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Subject: {ASSM} (Rewritten and Serialised) Butterfly and Falcon (Part 15) By Katzmarek (Hist, rom,Mf,MF)
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Date: Thu, 29 Dec 2005 08:10:01 -0500
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 Part 15

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<1st attachment, "Butterfly and Falcon15.txt" begin>

BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 15)

   By KATZMAREK

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

   'Oz's' group came down from the high pass before nightfall to find some
shelter.  The found a deep gully with a fast flowing stream that ran down
towards the Llobregat.  The comrades found ledges and hollows along the
rock face of the cliff and tried to rest.

   It was growing colder still and the they huddled together to keep warm.
To make things more uncomfortable, a shower swept down on them, freezing,
sludgy rain heavy with ice.

   'Oz' had wedged himself into a hollow in the rockface.  The wind swept
past him, freezing, bitingly cold and he could feel his body heat being
sucked out into the Pyrenees.  He couldn't remember feeling so miserable
before in his life.

   Something scraped and another body tumbled into his hideaway.  It was
Catalina.  She put her arms around him and pressed herself to his body. 
'Oz' could feel her shivering, her face was blueish and he pulled her
against his chest.  She left the merest hint of warmth where she breathed
into the comfort of his body.  Eventually she stopped shaking dozed.  He
himself slept fitfully, woke, and checked Catalina was still breathing. 
She was and he relaxed a little.

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

   Captain Chernagovka came and fetched John in the morning in a military
car.  He farewelled Benin with a long, lingering embrace.  She told him,
smiling, that he should not leave the aeroplanes waiting too long.  She
waved as the car sped off towards the Air Force's facility.

   She looked down the phone list provided by the RAFTRWI Welfare Office,
part of the package of materiel provided to them by the Air Force.  She
found the Medical Service and dialled the number.  This was time to
practice her newly acquired Russian phrases.  She'd practiced the night
before.

   John was driven to a large hangar, something of a centrepiece in the
Aircraft Testing area of the complex.  A group of uniformed people had been
lined up as a sort of reception committee.  They all had their pilot's
brevet proudly displayed on their chests and wore the short khaki quilted
jacket permitted for air force personnel.  The Captain explained that these
were the cream of the Air Force's test pilots, the very best, and they were
all anxious to meet him.

   "Why?" John asked, bemused.

   "Because you've been in combat," he replied, "and this," he smiled like
a cheetah.  In his hand was a copy of the 'Red Star,' the Air Force's
newspaper.  On the front page was a photo of him, in Spanish Uniform,
standing proudly in front of an I16 Mosca.  He barely remembered when the
photo was taken.  Maybe 2 years ago, he thought, when the squadron received
its first Mk 10.  "You're a star, yes, like Hollywood film!" the Captain
laughed.

   The Captain introduced each Officer, who warmly shook John's hand.  When
the formality was over, they mobbed him, firing questions at him that
totally defeated John's limited understanding of the language.  John stood
among them, embarrassed and confused by the adulation.  The Captain
laughingly told everyone to ask questions one at a time and he would
translate.

   "Perhaps," he said, "we should make ourselves more comfortable?  Over
tea and some breakfast?" John readily agreed, he was finding it hard to
cope.

   In the dining room they all sat at a large table, upon which was placed
a samovar.  The Captain poured for John.  He was growing accustomed to
Russian tea, strong, black and sweet.

   "You fight Messerschmitt?" asked a woman, in English.  She was blond and
pretty, perhaps in her late twenties, and wore the ribbon of the Order of
the Red Star.

   "Yes," John told her, "some 'C' and 'D' models.  The 'E' hadn't arrived
by the time our squadron disbanded."

   "Ah!  And you shoot one down?"

   "No," he replied, sadly, "I didn't get the pleasure." They all laughed
at that, especially after the Captain translated for the non-English
speakers.

   Another asked a question in Russian.

   "Lieutenant Smilovich wants to know whether you can turn inside a
Messerschmitt in an I16?"

   "Yes," John explained, "but they can outclimb and outdive you.  They
will not turn if you get on the tail of one.  Instead, they'll roll over
and dive straight down or go up in a loop.  If you try to follow they'll
come down on top of you."

   "An Immelmann turn?" suggested the woman as the Captain translated for
the others.

   "Sometimes," he agreed, "but mostly a basic loop or a split 'S'"

   "Ah!"

   "Formation?" the Captain asked, "what's their basic formation in
combat?"

   "The 'Kette,' a man and his wingman, behind and slightly above, in a
loose formation of four."

   "Ah!"

   The conversation wound on for an hour as more tea arrived.  They all
wanted to know about the Messerschmitt Bf 109.  Apparently, all of the Red
Air Force's combat fighter pilots were spooked by the new German fighter.
Designers and technicians had been working overtime to develop a response
to the challenge.  It dawned on John just why he'd been 'invited' to the
facility, perhaps why he and Benin had been brought to Russia in the first
place?  He was one of only a handful of pilots that had encountered, and
fought, the '109.'

   Later, the group led him through to the hangar.  There, in the centre of
the cavernous building, was an aircraft, a single engined monoplane.  The
engine panels were open and a mechanic was working on it standing on a
scaffold.  Several other technicians smiled when they saw John.  They were
clearly proud of their baby.

   John looked up at the open engine compartment.  It was an inline, a V12,
liquid-cooled and on the right cylinder head he could see stamped,
'Hispano-Suiza' and below it 'France.' It was an engine John was familiar
with, the latest 'Moteur-Canon' version of the H-S 12Y.  The Captain told
him Russia had obtained the production license and it was going to be the
standard in-line engine for Soviet fighter aircraft.

   "Good!" he told them.  It was a very reliable and powerful engine,
although not particularly efficient at high altitude.  John assumed the
Russians would have known that.

   He continued to walk around the aircraft, studying its lines, imagining
it in combat, and its aerobatic potential.  As he continued to study it,
John became disappointed, then alarmed.  He didn't care about crushing the
egos of the technicians, standing so proud and waiting for John's nod.  He
was alarmed for the young pilots that would have to fly it in combat
against the best fighter in the World.  John thought it was a dog and he
had to tell them so.

   Firstly, the motor; it was short-winded at the altitude the
Messerschmitt prefers.  An enemy flying the '109' just needed to climb and
this aircraft would be at a severe disadvantage.  Secondly, the design
itself, and here, John mused, is why pilots should be consulted by
designers before any metal is cut.

   The nose was too long and the cockpit was set too far back for forward
vision.  The pilot sat almost level with the trailing edge of the wing and
thus had no view downwards.  The wings were short, not a bad thing in an
aerobatic aircraft, but it meant the landing speed would have to be very
high.  That, coupled with the extremely limited forward view, meant that it
would be highly dangerous to land in perfect conditions.  The presence of
any crosswinds, battle damage, or a rough improvised landing strip, and the
aircraft would be positively lethal for even an experienced pilot.

   "It was designed by a team led by a young, new designer called Mikoyan,"
the Captain explained.  "he was assisted by an old hand, a fellow called Dr
Gurevich.  We call it the MiG 3.  What do you think?"

   "They should be shot!" John told him.  The Captain's face froze.

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

   The woman Doctor returned smiling.  She pulled back the curtain behind
which Benin was putting her clothes back on.  The Doctor's smile was all
Benin needed.  She grinned back.

   "When?" Benin asked.

   "On or about the middle of August," she replied.  Benin counted back the
days in her head.  She thought it must have been on the 'Tchervonya
Ukrainiya.' She smiled at the thought.  'John had been so tender, so
considerate.'

   She wished he could've been here instead of buzzing around in the
aeroplanes he so loved.  She hoped it wouldn't always be so, that she'd
take second place to a machine.

   "You wish to send a message to your husband?" the Doctor asked. 
'Husband,' Benin thought.  Yes, she supposed convention would mean
marriage. It would certainly be less complicated in the long run, but she
wasn't sure whether she was ready.  It meant readjusting her whole
political outlook, to take on an institution she once swore would never be
her destiny.  'A form of bondage,' she recalled, 'a bourgeous property
contract'!  At least, she thought, the Russians do it in a civil ceremony
in front of a State appointed official.  She couldn't see herself in a
church, bowing in front of the altar, while a robed priest droned on in
Latin.

   "Madam?"

   "Sure," Benin replied, "by all means.  Send a message to my 'husband'"

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

   'Oz' woke with a start.  The sun filtered into the gully sending bright
gold shafts of light onto the sparkling, clear waters of the stream. 
Catalina stirred beside him.  She wiped her face on his jacket before
looking up, bleary-eyed and smiling.

   "It's morning?" she said.  'Oz' nodded.  "We survived!" she added.  John
nodded again.  He hoped the rest of the them were in the same condition.

   Outside they heard the stirrings of life as the rest of their friends
stumbled out from their shelters.  Someone urinated into the stream just
outside, muttering.  A man stumbled past looking for firewood.  Beni
appeared and beamed at them.

   "That's all of us!" he said, delighted.

   No breakfast was forthcoming, the last of their food had been eaten. 
They were all fatigued, cold, wet from last night's shower, and still
Catalina found the energy to start singing.  'Oz' thought she was the most
remarkable woman he'd ever met.

   Just then, there was a shower of stones and two men slid down the cliff
above them.  They wore heavy snow suits and felt boots, an ice axe vied
with ammunition pouches on their belts.  On their heads they wore woollen
balaclavas and over their shoulders, short, repeating carbines.

   The comrades scrambled for their weapons or ducked for cover.  The two
newcomers, however, put up their hands and called for calm.  Their accents
were strange to 'Oz's ears.  Catalina whispered to him that they were
Basques, and no friends of Franco.

   "Where y'goin'?" one of the men asked.

   "France," Beni answered.

   "How?"

   Beni shrugged.  He admitted he'd no idea.

   The man whistled through his teeth.  Catalina explained, quietly, that
the Basques do that all the time.

   "Y'come, I show!" the man said.  They hastily grabbed their belongings
and stumbled after the fast-moving Basque guerillas as best they could.

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

   John had raised a hornet's nest.  In the near distance, behind a closed
door, he could hear angry voices, raised, agitated.  He'd been left
standing in the middle of the hangar in front of the aircraft he instantly
loathed, and bagged bluntly in front of its proud technicians.

   Reputations must be riding on his approval, John thought, because the
Russians, technical and operations alike, had flown into a frenzy when he
made his pronouncement.

   A figure came up alongside him.  It was the woman, the blond test pilot
he'd talked to in the dining hall.  She was grinning evilly.

   "You told them the MiG 3 is a piece of shit?" she said.

   "Yes," he answered.

   "I tell them," she chuckled, "we all say the same thing, but they not
listen.  Maybe they listen now?"

   "I hope so," John said, "because, if I was a squadron commander, I
wouldn't want to send my boys up in one."

   "Nor me," she agreed, "or girls either." John grinned at the mild
reproach.  "I'm Jana Ivanova, in case you forgot" she told him, "senior
pilot here."

   John shook her hand.  He had forgotten her name.  Unknown to John, Jana
Ivanova was as near a star as was possible in Stalin's Russia.  She had
been an aerobatic and display pilot before being assigned to RAFTRWI. 
She'd travelled throughout Russia, exciting crowds with her feats of aerial
dexterity, in a kind of road show to display Soviet aviation to the masses.
She'd also toured in the West, had starred for the Russian team at air
displays in France and Germany.  And, when all was said and done, she
looked like a Hollywood film star with her long blond hair and favourable
genes.  She was something of a poster girl for the new Russia.  The
attractive face of the Soviet system to display to the West.

   "You see," she explained, "here in Russia is all about friends and
arse-licking.  Mikoyan, he's liked in the Ministry and he goes out of his
way to suck up.  He made some very good aerobatic machines for the team in
France.  The Ministry liked the, how you say, 'praise' the foreigners gave
to the Russian team.  The bureaucrats all got medals for doing a good job
and showing Russia is top in aviation.  But it's all bullshit.  We had the
best pilots and we could have won the competitions with a better plane. 
But Mikoyan, he praised the plane and blamed the pilots."

   "Where'd you come in the competitions?"

   "Third, behind Germans and British.  Is unforgivable to come behind the
Germans," she smiled.  "I got sacked from the team and posted here.  Is
good, I'm sick of bullshit."

   "Looks like it's followed you," John said, nodding towards the shouting.

   "Yes," she sighed, "but now, at least, they'll turn on you!"

   "Thanks!"

   "You're safe," she said, "you've fought Messerschmitts, they need you.
They can't say you know nothing because you've proved in Spain that you do.
How many Fascists you shoot down?"

   "5 or 6.  1 unconfirmed."

   "There!  Under Red Air Force criteria that makes you an ace.  They can't
dismiss your opinion or they make themselves look stupid.  You good for
us," she added, "you give authority to all of us pilots because you say the
same thing that we do.  We want the Yak 1, is a much better aircraft but Dr
Yakovlev, its designer, does not have the same influence at the Ministry as
Mikoyan.  Is also the LaGG 3, a much better plane too, but we don't have a
suitable engine for it in Russia."

   "Ah, the Hispano-Suiza?"

   "Exactly.  We want the American Pratt and Whitney or British Bristol."

   "Radials?"

   "Yes, you see, liquid-cooled inlines are fine but they require lots of
maintenance by skilled mechanics.  In Russia, we mostly fly from dispersal
strips, most often in the middle of nowhere.  Is way we intend to fight
Germans when they come.  Radials, they don't need so much attention, are
air-cooled so no radiators to worry about in combat."

   "True," John agreed, "but they're bulky?"

   "Yes, but who gives a shit when they can turn up over 1200 horsepower?
Is brutal, maybe, but thrilling!" she smiled excitedly.

   John laughed.  'What a woman!' he thought.

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

   By the time they'd made their way out of the gully where they'd spent
the night, the comrades had straggled out into a running, stumbling rabble
desperately trying to keep up with the two Basques.  Even Catalina was
panting like a steam train behind 'Oz', kicked against a rock and cannoned
into him, nearly knocking him down.  'Oz' turned and grabbed her, hauling
her back onto her feet.  She smiled a thank you and kept on running.

   At last they saw those ahead had stopped.  They gathered below a large
fissure in the rock wall.  As 'Oz' and Catalina arrived, a rope dropped
down the fissure and the first of the comrades began to climb.  'Oz' looked
up and saw one of the Basques, the rope wound around his waist, urging the
climbers to hurry.

   Thankfully, they only had to climb up the fissure about 30 metres.  'Oz'
followed Catalina.  She wasn't that confident a climber on the rope, but
she was determined to get to the top.  The comrades, those at the top as
well as those on the bottom, cheered her on.  When she finally stumbled to
the top, she grinned and bowed to cheers and claps.  'Oz,' lean, but with
good upper body strength, sprang up the rope as if he'd been doing it all
his life.  Catalina gave him an admiring look.

   At the top was a flat ridge with a beaten path winding along the top of
it.  On either side, the ground fell steeply away into deep gullys.  If
someone fell off the path, they were history.

   The Basques were well out of sight as the comrades stumbled along the
ridge.  Some took off their guns and packs and slung them into the gully so
they could move more easily.  One of the Basques appeared ahead and urged
them faster and faster.  At last 'Oz' and Catalina rounded a bend and ran
straight into a group of the comrades, stopped and staring.

   Ahead, the track ran down in easy stages into a broad, green valley.  It
was beautiful and peaceful, like a picture postcard, with fields,
farmhouses, a distant road and a little village perched on the flank of a
mountain.

   The comrades sat down, or leaned against the rock to catch their breath.
Some hugged each other.  Catalina came and put her arm around 'Oz' as
casually as if they were man and wife.  'Oz' circled her waist and she
leaned against him, still huffing from the exertion.

   "There!" one of the Basques pointed at the village, "Mont St Louis.  You
go to cousin of mine in big house by mill."

   "Where are we?" someone asked.

   "Tet valley," the man said, "that road leads down to Perpignan."

   "France?"

   "Yes, of course, France."

   The comrades all cheered again.  There were more hugs and kisses and
Catalina began singing again.  'Oz' kissed her on the mouth.  He said to
shut her up.

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

   John had to explain for, perhaps, the third time his opinion of the MiG
3.  Another group of technicians arrived at the meeting room and, again, he
had to go through all his points.  He was growing tired and frustrated. 
This wasn't what he'd expected when he left the Pravda that morning.

   Eventually, they broke for lunch and he fled to the dining hall.  The
test pilots gravitated to his table.  He felt like part of a leper colony
as the scientists, draftsmen and technicians became locked into animated
discussions around them.  Jana wore a permanent grin on her face and
whispered jokes to the others in Russian.  Now and then they'd break out in
laughter to the annoyance of the tables around them.  She was obviously
enjoying herself.

   "That's him," Jana nudged John's elbow, "Mikoyan.  He's not happy." John
followed her eyes and spotted a man in a suit with a scowl on his face.  He
looked briefly at them before joining a table at the far side of the room.

   "I wonder what the discussion's about at their table?" John asked. 
There were hoots of laughter from the pilots after Jana translated.

   Things improved in the afternoon.  Chernagovka took John out to a
testing field and showed him a Yak 1.  It was more conventional in design
than the MiG but was a clean design, and practical.  Yakovlev had powered
it with an M105P V12, a Soviet development by Dr Mikhunin of an earlier
version of the Hispano-Suiza 12Y 'Moteur Canon.'

   Aero engines were a headache for the Ministry of Aircraft Procurement in
Moscow during the period of rearmament before World War 2.  For years their
high performance aircraft relied on developments of the American Wright
Cyclone Radial, the M25 series, but that engine had reached the end of its
potential as far as Soviet engine designers were concerned.  It couldn't
produce the power necessary for modern fighter aircraft.

   Two important deals had been done during the thirties with the French
Companies of Hispano-Suiza and Gnome et Rhone.  The Hispano-Suiza became
the basis for the M100 series; Gnome-Rhone, the M82 radials.  Neither
engine was completely satisfactory as far as power delivery, especially at
high altitude, and it wasn't until new Western technology arrived, via the
Murmansk convoys from 1941, did Russia find the power it needed.

   The LaGG 3 was grafted to an immense American radial, the Pratt and
Whitney Double Wasp of over 2000hp and became the Lavochkin La5, perhaps
the best fighter aircraft on the Eastern front in 1944.

   John got his chance to fly and he came home happy.

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

   Back in the 11th century, a Franco-Norman army led by one Duc Roland,
probably a Norman, and consisting of the 'Brotherhood of the 12 Peers,' was
making its way over the Pyrenees to join a crusade against the Moors of
Spain.  Somewhere near the valley of Roncenvalles it was comprehensively
crushed by a Basque army; the 'twelve peers,' as well as Roland, were all
slain.  No doubt the Basques were looking for plunder, an early medieval
pastime, but also they were probably defending themselves against a
scavenging army of mercenaries noted for their taste for sadistic
brutality. (ie.  Crusaders)

   The origins of the Basques is shrouded in mystery and speculation. 
Their language is unique, totally unlike anything in the Indo-European
group.  But, they've defended their turf for hundreds of years against
numerous invaders.  They introduced the term 'guerilla,' to the English
language when, during the Peninsular War of 1809, they tied up French
forces 10 times their size with hit and run tactics.  Nobody can teach a
Basque anything about 'irregular warfare' because they wrote the manual.

   As 'Oz' and the comrades made their way slowly down the mountain, people
started to appear as if from nowhere.  In some ways, coming down was harder
than going up, and they stumbled and fell, picked themselves up, and
pressed on.

   An old woman was standing by the roadside.  She gave each of them a kiss
as they passed.  Two girls came and offered them bread, cheese and thick
chunks of greasy mutton.  The food they scoffed as they marched on.  A Gen
d'arm came towards them driving a donkey cart.  He stopped and asked them
for their weapons.  These he had them stack in his cart before he trotted
off.

   Further on, 7 black clad figures stood in a line clapping and waving the
red and black banner.  'Land and Liberty!' they shouted as the group
arrived.  'Peace and Justice!' the group yelled back.  Then came something
'Oz' most feared but saw as inevitable.  Catalina burst into song.

   They were greeted enthusiastically and emotionally by the community of
Mont Louis.  Mont Louis was a Basque community and the Basques in this part
of the Pyrenees were solidly Anarcho-Syndicalist.  To the Basques, the
French/Spanish border was irrelevant.  This was their country and they'll
go wherever they like in it.

   They were led to a large barn, the one belonging to the cousin of their
rescuer, and were offered it as accomodation.  More food arrived in baskets
and clothing, freshly laundered, came carried by women appearing as old as
the mountains.

   As they tucked into their first straight meal in a week, the cart pulled
up with their weapons.  These the men of the village handed back to their
owners.  Some comrades elected to donate their guns to their hosts, while
others chose to hang on to them in the meantime.  'Oz' gave his PPD to a
moustachioed man.  He grinned broadly at 'Oz' and crushed him in an
embrace. 'Oz' offered to show him how to operate it, but there was no need.
Nobody needed to explain to a Basque about weapons.

   Later, 'Oz' and Catalina shared a carafe of wine with the comrades as
they sat around a brazier in the barn.  Some men from the village lingered
to share news and get drunk with their visitors.  He asked her why
Anarchists didn't salute each other as the other militias did.

   "The Communists clench their fists," he said, "the Fascists extend their
arms.  And as for the military..."

   "Is 'anti-libertarian,'" she said, something the worse for drink, "is
'subservience to bourgeois centrism.'" 'Oz,' shaking his head, regretted
asking the question.

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

   When John arrived home to the Pravda, he was still on a high from his
flight in the Yak.  When he burst through the door Benin was waiting for
him, grinning broadly.  She'd just had a bath, she had her hair wrapped in
a towel, and she wore a long dressing gown tied at the waist.

   Benin opened her mouth but John didn't give her a chance to speak.  He
picked her up and carried her through to the bedroom giggling.  Depositing
her on the bed, he lay on her.  This time, however, he was careful to
support his own weight on his elbows.  He then gave her a long, lingering,
passionate kiss, which she returned with equal ferocity.

   He pulled apart her gown and kissed and sucked his way to her bare
breasts.  Her nipples puckered and her chest heaved as John lapped her
chest.

   Benin dragged at his jacket and he obliged by standing up and pulling it
off.  He released his tie, shirt and dropped his trousers desperately. 
Benin, bemused, untied her gown and eased herself out of it.  When John had
finished undressing she was waiting expectantly.

   Finally both naked, Benin made a place for him on the bed and he laid
himself beside her.  Taking her in his arms, he continued to kiss, and
touch.  Slowly, he worked his way on top once again and Benin lifted her
legs to greet him.

   She took his cock and placed it in the familiar notch between her legs.
Sighing, she felt him slide slowly into her and she locked her feet over
the back of his strong thighs.

   "Did you have a good day?" she whispered to him.

   "The best!" he grinned, "you?"

   "Oh yes, baby, oh yes!"

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

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