BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 19) By KATZMAREK © ----------------------------------- 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. -------------------------------------------------- Catalina's childhood home was an old, sprawling villa just outside the village. It was a magnet for artists, musicians, political radicals and those who a later generation would call 'beatniks.' The professor himself was a kindly, bespectacled man with a well-trimmed beard. Catalina's Mother was an older version of her daughter, a big ball of energy who loved to party and paint impressionist paintings. 'Oz' was swept up into their orbit. He was a veterin of the 'anti-fascist struggle,' a hero of the Spanish Revolution who had fought alongside 'the comrades of the CNT,' and he'd been a fighter pilot who'd shot down 'Nazis and their Spanish, fascist lackeys.' Self effacing, and naturally humble, 'Oz' found the adulation a little hard to cope with. For all the theorising and militant speeches made, the 'circle of the struggle,' the informal Anarchist collective they styled themselves as, only 'Oz' and Catalina had actually put their bodies on the line. Most of the 'circle' 'Oz' decided, were no more than intellectual dilletantes and weird artists who'd no more clue about fighting Fascists than he could paint a Picasso. 'Oz' told Catalina that many of them thought they could blow the Nazis down with hot air. Catalina understood what he meant. She'd tried to explain to him about the 'propaganda struggle' and how 'to educate the masses' was just as important than shooting Nazis. But 'Oz' said, all he wanted was a good plane to shoot the fuckers out of the sky. She helped him write an application to join the French Air Force, the Armee de l'Air, but was turned down flat. 'The Armee de l'Air does not enlist foreign nationals.' It said that maybe he might be interested in the French Foreign Legion. 'Oz' wasn't, he'd no ambition to be a 'ground rat.' He was a skilled, trained, pilot, he reasoned, and the infantry was for those who couldn't do anything else. He finally wrote to the Australian Military Attache in Paris, behind Catalina's back. He wasn't sure how she'd take it and didn't want any dramas. The reply merely acknowledged his letter and that the Royal Australian Air Force had nothing to offer him. It was even more terse than the French reply. He still flatly refused to see the British Consul in Marseille. 'It'd be a cold day in Hell before he'd have anything to do with British.' He began to think about his old friends, in particular John Greenhaugh. He hoped he'd got away on that Soviet ship. He imagined he would've been dropped off somewhere with his Spanish lady. Perhaps they were living it up in London? He knew there were two RNZAF training squadrons permanently based in England. John would have signed up with the fighters. He couldn't imagine him being kept on the ground for long. ------------------------------------- And John wasn't on the ground. At that very moment he was thundering across the Russian steppe in a formation of Il2 'Sturmaviki.' He was 'training the trainers,' those senior Russian pilots who were going to teach young Russian air recruits how to fly 'the flying brick.' 'Sturmavik' was Air Force slang for a ground assault aircraft. Previously, it had been applied to the I16bis, a stop-gap version of Polykarpov's famous fighter with a bomb rack and more armour plate for the pilot. But the I16bis 'flew like a barn door' and was 'as slow as a Fergusson tractor.' You can't load more weight onto an airframe and expect the same performance, John had repeatedly told the Russian engineers. But the Air Force hierarchy wanted more bang for the buck and aircraft with respectable performances were burdened down with heavier guns and bombs. For, John realised, Russian Generals wanted aircraft that could pound tanks and strongpoints on the ground. They wanted 'flying infantry support weapons,' not fighter aircraft. It was expecting too much of an airframe to perform both roles in 1939. But, in response to the argument that a 'sturmavik' had to make it through a cordon of enemy fighters to perform their role, the Generals only response was to build more 'sturmaviki,' to overwhelm the defence with numbers. It was the same policy of 'usure' that had obsessed the French on the Western front in the 1st World War. Then, the French army was to grind down the enemy in wasteful, pointless battles, by sheer weight of numbers. The Russian Generals were proposing the same thing with young, barely trained pilots in heavy, unmaneuvrable aircraft incapable of defending themselves against the crack Luftwaffe 'Jagdstaffeln.' John could see the stupidity, the callous indifference to casualties, that this implied and it appalled him. But he was bucking a trend in the Russian military philosophy that had existed, perhaps for centuries. Russia's greatest resource was manpower. No matter they lost a battle, there was always another army that could be raised, and another behind that. The young 'Ivan' of the Russian military didn't want to die. But, the Soviet army and system instilled him with a sense of honour and duty that urged him into supreme acts of courage and sacrifice. There was a certain fatalism about the Russian character, an acceptance that this was the way it was and there was no turning back. The engineers and technicians at the Red Air Force Tactical Research and Weapons Institute at Novgorod got on with the job and kept their private doubts to themselves. But John was not Russian and it wasn't in his nature to keep his mouth shut. He made his opinions known to anyone who found the time to listen. But, even if they nodded respectfully, John found that was often as far as it went. Russian officialdom was sludgy with inertia and, from experience, few were willing to step out of line. The only fast track to the decision-makers possible was the GPU, the all-powerful intelligence arm of the secret police, the NKVD. Only they had a direct line to the Soviet Politburo and the Armed Forces Command. It took days to reach Rhykov, John and Benin's 'facilitator.' His role in their lives was to ensure their well-being, their 'co-operation' and ultimately to ensure they didn't 'defect' back to the West. Just how much 'clout' he had in Stalin's secret police, John and Benin weren't sure. In fact, what rank he had, if indeed there was military style ranks in the service, they didn't know. But a word from him gained Benin a place on the teaching staff at the University, a job she found she had talent for. Rhykov, they had a feeling, knew everything that went on in their lives. He'd turn up at times when their relationship was under strain. He knew what to say and he'd access to the finest vodka in Russia. The GPU's system of part-time informants ran deep into their lives, Benin was certain. She wondered just what those dossiers contained. What opinions she'd expressed went flying straight to Moscow to be filed into the archives of the Kremlin? Would they come back to bite them? If John was no- longer of use, what was going to happen to them and their child? Would they simply be spirited back to the West? Benin didn't think so. John's knowledge of Soviet aviation technology would be far too beneficial to Western intelligence circles. Like it or not, they were in Russia for a long stay. Perhaps they'll never be let go? And, Benin had often asked herself, what would they do in the West anyway? What country could they settle in? New Zealand? She wasn't sure where that was but knew it was far from everywhere. She understood it was full of sheep and farmers, had small cities and a very staid, English culture. She didn't even know if they had Universities, or the Ballet. Spain was out of the question now that Francisco Franco was in charge. A large swathe of Europe had adopted a militant fascism and was busy gobbling up anything they could chew. Czecho- Slovakia was being dismembered, Poland was being hounded over the Danzig Corridor and accused of all sorts of barbarities against ethnic Germans. Abysinia in the Horn of Africa had been brutalised by the Italian Army and Air Force. Mussolini vowed to make the Mediterranean 'an Italian lake,' and talked of 'the New Roman Empire.' At least Russia was safe from the Nazis, Benin thought. It was far too large a country to be conquered by anybody. Rhykov turned up a week after John had made the call. John explained his feelings about the direction the RAFTRWI was taking. He told him the Red Air Force needed an 'air superiority fighter' that could win the war in the air for the 'sturmaviki.' He didn't feel right about approving the Il2 if it was going to be sent in, unescorted, against Messerschmitts. Rhykov listened to every word John said without interruption. "When do you think Russia will go to war with the Germans?" Benin asked when John had said his piece. "Ah, if I had a crystal ball," he replied. "But you're planning to?" "We try to plan for everything," he evaded, "but we will see what Herr Hitler has in mind. Meanwhile, we may have other fish to fry." "Who?" demanded Benin. "Others," he said, "that have bad intentions towards the USSR." "Such as?" "Oh, I don't necessarily mean war," he said, "maybe we lean on them a little?" Benin got no more out of him. He claimed he may have been a bit too 'candid' already and 'we'll see what we shall see.' As for John's complaints, Rhykov said he'd make some 'inquiries' and convey his views to the big shots. "As I understand, it's a question of strategy and having the right tools for the job. We are not ostrichs with our heads in sand," he grinned, "but Generals think they know how to win wars. Stalin, he thinks he knows because his people keep telling him he's right in everything. It maybe not a good idea to tell one's boss he doesn't know anything, right? John, you need to be more, ah, diplomatic, yes? You need to learn to grovel a little, maybe? You piss Mikoyan off, yes? He is, ah, liked by big shots, sure, but he's also good designer of aeroplanes. He knows how to make planes go fast. Lavochkin, Gurevich, Gudenov, Petlyakov and all the others are good designers. You maybe tell them a little of what they want to hear and then maybe they'll hear what you want them to, no? Is this right?" John thought the logic inescapable. -------------------------------------- Jana was being kept away from John deliberately. She knew this instinctively because she was raised with the Soviet mindset and knew the games the bigshots played. She was a 'distraction' to him. She was a distraction to everyone, it seemed to her. That's why she'd been kicked out of the plum projects and sidelined with the 'go nowhere' orders of Polykarpov. She didn't feel resentful towards John. This was not his doing. Like everybody, he was just doing what he's told. Polykarpov's project was a depressing place to work. All the staff there, including the designer himself, knew that they were given an impossible brief. To turn an old aeroplane into a first line combat aircraft. Instead of laughter, jokes, as well as the serious discussions he'd had with John during the Yak 1 project, her colleagues here spent the long days bitching. It was wearying on the spirit and she hated it. She waited for the time when the plug was going to be pulled, as they were all sure was going to happen soon. The Ministry couldn't keep allocating resources to projects that weren't going to produce results. At the end of the Month they were going to have a pilot's meeting. Theoretically, all the test pilots were to get together to share ideas and to draw up a collective report. This report was to go to the project director who was supposed to include the pilots' opinions in his overall Monthly report to the Ministry. In reality, little time was spent on business and it'd lately become an opportunity for the pilots to socialise, to get drunk together. It seemed that test pilots' views carried little weight, so why bother wasting time on reports? But it was an opportunity to get together with John once again. His opinion was one they'd listen to, she thought, he could get things changed when they couldn't. In addition, she missed him; missed him as a friend and whatever else might develop between them. ------------------------------------- 'Oz' remained at the villa for three months. The seaside village filled with visitors for the summer who lay all over the beach like basking seals. He managed to find a little work, renting deckchairs and selling icecream from a cart. The international situation in Europe grew more and more dangerous. Hitler made more threats towards the Poles, had already occupied Prague and would soon swallow the rump of Czecho-Slovakia. The British and French warned Hitler they would guarantee the integrity of Poland's borders. The USSR was ominously quiet. France began calling up the army reserves. A defence mentality persisted and extolled the virtues of her system of fortresses to protect the border, in particular, the Maginot line. Magazines and newspapers featured articles on this defence line demonstrating its invincibility. But the Maginot line ended at the Belgian border. Belgium didn't want a bar of it. It was seen, perhaps, as a needless provocation against Germany. The village, like the whole of France, was a buzz with rumour and speculation. 'German tanks would find a grave yard on the Maginot,' 'Oz' was told by a banker. 'The biggest threat to the French Republic were the Communists,' insisted a watchmaker from Marseile, 'and everyone knows most of them are Jews.' 'Oz' told the man he knew many Communists from Spain and most of them seemed to have been raised in Catholic households. The man was adamant, however, and said that all Jews 'needed to be sent packing.' "To where?" 'Oz' asked. "To Russia, where they belong, among the Reds." It was an argument he encountered many times in France. As Summer wound down towards Autumn, 'Oz' announced to Catalina that it was time to move on. He needed something to do and he wasn't going to find it here. He caught the train to Paris and reported to the Australian Embassy for a passport. While he waited for it, Catalina caught up with him there. She said she missed him and fancied a little adventure herself. His passport duly arrived and in August he and Catalina caught the ferry to Folkestone in England. 'Oz' made an application to join the Commonwealth Pilots Program, which saw Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, South Africans, etc, join the RAF. He was promptly accepted. A whole different attitude had overtaken the British since last time 'Oz' had talked to one of their representatives. To give Catalina some protection, he married her at a registry office in London. He told her it was 'for revolutionary purposes.' She punched him on the arm, but didn't seem averse to the idea. After some short induction training, where he proved to the RAF instructors that he really *could* fly, 'Oz' was posted to Duxford; to 311 Fighter Squadron. There, he was introduced to the Hawker Hurricane and to a barrack room full of Aussies. 311 Squadron was Australian and he felt truly at home for the first time in years. His only disappointment was to discover that the RAF had not heard of John Greenhaugh. He certainly wasn't among the Kiwis who shared Duxford. He missed his old mate and was beginning to wonder whether he was all right. 'That Kiwi,' he told Catalina one evening, 'couldn't tie his shoelaces on his own.' "Why?" she said in surprise, "is he too fat?" "Nah," 'Oz' explained, "he doesn't care about anything else except aeroplanes. There's no room in his skull for any other information." 'Oz' was quickly promoted to Pilot Officer, and because of his age and experience, was soon in line for Flight Lieutenant. The Squadron was a happy one. They were young, these guys, an average age of 22 and for many of them this was their first experience of overseas. They worked hard and played hard. Even 'Oz' couldn't match their capacity for alcoholic beverages. But these men were single, unlike 'Oz,' and he could always use the excuse, 'the missus is expecting me home for dinner.' On September the 1st, 1939, the German panzers rolled into Poland. On the 3rd, France, Britain and the Commonwealth were at war. --------------------------------------- In Russia the news arrived at Novgorod with a shock. Stalin gave a long speech where he revealed his Foreign Minister Molotov had concluded a 'Non-Aggression Treaty' with Germany. He told the people it was necessary and Germany had some 'outstanding issues' with Poland. He also explained that there was to be a 'readjustment' of the Polish/Soviet Border and the Red Army had already entered Polish territory to 'guarantee stability.' Like many, Benin believed Spain would enter the war on the side of Germany. France would be caught in the middle and the Meditterranean closed to allied shipping. Gibraltar must succumb to a land assault. Italy, too, was expected to join in and, with her powerful Navy given free rein in the Med, that sea must finally become and Italian lake. The British would be isolated and alone on their island with a new Continental System closing its doors on her. And Russia was going to stand back as an observer while the Fascists and Nazis divided Western Europe between themselves? It was betrayal. Comintern, the 3rd Communist International based in Moscow now included exiled Spanish PCE members like Juan Herdandez. They released a tame statement claiming the war was 'a clash of Capitalist interests' and 'had no interest for the International Working Class.' Benin, at the University and better informed than most in Russia, was astonished at the turnaround. Previously, John's role at the Red Army Tactical Research and Weapons Institute and shifted to instructor training for the new aircraft entering service. A group of them would arrive, recieve a week's conversion training on the little squadron of Ilyushin Il2s based at the facility before going off to Advanced Training Squadrons throughout Russia. Meanwhile, they were all aware of a heavy build-up of military forces West, not only towards the Polish, but also along the borders of Finland and the Baltic States. It was bewildering as the Kremlin was completely silent as to their purpose. Deals had been done with the Nazis but no-one knew what. He was now a Father, Benin having given birth to a son in the wee hours of the 18th of August. Benin insisted their son be called Garcia after the Republican Gun Captain who'd saved her life on the Ebro. John added Brian, his Father's name. They were moved from the Pravda to married Officer's quarters nearer the base. John had been promoted a full Captain in the Red Air Force, much to his surprise. Jana, too, received recognition for her work and was promoted Major. John still hadn't saluted her. The 'air superiority fighters' of the Soviet Airforce were to be the Yakovlev Yak 9, the Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG 3 and the Lavochkin-Gorbunov-Gudkov LaGG 3. These were being manufactured in significant numbers in factories all over European Russia, but few were entering service with Frontal Aviation. Instead, squadrons were being assembled farther East and kept well back from Russia's borders. There was a threat, still, from the Japanese, then squabbling with the US over the Empire's involvement in China and possible ambitions in the Pacific. Until Japan had decided which way she was going to go, Stalin had to try and cover a possible Japanese foray into Siberia. In 1938 Japan had clashed with Soviet Forces over the Amur river. Then, the Polykarpov I16s had crucified Japanese attacking aircraft. But since then the Japanese had acquired much more capable aircraft. ---------------------------------------- Despite their child, Benin felt even more distant from John. Despite Rhykov's timely intervention in their lives, the honeymoon had not lasted and they drifted back into separate lives. Benin's Russian had reached such a level that she was now teaching Spanish full time at the University. There was a creche there for Garcia and she was able to feed him during her breaks. John had little to say about his work and, that what he could say, Benin rarely understood. They rarely went out together except for a Sunday walk in the park. Benin threw herself into her work, determined not to sit at home and mope. At Novogorod, the test pilots had been formed into a 'Factory Defence Air Regiment' with 12 factory fresh Yak 9s. Jana, as senior officer, was the squadron leader and John, her deputy. During their spare time, they practiced formation flying and battle tactics. Such local defence squadrons were becoming standard practice in the Red Air Force. Jana finally got her chance to make things up with John. As Commander of the squadron she got her own office, in fact it was a shed out hear the airfield. Shortly after the regiment assembled, she requested a meeting with her deputy, alone. He sat opposite her desk with a look of apprehension. She started with business, administrative matters, and he relaxed. "John," she said, eventually, "I think I owe you an appology." "For what, Jana?" "For slugging you," she grinned, "and... for the things I said, sorry." "Oh," he replied, grinning sheepishly, "it's all right. I've been slugged worse." Jana laughed. "You, maybe, still want to be friends? Is important, now that we fly together again, that there's no, ah, animosity." "Sure," he agreed, "there was never any... animosity." "Good," she said with satisfaction. "You're a fine woman, Jana," he told her, "I'm sorry I treated you like a..." "It's all right," she grinned again, "I've been kissed worse... a lot worse." They laughed together. The ice was broken. Jana pulled out a bottle of vodka from her desk and declared they needed to drink to the occasion. John explained to her he had more work to do, but she insisted. "You must learn to follow orders," she declared, "*my* orders!" Jana's office was stuffy, there being little ventilation. She took off her jacket and released the top two buttons of her shirt. With her blond hair caskading over her shoulders John couldn't help but notice how sexy the woman was. Her skin had a sheen, from the closeness of the office atmosphere, but it looked to John as if she'd just come out of the shower. He felt a familiar stirring he tried his best to suppress. Jana felt him looking at her with far from a respectful, junior rank's gaze. It excited her. His eyes smouldered towards her and the air in the room visibly thickened with tension. The vodka had done its work and they were soon feeling the effects. Jana stood, tottered a little, and said she needed to pee. John stood and moved aside, giving her access to the door, and she fell into his arms laughing. "I think I'm a little drunk," she told him. "Y'think?" he laughed. She held onto his neck for support, her face inches from John's. "This feels familiar," she said. Her voice had dropped, both in pitch and volume. She was no-longer playing games. They both advanced towards each others mouths. Breaking, panting with excitement, she told John, "you right. I *am* slut." "No, I never said..." "I am," she breathed, "I want... I want a fuck from you." She kissed him again, passionately, her hand drifting down the front of his pants. "And," she added, "I think you want fuck from me." ------------------------------------ KATZMAREK ©