index


Message-ID: <52669asstr$1135325402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
Reply-To: katzmarek@excite.com
From: "Katzmarek" <katzmarek@excite.com>
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Subject: {ASSM} (Rewritten and Serialised) Butterfly and Falcon (Part 10) By Katzmarek (Hist, rom,Mf,MF)
Lines: 589
Date: Fri, 23 Dec 2005 03:10:02 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


 Part 10

_______________________________________________
Join Excite! - http://www.excite.com
The most personalized portal on the Web!

<1st attachment, "Butterfly and Falcon10.txt" begin>

BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 10)

   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.

   ------------------------------------

   John and 'Oz' crept down the network of communications trenches that
linked the various positions on hill 666.  The ground shook regularly and
the exploding heavy shells reminded John of being in an electrical storm.
Now and then they'd come across a group of frightened soldiers, their faces
were white and their eyes were darting about.

   They'd ask them if they knew of the Brunete Battery and they'd get
shrugs of indifference.  Finally they came to a dead end where a harrassed
signalman was bent over a radio.  He put up his hand at the question, then
pressed his headset harder against his ear.

   "What do you want?" an old sergeant asked, "who the fuck are you?"

   "The 5th Brunete Battery?" John asked.

   "Gone...  out there...  'bout 20 metres away.  Now fuck off!"

   John looked out of the trench to see piles of churned up brown earth and
twisted metal.  His heart jolted in his chest.  "What happened?" he asked
the sergeant.

   "What do you think happened?  It got plastered this morning."

   "The crews?"

   "How should I know?  Use your fucking brain.  What do you think happens
when a 155mm shell lands on top of you?  They sweep the pieces up!"

   "Where would the wounded be taken?" 'Oz' asked.

   "Aid station at Mora del Ebro, across the river.  Now unless you've come
to do something else besides ask fool questions..."

   John and 'Oz' left the man in peace and headed back towards the river.

   ------------------------------------------

   Of the approximately 230 Brigades in the six armies of the Republic, by
September 1938 163 were lead by Communist Commanders and 33 by Anarchists.
General Modesto, now supreme commander, was a Communist and 27 of the
Brigades in the Army of the Ebro had Communist Brigadiers.

   That month, of 7000 promotions throughout the Armies, 5,500 went to
Communist Officers.  Complaints were rife that joining the PCE was a sure
road to advancement in the Officer Corps, regardless of ability.

   The PCE had achieved a dominance in wartime that they couldn't achieve
at the peacetime ballot box.  A Communist Commander could ensure his unit
had adequate supplies and the latest weapons when they became available. 
Anarchist units, by comparison, were often forced to live off the land and
arm themselves with captured weapons.

   Over General Miaja objections, the red flag was generally flown on the
Ebro in preference to the Republican tricolour.  In any case, Franco's
forces had taken to flying a tricolour of similar appearance, sometimes
with the old coat of arms of Castile, Seville and Aragon emblazoned in the
centre.  At least the red flag caused little confusion.

   To Franco's men, the Government Forces were 'The Reds,' in all their
literature and communications.  Just as the Nationalists, officially, 'The
National Front for the Renewal of Spain,' were called 'Falangists' or
'Fascists' by the Popular Front.  The Falange (Phalanx) were but one
component in Franco's SET coalition, but their blue shirts and 'bundle of
arrows' motif came to symbolise the insurrection.

   -----------------------------------------

   Pressure was building on Admiral Gorshin on the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya.'
The cruiser's floatplane had a range of barely 150km with two people.  It
required nearly flat conditions to take off and land or, if fired from the
ship's catapault, it required the vessel to be sailing into the wind at a
speed of approximately 12 knots.  The catapault worked by a complicated
system of hydraulic rams and compressed air, rather than steam, and was far
from reliable.

   But flat conditions was precisely what he didn't have, and the window of
operations was narrowing.  He could take a chance and launch by catapault,
gambling on the sea calming by the time it returned, or delay departure
until sea conditions were more favourable.  This meant pushing the
operation perilously close to dawn, and possible discovery.  Fatefully, he
decided to wait.  To get the ship underway might cause confusion for the
pilot when he returned.  It was a reasonable decision in the circumstances,
bearing in mind the technology of the time, and he had no knowledge of
'Early Emil.' Rhykov hadn't been told by his SIM agents, so he merely
broadcast the 'all clear' at the appointed time.

   Accordingly, at 3am the sea had calmed sufficiently for operations off
the water.  It took the crew half an hour to swing the plane over the side.
The engine was started on deck and the plane and pilot together were
lowered down the side by the crane.  It was a dangerous maneuvre, but saved
time.  Gorshin breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the single red tail
beacon of the aircraft rise into the sky.

   --------------------------------------

   At 2am, the SIM agent known as Gonzales drove the little, black Molotova
sedan into a ditch.  It was pitch black and, in accordance with blackout
instructions, the car's headlights were hooded and dim.

   Nevertheless, it took all of Rhykov's persuasive powers to prevent
Gregory Retvizan from using his bayonet on the hapless driver.  The car had
broken its axle, so the two GPU men jogged off towards the Bana leaving
Gonzales with the wreck.

   --------------------------------------

   Hans Joachim Marseilles was already something of a poster boy for the
German Condor Legion.  The man was young, barely 21 at the time, and
handsome.  He was also one of the most remarkable fighter pilots of all
time, shooting down no fewer than 158 aircraft before meeting his death on
the Eastern front in World War 2.  His French surname came from his
Huegenot ancestors, who had fled to Berlin during the 17th century.

   He styled himself on Baron von Richthofen, 'the Red Baron' of World War
1.  The Red Baron had a habit of hunting alone, of taking off at the crack
of dawn and returning, often adding a couple of kills to his total. 
Marseilles, as Adjutant of Werner Moelders' Staffel, was indulged by his
chief and given his head.  He returned to Germany in early 1939 having shot
down 8 Republican aircraft.  He was 'Early Emil' of the Ebro.

   Flying from an airfield at Valderrobres in the Ciurana river area, the
Staffel called themselves the 'Hummels' or 'Bumble Bees.' As usual,
Marseilles rose at about 4.30am.  His groundcrew had already run up the
Daimler-Benz DB601 engine of the Messerschmitt and the fighter sat
clattering on the flight line waiting for its pilot.

   With two 7.92mm MG17 machine guns and two 20mm MGFF cannons, the
Messerschmitt Bf109E model was a powerful machine indeed.  Marseilles had
found some rich pickings down at the Puenta de Bana.  He decided to pay
another call, particularly to what he guessed was a landing area for flying
boats.  He hoped to catch one on the water.

   --------------------------------------

   Mora del Ebro was a depressing place.  It had once been a sleepy village
laid out around a typical Spanish town square.  The Ebro ran right up to
the houses; there was a watermill, a tannery and a shoe factory, upon which
the habitants were proud.

   But like so many of the villages along the Ebro, it had been devastated.
The stone church had been destroyed by the CNT, the tannery by stukas and
the watermill had been demolished by tank shells from a Nationalist foray.

   An aid station had been constructed out of the empty buildings and the
red cross prominently painted on the roofs.  This didn't stop it being
strafed occasionally by Condor Legion aircraft, of course.

   The station performed basic triage.  The more seriously wounded were
transported down the coast to hospitals at Amposta and Tortosa.  A French
passenger vessel, the former Messengeries Maritimes Line's 'Indochine' had
been converted into a hospital ship and was anchored near Tarragona. 
Already beds on the ship were at a premium.

   John and 'Oz' searched fruitlessly for Benin among the overcrowded
buildings and the harrassed staff.  A Spanish doctor suggested Amposta, but
only, John suspected, to get rid of them.

   The quickest way from Mora to Amposta was by the river.  'Oz' hired a
boat and John paddled, having some experience with fast-flowing rivers from
his native New Zealand.  Within an hour, they were at Amposta.

   -----------------------------------

   By her second day at the Hospital Benin was able to move around, albeit
with the aid of a stout stick.  She suffered from a couple of broken ribs,
caused by the compression wave of the explosion, shrapnel wounds to her
legs and concussion.  She was nauseous, sore and miserable.  Very few of
her gun crew had survived the direct hit.  One, a shell handler called
Hernandez, was in the same Hospital grievously wounded and wasn't expected
to survive.

   It was getting on towards nightfall when they all heard the rumble of
artillery.  Unlike previous bombardments, this went on and on and there was
no-doubt something was happening on the Ebro.

   The patients at the crowded hospitals at Amposta reflected their fear in
glazed looks.  Otherwise both they and the staff tried to ignore it.  At
about that time, Benin heard that two men had come looking for her.

   ----------------------------------

   General Prieto was perhaps not the wisest choice to command the wounded
de Llano's army.  Perhaps General Franco was under some political pressure
from the Falange?  From this distance, it's hard to say for sure.  What is
known, however, is that Prieto was an enthusiastic Falangist and fervant
admirer of Adolf Hitler.

   The man was a bully, a torturer and a sadist.  Like Herman Goering, he
liked fancy uniforms and glittering occasions where he was the centre of
attention.  What he was not, though, was a particularly competent General.

   He'd risen quickly through the ranks of the Falangist Militia by dint of
his very real personal courage under fire.  He'd lead his batalion against
a Republican stronghold at the Battle of Brunete and captured it, some say
single-handed although that was probably an exaggeration.

   In any case, Franco appointed him commander of de Llano's army and
offered him the elite Foreign Legion as well.

   His task was a limited attack on Hill 666.  Specifically, he was to
capture the outposts, reinforce them, then use them as a stepping stone. 
His men were to creep forward during an artillery bombardment, then make a
sudden charge over 100 metres or so.

   This wasn't good enough for Prieto, however.  The Foreign Legion was to
take Hill 666 by storm.  'Artillery would only wake up the Reds.'
Accordingly, he cancelled his part of the general artillery preparation and
ordered his infantry into a massed charge.

   Within an hour nearly 50% of his infantry were casualties and he had
nearly wrecked de Llano's army.  The Foreign Legioneers, the finest
infantry in the Nationalist army, fighting hand to hand, had gradually
overwhelmed the Republican defenders and driven a wedge into the lines to
the West, however.

   But it was Moscardo's armour that posed the biggest threat and it was
the tanks, rather than Prieto's attack, that caused Miaja to withdraw back
across the river.  Fortunately, Modesto had prevented the Nationalist
Cavalry from threatening the road to Tarragona, thanks to the Anarchist
Brigade 'Land and Liberty.' Their part in the attack was blurred later. 
Modesto, of course, was a Communist.

   --------------------------------

   "G'day!" John said.

   "G'day!" 'Oz' echoed.

   "Idiots"" Benin said, aghast, "what the Hell do you think you're doing?
You should be half way to the South Pacific not running around in the
middle of a battle.  How the fuck are you going to get out?  The trains
have stopped, you going to swim?"

   "Hey, slow..."

   "You're a fool John Greenhaugh of New Zealand..."

   "...down!"

   "I won't slow down if I don't want to," she continued, "why didn't you
catch the boat?" Her voice was driven by fatigue and pain.  It rose to a
squeek.  She stumbled and two strong arms caught her.  She subsided as she
sank into the warm reassurance of John's chest.

   "I'm 'Oz'," said 'Oz.'

   "Hi," Benin said, but she didn't feel like talking anymore.

   "So what is the plan, John?" 'Oz' asked.  "How do we get out?"

   "Dunno...  steal a boat, maybe?  From that bay South of the Ebro delta?"

   "Puenta de la Bana?  Suppose!  Hop a coaster to Barcelona?"

   "Is blockaded," Benin said, "nothing's getting in or out.  French
border's closed too, you have to cross the Pyrenees."

   "Yeah, well, your lady's not going to walk over the mountains, is she?"
'Oz' said, "not in that condition.  We're going to have to go by boat all
the way to France."

   "Can you make it?" John asked.

   "I must get back to the army," she told them, "my class duty."

   "Miaja's bugging out," 'Oz' said, "I heard they're pulling back over the
river."

   "They can't!" Benin said, alarmed, "if their tanks reach the coastal
plains nothing can stop them taking Tarragona and moving into Catalonia!"

   "Yep!" said 'Oz,' "that'll be right!  Miaja's given up, Modesto's going
to have to abandon Tarragona or be surrounded.  Lerida will have to be
evacuated leaving the road open right to Barcelona."

   "Then I will stay and die with my comrades!" Benin declared.

   "Why?" asked 'Oz.'

   "Yes, why?" John said, "you can't even walk!"

   "I can fire a gun."

   "Y'think Hitler's going to stop here?" 'Oz' intervened, "Austria,
Sudetenland, Memel, Czecho-Slovakia, maybe Poland?  France?  Russia? 
Y'think the bastard's going to be satisfied until he's running the whole of
Europe?  Look, I heard France and Britain are pretending there's no German
soldiers here.  I heard that Blum and Chamberlain just suck up everything
Hitler tells them.  'Oh no, Mr Chamberlain, we are not sending our tanks
and aeroplanes to Spain.  Our fucking battleships are not parked off
Barcelona, and if they are they're on a fucking goodwill mission!  We don't
give a fuck about the Polish corridor, Danzig, oh no!  We just want our
fucking lebensraum so we can be a fucking great empire again.' They won't
wake up until they're eating fucking sauerkraut and goosesteppimg around
Hyde Park and the Eifel Tower.  Someone needs to explain what's happening
here, Benin.  Don't worry about the politicians, they have their heads up
their arses.  You got to tell the people that this isn't about Fascism or
Communism, but a good honest to goodness land grab by an unprincipled
dictator."

   "Shit, 'Oz'!" said John in astonishment, "that's a good speech.  I
didn't know you were so...  thoughtful about things."

   "So," Benin said, "why don't you tell them?"

   "We all need to, every fucking one of us needs to get out there and tell
the ordinary people that they're next on the menu.  There's plenty enough
dead, lady, and plenty more before Franco runs the shop.  Your death will
not make a blind bit of difference, but maybe your living will."

   "I don't know..."

   "Fuck!  Slap her one, Kiwi, then grab her arse and carry her to a boat!"

   "You dare!" Benin looked at John coldly.

   "C'mon!  It's only 3 or 4 kilometres to the Bana from here.  Y'think you
can carry her?"

   "No problem!" John said.  Benin suffered herself to be picked up by
John's strong arms.  She perched on his back and John adjusted her weight
until he was comfortable.  "50 kilos soaking wet," he told her, "you ought
to eat more."

   "Just mind my legs, you big ox!" With that, they set out into the waning
light of evening towards the coast.

   -------------------------------------

   "So where's the plane?" asked Gregory.

   "It'll be here," Rhykov told him, "Gorshin wouldn't leave us behind."

   "He might not have any choice!"

   "In which case we head North and try to make it through the Pyrenees."

   "Easier said than done.  The place is crawling with Franco's goons."

   "Gibraltar, then?"

   "Border's closed.  The British are turning everyone away.  You try to
get into the harbour and the Royal Navy tow you back out again."

   "Then we just hope the floatplane arrives before dawn or we'll have to
find some other way of getting out."

   "Is this an example of GPU planning these days?  'Some other way?'"

   "Maybe we should head to Barcelona?" said Rhykov, ignoring the comment,
"I'm sure Negrin has a plane waiting!" B

   "Oh, I'm sure he does!  C'mon, let's get under cover.  We can watch for
the plane from that little hill.

   ------------------------------------

   "Ok," John puffed, "there's an old fishing shed down there.  Perhaps we
can wait there till morning?"

   "Put me down," moaned Benin, "I'd rather walk to it.  My legs have gone
numb, you've cut off the circulation." When John let her down, however, the
pain came back with a vengeance.  Wincing, she leaned on her lover for
support.  'Oz' took the other side and between them they half carried her
to the hut.

   The fishing shed was full of militia and boatmen.  Smoke hung like a
shroud inside almost smothering the single tallow lamp.  Some people made
room for the newcomers.  An old man gave Benin a moth-eaten blanket.

   "Anyone know where we can get a boat?" asked 'Oz.'

   "Where you going?" someone asked.

   "France." A few of the men chuckled.

   "Why not Egypt, Greece?" the first man suggested, sarcastically.

   "France will do."

   "Impossible!" one said, "Franco's men, the Italians, they shoot
everything.  They tell us we can't go and fish.  Fancy that, an Italian
telling me I can't fish in *my* waters with *my* boat, fuckers!  How am I
going to live, huh?  Feed my family?  This finger," he continued, "this
finger I will shove up Mussolini's arse!"

   "Hey, the lady!"

   "My apologies, senorita!"

   "Why not a bayonet?" suggested Benin.

   "There's no room with Hitler stuck up there," another fisherman
suggested.  "I'd use them for fish bait but I think the Bonita would spit
them out."

   "Sharks?  They're not particular."

   "Sharks, then.  Good idea!  We feed the cunts to the sharks.  My
apologies, senorita."

   'Oz,' John and Benin settled down and tried to get some sleep.

   --------------------------------------

   The sky had already softened to a blue glow by the time Rhykov and
Retvizan heard the floatplane.  They scrambled together up to the top of
the little hill to watch the black dot circle towards the Bana.

   "Better late than never," Rhykov muttered.

   "It's too small!" said Gregory, "How can it take both of us?"

   "Ah, I have it planned.  We take out the rear seat and one of us can
slide into the fusilage behind..."

   "That will be you, Rhykov."

   "Only, we have to take the seatbelt out with the seat so whoever is in
the rear cockpit has to crouch and..."

   "Crouch with no seatbelt?  This is what you call planning?  Is he a good
pilot?"

   "I hope so!"

   "Shit!" muttered Gregory.

   "With the tanks only half full it should lift off with all of us!"

   "It's not the take off that concerns me!"

   The plane circled low then splashed down, making a textbook landing.  It
taxied towards a pontoon anchored near the stony beach, motor coughing and
spluttering.  A seaman in a rowboat tied the plane to the pontoon using the
shackle attached to the plane's single float.

   The two Russian spies jogged down to the water's edge.

   "What's that?" said Rhykov pointing towards the mountains in alarm.

   "Shit!  German fighter!  Over the sea wall and hit the deck, quick!" The
two men vaulted the wall and lay on their bellies.

   They heard the whine of the Daimler-Benz over the clattering coming from
the floatplane's engine.  It grew louder and louder.  Retvizan listened to
the familiar sound of the German's machine guns and the slower booming of
it's cannon.  They both heard a commotion around them, shouts and screams
and someone fired a sub machine gun at the enemy aircraft.  They heard the
splashing of rounds hitting the water.  Rhykov peeked over the wall and saw
geysers erupting in a line heading towards their precious aeroplane.

   "I don't believe it!  I think he's missed it," he told Retvizan.

   "He'll probably come around again.  He won't miss a second time.  You
married?"

   "Yes, why?"

   "Kids?"

   "2 girls.  Why do you want to know?"

   "Wait here!" With that, Retvizan jumped up and ran onto the beach.  He
drew a bead on the circling fighter and fired short, deliberate bursts from
his PPD.

   "What are you doing, you silly fuck!" yelled Rhykov.

   "Stay down!" Retvizan yelled back.

   The Messerschmitt streaked in again, so low it kicked up spray from the
wash of its spinning prop.  Retvizan fired a long burst at it, before
dropping the spent magazine and clicking in another.  Rhykov saw the
fighter veer, it appeared to be coming straight at them.  "Get down!" he
yelled at his friend, before his voice was lost in the noise from the
fighter's guns.

   Rhykov dropped down behind the wall as the fighter swept overhead.  Not
far off, from an old fishing hut, a group of men were firing from the
shelter of the building.  Two men had machine guns, three or four had
rifles.  They swung them around as the Messerchmitt roared past, the
aircraft going much too fast to be tracked with small arms.

   But, Rhykov noted, the Bf109 was trailing vapour from one of its wing
radiators.  Clearly Retvizan, or one of the militiaman, had scored a lucky
hit.  He leapt up to congratulate his friend.  He stood still in shock.

   ---------------------------------

   When the German fighter appeared, the militiamen, together with 'Oz' and
John, rushed outside.  They saw the plane circling, then make a run for a
floatplane ancored in the harbour.  John and 'Oz' opened fire with their
PPDs, hoping to upset the German's aim.  The others joined in with their
rifles.

   John recognised a man nearby behind the seawall as one of the Russians
he'd seen earlier.  After the plane had flown away, the Russian stood up
and ran to a body lying on the beach.  'Oz' trotted over to see if he could
help and John followed.

   The Russian was lightly slapping the corpse's face, although he was
plainly dead.  One round had hit him in the chest above his heart.  John
thought the man was probably dead before he hit the pebbles.  He recognised
the dead man as the other Russian.

   "I'm sorry," he told the man.

   "Is what he wanted.  He saved the plane so I could go home.  Retvizan
was like that.  Always thinking of others, never of himself." The Russian's
face was streaked with tears.  "You help please?  He always said he wanted
to be buried at the place he'd fallen.  Not one for ceremonies, no
funerals, 'just dig a hole and put me in.' Is all he wanted."

   John and 'Oz' helped the Russian dig a hole for Gregory Retvizan above
the high tide mark.  A withered olive tree offered a little shade.  The
Russian, Rhykov, said the tree was probably as old as Retvizan and it was
appropriate.

   They started to roll the body into the hole when an old Spanish seaman
approached.  He pulled a pipe from between his yellowing teeth and pointed
into the hole.

   "Hey!  Got room in there for one more?"

   "Why?" Rhykov answered the man, irritated, "are you unwell?"

   "Not for me," the man grinned, "the pilot of that thing out there. 
German bullet took his head off!"

   "What?  The floatplane?" The seaman nodded.  "Shit!" Rhykov spat and
threw his shovel at the tree.

   "Problem?" 'Oz' asked him.

   "I have no pilot to fly me back to the ship."

   "That so?" 'Oz' said, scratching his chin, "hmm, how many people can
that hold?"

   "It was taking the three of us, why?" Rhykov explained.

   "He's a pilot," 'Oz' said pointing at John, "he'd fly it...  but."

   "But?"

   -----------------------------------
   KATZMAREK (C)

	----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
	This post has been reformatted by ASSTR's
	Smart Text Enhancement Processor (STEP)
	system due to inadequate formatting.
	----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

	
<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+


  index