russians?" asked the Gun Sergeant. "General Miaja is no lover of Russians," the man told him, "but even he can see common sense. Come, we'll find some more men to give you a hand with the gun." Benin was roused by the sound of activity and hushed voices. Stumbling, she grabbed her kit and abandoned her little home. Already a team of sweating men were dragging the heavy gun out of its emplacement. She tried to lend a hand but was pushed away. "Hey," the man said, "you don't look like a mule to me." The big Russian was directing the evacuation, exhorting everyone to be quiet. Even exaggerrated secrecy was important, he said, because spies were everywhere. The GPU agent was well into his fifties, big, like a Russian bear, with a long beard. He wore a shabby khaki battledress with crossed bandoliers, puttees and boots, and a black militia beret with a red star. He slung his PPD sub-machine gun over his shoulder like someone well-acquainted with the use of it. A bayonet was thrust through his belt like a pirate. He spotted and approached her. "You lost, little girl?" "No," she told him, "you? Russian?" "I'm sorry, Madam," he said, "it's just you look a little on the small side to be in a gun crew." "I can pull my weight!" "Possibly, but not as much, I imagine, as that big Ox over there," he answered, indicating the Gun Sergeant. "I'm the gun layer," she told him, "not as it's any business of yours." "I apologise," he told her, "my name is Gregory Retvizan. You remind me of a little French Girl I knew in Siberia during the Russian Civil War. Tough bitch, she was." "What happened to her?" "Married a General. At least he eventually became one. Lucky bastard! You married?" "My man," she told him, "is a fighter pilot. Perhaps you know where he is?" "What squadron?" "1st Escuadrillo de Mosca." "Disbanded, I think... um, mostly foreign pilots, from memory. In which case he would have been sent home." "Sent home?" "Yes. The Spanish were reallocated... the foreigners were all sent to Barcelona to be returned to their countries of origin. Except the Germans and Italians, of course. They were sent to..." "Yes, yes. So you think think he's gone home?" "Depends. Where's he from?" "New Zealand." "Where? Is that a country? Where the fuck is New Zealand?" "South Pacific. Somewhere near Australia, I think." "Ah! A long way to come for someone else's fight. Should have stayed there, silly fuck!" "You're here!" "Oh yeah! Got told I'd volunteered and to sign this bit of paper. Then I wind up in Bilbao on a coal barge with a cargo of Tanks in the hold. I'm too old for this shit." "We're all too old for this shit," Benin said, "even the kids over there. They're all too old. Old before their time." "Aye, true enough," Retvizan sighed, "they've seen more than is proper." "Do you people really think the Republic can win?" she asked. "My people are, how should I say, in Moscow, not in Madrid or Barcelona," he explained, "it's not about winning. It's about dragging Germany deeper and deeper into a fight. It's about showing Britain and France, even the United States, that the real enemy is Fascism, not Communism. It's about testing our military hardware and tactics against their's. It's about preventing the Nazis from stacking another country against the Soviet Union. Moscow doesn't give a shit what Government runs things here, just so long as they don't ally themselves with Germany and Italy." "So?" Benin said, "perhaps you should be talking to Franco?" "Maybe," Gregory told her, "but I don't think he's taking our calls at the moment." "You have no sympathy, no solidarity with my people?" she asked angrily. "Listen," he replied, "we didn't start this, your politicians fucked it up. You let Franco in the door when you should have crushed him like a bug. Azana, Zamorra and all the rest saw it coming and instead of assassinating the bastard when you had the chance, you let him go to Tetuan and raise the Army of Africa. Then you let the Anarchists and Trotskyites run riot in Barcelona... half the fucking militias in this place aren't under anyone's control. Half these boys have no idea what they're fighting for and, given half a chance, will run back home. What a fuck up! But..." Retvizan moved closer, "if I can teach a few of them how to stay alive, I will. That's about as much 'solidarity' as I can give them. Now, girl, if you can get the fuck up there before dawn you might stay alive long enough to find your man. Otherwise, the only solidarity you'll have will be with a 6 foot deep trench." ------------------------------------------ The four men sat under the catapult mounted in the waist of the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya.' Above them the wing of the floatplane gave them some shade from the Mediterranean sun. Close by, hanging nonchalantly by the rail, Admiral Gorshin's orderly kept an eye open for unwanted visitors. "We're supposed to be getting a replacement in a few months, a Beriev KOR 1, all metal, faster, and with increased range. The Heinkel is wooden, old, slow rate of climb..." explained Senior Lieutenant Konstanin, the cruiser's Air Operations Officer. "But it will get us there, land and take off again, and get back to the ship?" asked Rhykov. "Providing the Captain can get us within, say, 50 kilometres. Providing the swell is no more than half a metre, it should land and take off safely." "That would mean you'll have to land inside the 'Punta de la Bana,' in enclosed waters, Valery, do you think you can get her in? The 'Bana' will be full of coastal traffic supplying the army." "No problem," replied Lieutenant Valery Shchpagin, the pilot. "In the dark?" asked Rhykov. The other three looked at the GPU agent in consternation. "You're not serious?" said Konstantin. "We can't be observed," Rhykov said, "orders!" "But he could hole a float, run aground, ram a boat, it's suicide!" protested Konstantin. "You could lose your way!" suggested Gorshin. "Can you mark us a landing zone?" asked the pilot, "flares, torches in half a dozen boats should do it. A coloured light to guide me in, perhaps?" "It could be arranged," Rhykov said, scratching his jaw. "Plot something on a chart for me and I'll contact the shore." "You can't get us in closer?" Konstantin asked the Admiral. "No," he said, shaking his head, "we must stay well outside in international waters or we'll risk being attacked." "Can we not ask the Republican Navy for help? Perhaps they can send a Destroyer to ferry our people out to us?" suggested the worried Air Officer, "it's just too foolhardy..." "I've talked to Cartagena," Rhykov said, "they say they can't spare any. Too busy with the blockade of the Gibraltar Straight." "That's bullshit!" said Gorshin, "but they have been rather timid about sailing within aircraft range of Majorca, lately. The Italians have some of their new torpedo bombers based there." "Too fucking timid about everything, if you ask me," muttered Konstanin. "Perhaps! But they don't have that many effective warships to share around." Gorshin said. "We'll have to use the floatplane, if the pilot's sure he can carry out the operation safely." "I can!" answered the pilot. "Well!" sighed Konstanin, "we'll have to lower it over the side with the crane. Can't use the catapult at anchor. Cover story?" "Mail drop, air observation, some such bullshit. Your spooks in on this?" Gorshin asked Rhykov. "They won't notice anything, Admiral, he told him, tapping his nose, "Retvizan, Vestuptevich, they are popular men in the GPU..." "We'll get them out... one way or another, Rhykov. Just get them down to the 'Punta' on time." "I will, Admiral, I will." ---------------------------------- On hill 666 the Republicans could all hear the Stukas coming. Just before dawn, a flight or two of Dorniers and Heinkel 111s had dropped a few bombs on the lines as a 'wake up.' Now it was time for the Stukas, the Junkers Ju 87 dive bombers. But this was a different army, now, than even a month before. Coastal ships had brought tons of war materiel, 40mm Oerlikon anti-aircraft guns and high-angle 12.7mm Skvass Machine Guns. Other artillery had arrived, 45mm anti-tank guns and more 75mm Howitzers. Small arms ammunition was now abundant and food and clothing had been stockpiled. All was labouriously hauled up to the Republican positions at night and in secret. For this was to be the last flick of the tail of the Russian effort to salvage the Republican cause. The reason was the sudden realisation by the Military Command and their Russian Military Advisors that the Nationalists had few tactical options on the Ebro. Their armour needed relatively level ground to be effective. They needed to gain the wide valley of the Ebro and take the town of Tortosa if they were to cut off the Republicans and force them to retreat. The only logical route was either via the Tarragona road or the Amposta. Both ways meant running the gauntlet of Hill 666. Hill 666 was practically impregnable to direct assault, unless the Nationalists were prepared to accept heavy casaulties. The two armies had about the same number of troops, although the Nationalists had more armour and command of the skies. What seemed easy in the weeks following the withdrawal of the International Brigades, now was considerably more problematic for the Nationalist cause. ----------------------------------------- Despite all the meticulous planning, it was the Falangists who stumbled at the altar. In the early hours of the morning, a flight of ten Tupolev DB2 bombers took off from Tarragona. Led by an intrepid regular Red Army Air Force Captain, Yuri Blochin, the flight took a wide circuit through the valleys of the Sierra de Monserrat at low height, and came into Gandesa from the North. A pathfinder, piloted by Blochin himself, dropped a flare near De Llano's headquarters, and, one by one, the DB2s dropped bomb after bomb on the target. De Llano was, reportedly, blown out of his camp stretcher and many of his staff were killed. The General himself was wounded and Yague took over command. The Italian Legiero on Majorca was supposed to raid the airfields at Tarragona, but, apparently, no-one had signalled them the time of the coming offensive. The Nationalists were unaware of the presence of the new anti-aircraft guns. Nationalist Dive bombers, ever vulnerable in the dive, were to face determined opposition for the first time. The Republicans had built crude dummy wooden guns in the old artillery positions and covered them with camoflage. As the stukas howled down onto these decoys, they believed it was all too easy, too easy indeed. ------------------------------------ "Hey! You two!" the man shouted. He wore the black cap and shoulder flashes of the Military Police. "You two! Where are you supposed to be?" 'Oz' nudged John to keep quiet, he'd do the talking. "Dunno," he told the Officer, "we just arrived from Barcelona. Thought you needed a hand," he smiled. "You foreigners?" the MP said squinting at the two. "Yeah, missed the boat." "Follow me to the General Headquarters for processing," he commanded, "you can't wander around the front line." Reluctantly, the two friends trudged after the policeman. The headquarters was a series of camoflaged tents set in a deep ravine. A spider's web of telephone lines crept out and wound up out of the valley on improvised wooden poles. Staff officers strode purposefully from tent to tent carrying maps and papers. John and 'Oz' were directed to a large tent, the Police Centre. "You come to fight?" the Officer asked. "Yes sir!" said 'Oz.' "Infantry?" "Pilots!" The Policeman laughed, "you expect to find planes to fly here?" "No sir!" 'Oz' replied, "we've been demobbed. 1st Escuadrillo de Mosca. Couldn't leave without saying goodbye to our old friends the Fascists, now, could we?" "Perhaps," a small man sitting in the corner of the tent, unoticed by the two men, spoke up. "Perhaps the anti-aircraft people could use them? As fighter pilots they ought to be able to estimate altitude and distance, type of aircraft, that sort of thing?" "Hmm, can you?" the Officer asked. "Like that!" 'Oz' said, flicking his fingers. "Can you prepare some orders? Secondment as Air Liaison Officers, maybe?" the Policeman asked the little man. So it was that, as Benin heard the drone of the first stukas on the morning of the offensive, John was no more than half a kilometre away watching them through binoculars. ----------------------------------------- The 40mm guns opened up too early and began pumping shells into an empty sky. John complained to the Air Observer that the stukas were still too high, but the man just shrugged. He said he hadn't ordered anything and that the gunners were pleasing themselves. The stukas, though, appeared to ignore the fire and came down onto the decoy artillery positions. The machine-gunners were more disciplined than their Oerlikon cousins and held their fire. Then, as each aircraft levelled out after releasing their bomb, the Skvass guns opened a furious rattling. The second aircraft appeared to stagger in flight, dipped its wing, rolled over and dove straight into the ground. If John could hear it, a general roar began to erupt around the army as the news was passed from rifle pit to rifle pit. Benin heard the stuka's engine falter and die, followed by a dull boom as it smashed into the ground. She couldn't help but smile as those around her cheered and clapped. Their gun was dug into a revettement of earth and sandbags, the whole covered in camoflage. Retvizan slipped in under the netting to see the crew. "You know your grid?" he asked Benin. "Of course," she told him, "you're the sixth Officer this morning to ask that. Do you think I'm stupid?" "We're all stupid," he replied, "but if those panzers get through to the river we'll all be cooked liver as well." "They won't," she was adamant, "you hear they got a stuka?" "Saw it," he told her, "they're still coming, but they're releasing their bombs a good deal higher than before. Another one had their tail feathers singed... crash landed back towards Gandesa. We have a couple of Air Force Officers at our Air Observation Post," he explained, "foreigners," he looked sideways at Benin, "an Australian and... a New Zealander!" "What?" Benin spun around. --------------------------------------- (C) KATZMAREK