BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 11)


By KATZMAREK ©


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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.


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"NO!" yelled John, his voice rising with frustration and the knowledge that he had no other choice if he was to rescue his lover. He understood that the front was going to gradually collapse, that there was now no hope for the Popular Front Government of the Spanish Republic. "No way!"


"Don't fucking argue," 'Oz' told him, "that floatplane can only take three people at a squeeze, you, Benin and the Russkie. I want to stay, y'here, really!"


"You take Benin..."


"Fuckin' mug! Y'think she's going to go with me and leave you behind?"


Rhykov, the Russian GPU agent, paced impatiently not far away. He sometimes glanced at the two piles of earth just above the high tide mark of the Puenta de la Bana. The graves were unmarked to deter the Falangists from desecrating them later.


He listened to the two friends arguing, barely comprehending their twangy Australasian English. But he understood their dilemma. One of them will have to remain behind to take their chances. Normally intolerant of foolishness, he decided this time to let the two comrades work it out. 


He recalled Retvizan, the romantic guerilla fighter. He chose to give up his life so he, Rhykov, might have a chance. He imagined this Australian fellow called 'Oz' had made a similar decision. 'No greater sacrifice...' He knew 'Oz' would have his way.


"Let the Russian swim," John said, "we all stay."


"No, for the fucking last time! Look, let me tell you something. There's nothing back in Australia for me, y'here? Y'think I was a fucking pilot, right? Flying the outback and all that?"


"Yeah, so?"


"Well I never was a pilot, see? Only been up in an aeroplane once. I got this cropduster to show me how to fly. I saw this ad in a paper for pilots in Spain so I bullshitted!"


"Oh crap, you're..."


"That's the truth, Shagger, I was nothing but a farmhand, and a piss poor one at that. Got fired more often than not. I can't go back, the Law wants me."


"What for?"


"Fraud, theft, take your pick. I was a tea leaf, nuthin' more."


"A thief?" John said in astonishment.


"A thief! But Spain's giving me significance. For the first time I feel I'm doing something worthwhile, something important. I never was going to go back. Even on the docks at Barcelona, even if you'd stepped onto that ship, I never was going back."


"So, what are you going to do?"


"Walk to France, maybe? Get me a couple of French sheilas and get pissed on the Montmartre. I could get a job in the Armee de l'aire, maybe the French Foreign Legion? Lots of opportunities for a good pilot. The French are getting some of those Curtiss Hawks I hear. Maybe they'll let me fly one?"


"Sure, 'Oz'," said John, beaten, "maybe they will?"


"Well, bugger off then, your Russian is getting anxious. Don't forget to take Benin? Shag her rotten and whack out a whole litter, eh?"


"I will!" John was in a dream. He felt reality slipping away. It was 'Oz' who fetched Benin and brought her to the dinghy. 'Oz' propelled him towards the boat with a hefty slap on the back. Stumbling, John jogged to the boat and got in. He stared back at the beach at his friend waving. Benin gave his hand a squeeze. Before he knew it the boat bumped against the pontoon.


Suddenly energised with the task in hand, he helped Rhykov pull the seat out of the floatplane and throw it into the water. Together they eased Benin up the tall side of the aeroplane and helped her into the space behind the second cockpit. She grimaced in pain at the maneuvring and Rhykov took off his battledress jacket to make a pillow for her.


"Fuck!" Rhykov muttered as he wedged himself into the cockpit. There was now nothing below him but the floor of the fusilage about 1 and a half metres below. He propped his boots into the aircraft's longeron ribs and squatted with his back against a wooden former. He regretted giving up his jacket as he realised the former would be digging into his back. He gripped the panel in front till he was balanced like a skiier. It was the best he could do.


The sun was well up now. John looked up from his preflight check at the little knot of spectators on the beach. He couldn't see 'Oz,' he thought he must have left already.


It's just as well that most aircraft have the instruments in the same place, because the characters were all in Russian. Nevertheless, he had to ask Rhykov to translate. 'YAC' was kilometres, ok, 'artificial horizon' was pretty obvious and, once one figured out the Cyrillic numbering system, one could calculate engine revolutions and altitude. He cranked up the pumps to full pressure and hit the self starter. He bellowed in triumph when the wheezing engine banged into life. John tested the throttle lever until he was satisfied he understood everything he needed to get the aircraft airborne. The seaman cast off the plane from the pontoon and the plane began to move.


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'Oz' heard the plane's engine start up. He kept on walking, he wasn't sure to where. He'd been surprised John had swallowed all that bullshit about him being a thief. But then, John Greenhaugh had always been gullible, hadn't he?


The truth is, he wanted to go home as much as anyone. He should've boarded that ship at Barcelona, but he didn't fancy John's chances on his own. He needed someone who was street smart, John was far too naïve and trusting. He'd have been a dog's dinner in no time, wouldn't he? 'Oz' Callaghan had never left a mate in the lurch.


A truck clattered along. 'Oz' put out his thumb but it kept on going. "Fucking Spaniards," he muttered, "fucking mug!" he said to himself.


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John had never piloted a floatplane in his life. When taxiing it pitched and rolled like a boat that was far too top heavy. Unlike a landplane, control was sluggish because of the resistance of the water. He turned slowly into the wind and wound open the engine. The radial roared and spray flew up in a wide arc over the cockpit. At last it began to speed up through the water, the nose came up alarmingly and the aircraft settled into planing over the sea. John looked into the mirror and saw a high plume of water following the craft.


Rhykov's face was strained as he tried to support himself on his haunches against the bumping of the aircraft.


The heavily laden floatplane wouldn't lift, wouldn't get up to rotation speed. John pushed the throttle past the gate as it left behind the last of their light floats. Ahead was the mouth of the inlet and the open sea. 
John saw the crests of the waves ahead as the surf smashed towards the rocks. If the plane wasn't airborne by the time he reached open water, John wasn't sure what the rougher sea was going to do to the frail aircraft.


He looked into the mirror again. Rhykov was yelling and pointing up with his finger. John couldn't hear a word, but supposed what the GPU agent was telling him.


The plane lurched and suddenly they were skimming above the waves. John felt a surge of elation as he eased the stick slowly back and the nose of the Heinkel came up towards the sky. He looked into the mirror again and saw Rhykov smiling. John climbed steadily until they were at 1,500 metres altitude. He then banked towards the Mediterranean on the heading Rhykov had given him. He flicked on the radio and tapped the callsign, once twice.


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Admiral Gorshin was on the upper bridge. He'd ordered steam up 2 hours ago and was counting anxiously down on his watch. In twenty minutes they had to leave or they'd never make the rendezvous with their support ship. To catch up time they would have to increase speed and, like any fast warship, the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' burnt up fuel at a prodigious rate at full speed.


The decision to leave had to be his, he insisted. He wouldn't pass on the responsibility of leaving people behind down the chain of command. If family or the High Command wanted someone's head to roll, it had to be his. There was no other way.


A signalman ran up the ladder and handed the Admiral a chit. On it, the call sign 'SC' repeated twice. Admiral Gorshin breathed a sigh of relief and gave the order to prepare the ship for seaplane recovery.


This was one of the most difficult tasks for any vessel in open sea. The cruiser was narrow and so had a tendency to roll. This made hitching the crane to a seaplane bobbing alongside a very dangerous operation. Various techniques were tried in the Soviet Navy, but the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' developed its own way.


A seaman was attached to the crane's spreaders by harness and was lowered down to the top wing of the aircraft. Swinging above, he clicked in the shackles by using a steel bar with a specially adapted hook on the end. If the sea was too rough, the seaman risked a ducking or being slammed against the wooden wing of the floatplane. Worse, he could be swung through the arc of the spinning propellor and chopped to pieces. The aircraft needed to keep the engine running to prevent the plane from drifting. It wasn't a job for the faint-hearted, but the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' had never lost a seaman this way.


And conditions were marginal, for the sea had come up. It was going to be an extremely difficult operation with fine handling required from the aircraft's pilot, the bridge crew and the recovery team.


All navies that used catapault aircraft had the same problem. The Japanese and the British were probably the most experienced and even those navies had at least one spare aeroplane on board in case of accidents. Soviet Cruisers of the 'Profintern' class, however, had only one. If that was damaged then it was tough luck.


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It took John half an hour to locate the ship. A buzz of traffic came over his headphones, all in Russian and completely indecypherable. He had never landed a floatplane on the water before, or been recovered by a warship. Rhykov plugged in his headset in the second cockpit and tried to give instructions. He couldn't hear the ship calling so couldn't translate for him.


"Land into wind," Rhykov told him, "taxi to the ship's side ahead of the crane. Stand off 10 metres, they will hook you on, simple!" John could see that it wasn't that simple, that his throttle control would have to be perfect. And that in a type of aircraft with which he was unfamiliar as well as overladen. If he miscalculated he could drown them all, particularly Benin, who had no way of getting out in an emergency. 


He was clammy with sweat, it ran down his forehead into his eyes. He circled slowly, observing the surface of the sea, calculating windspeed and direction. Gritting his teeth, he lowered the flaps to shed speed. He had little idea of the stalling speed of the Heinkel, instead, he used his sense of feel. Fortunately, the aircraft was very responsive to the controls and docile, a credit to its designer, Ernst Heinkel, and to its eliptical wings.


He sank lower and lower bringing the nose up for landing. The extra weight in the aircraft, particular Benin's behind the centre of gravity, threatened to cause the floatplane to pitch up at near stall speed and hit the water tail first. It was hard work, jigging the stick to keep the tail clear of the water. The Heinkel shuddered as it clipped the first wave. The nose now threatened to pitch forward and John put on more throttle to compensate.


The float touched water again and this time John eased back on the throttle. The Heinkel slapped down into the water, ducking into a trough, then breaking over a crest. In a remarkably short time, the floatplane settled, ceased planning, and began to pitch and roll in the sea. They were down.


John turned towards the grey side of the cruiser and taxied towards the waist of the vessel. Already, the crane had been swung outboard and John could see a seaman dangling precariously from the steel cable.


He was on the ship's lee so, as he got closer, the cruiser sheltered the small aeroplane from the onshore wind. Close in, the sea was calmer and John was able to maneuvre below the crane. Even so, the relative motions of the aircraft and ship required impeccable timing on the part of the recovery team.


It took the crew 10 minutes to hook on the aircraft and lift it clear of the water. Seamen with long poles, attached to which were rubber fenders, guided the tail of the aircraft around so it could be landed on the open space between the second and third funnels. Only then could John, Rhykov and Benin be extricated from the aircraft.


Rhykov had been thrown against the wooden former behind him with the impact of landing and sported an ugly bruise. He walked with difficulty owing to the cramp in his legs. However, when Benin was pulled from the fusilage they discovered she was out cold.


Benin's breathing was shallow and a streak of blood was coming from the corner of her mouth. The doctor was swiftly sent for and she was stretchered off to the medical bay.


John paced the deck outside the bay where he had been pushed by a medical orderly. He was beside himself with worry when he saw Rhykov and a man in his sixties come down the companionway. The man was dressed in a dark blue sea coat and officer's cap. Rhykov introduced him as Admiral Gorshin and he shook his hand warmly. The Admiral spoke to John in Russian.


"The Admiral said," translated Rhykov, "that that was a fine piece of flying and thanks you for returning his crewman to the ship. How is Benin?" he asked.


"I don't know," said John, "they can't speak English," he nodded at the door, "and they won't let me in."


"Ah, I will enquire for you." With that he knocked on the door and spoke to the doctor. "The doctor says she has a punctured lung and she needs a transfusion because she has had a lot of bleeding. He said that you shouldn't have taken her in that plane because she was too badly injured. He said you could have killed her. I told him that she was your, ah, devotchka?, ah, woman companion? Perhaps wife? You don't mind if I tell him this, it would be simpler?" John nodded.


"Can I see her?"


"Ah, is against regulations! But I tell him to fetch you when she has, ah, stabilised, yes?" He repeated the exchange in Russian for the Admiral's benefit and Gorshin said something then tipped his hat to them both and left. "The Admiral has reserved his day cabin so you can shower and has ordered some food from the galley. You wait there, yes? You must do this because you stink," added Rhykov, "I will find some clothes for you."


John allowed himself to be guided back on deck and forward to the bridge house. There, Rhykov led him to the day cabin and closed the door.


The cabin was simple. There was an office with a desk and bookselves, a sitting room with a sofa and photos on the wall, and a sliding door to the tiny shower room. In the sitting room, the pictures were of people and ships. There was a dark-eyed beauty John supposed was a daughter and an older version with beguiling eyes full of mischief. He thought that must be the Admiral's wife.


The shower was tiny and John had to duck to get under it. Try as he might, the temperature of the water refused to be adjusted from scalding hot and John gave up and stood under it anyway. After his body grew accustomed to the heat he found it very refreshing.


There was a soft knock on the door and an orderly brought a change of clothes. Thus dressed as a Russian sailor, John waited impatiently for the doctor to fetch him.


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Admiral Gorshin watched the ship turn South from the upper bridge before going below. He remembered that he'd lent his day cabin to that young pilot. He wondered what he was going to do with him.


On the way down to the Admiral's state room, he met Rhykov heading to his quarters. He slept in the senior officer's quarters with the other GPU agents. They had displaced some of the former inhabitants who had to cram in with the midshipmen. Allocating quarters was a headache and Gorshin was glad it wasn't his responsibility.


"Where are we going to put off that young foreigner, Rhykov. Any ideas?" 


"I doubt he will go willingly without his woman and she is too sick to move," Rhykov replied.


"So you're suggesting we take them all the way to Kronshtadt? Am I hearing compassion in your tone, Rhykov? This is new, isn't it?"


"Retvizan always said there was nothing more important than love. He would not have had those two separated. He helped them find each other."


"Ah, this Retvizan is someone I'm sorry I never met," said the Admiral, "we cannot stop at any port, anyway. We are to refuel at sea. I've lost too much time. What are you to tell the Navy Department?"


"Me, Admiral?" exclaimed Rhykov.


"Yes, I've made up enough stories. Now it's your turn."


"Ok," he pondered, "two Spanish Communists who heroically rescued a Soviet agent from the Fascists?"


"Yes, good, go on!"


"We need to get them some identity papers," Rhykov considered, "I understand the woman is an Anarchist."


"Ah, tricky!" said the Admiral.


"There are plenty of Spaniards in Leningrad with a grudge against the CNT."


"And plenty more when this business is finished."


"Quite! Perhaps they were agents, yes? Undercover, recruited by Retvizan as spies?"


"I trust you'll work it out, Rhykov, and do the appropriate paper trail. I don't want it blowing up in my face. Nor do I want those two in the hands of the NKVD. Is that clear, Rhykov?"


"Absolutely!"


On the way to his quarters he stopped by the medical bay. A young corpsman was watching the women. She was asleep.


"How is she?" Gorshin asked. The young man sprang to attention when he recognised the Admiral. His top lip trembled when he spoke.


"Good, Admiral sir. Her fever has broken and she is resting."


"Fever?"


"Yes, sir. Shock, sir, from loss of blood."


"Ah. And you have told her, er, husband?"


"Husband, sir? I don't know, sir. Nobody said anything. I will do it straight away!"


"You speak English?"


"No, sir."


"Then find someone who can and give her husband a full report of her condition. He is in my day cabin."


Gorshin left shaking his head. 


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An hour later there was a brisk knock on the door of the day cabin. John roused himself, he'd fallen asleep on the narrow bunk. He opened the door and saw a marine standing ramrod straight with a piece of typed paper.


"Colonel, SIR!" the marine said in English without blinking, "I have report, SIR, on condition of Captain Benin."


"Wha..." replied John, shaking the sleep from his brain, "Captain?"


"SIR!" he began to read, "'the patient suffered rupture of lung tissue. This was repaired by Commander Medical Ivan Davidovich Khabarovski this morning AM. Patient had transfuse of blood. Patient has been observed by staff round clock. Patient had fever from blood loss but now is not. Patient is asleep with drugs. Patient must recover strength. Patient has best of care according to Soviet Naval regulations and instructions,' SIR!" The Marine snapped a salute and continued until John returned the gesture. "Will that be all, Colonel SIR?"


"Colonel?" said John stunned, "um, yes, thank you." The Marine snapped another salute and spun on his heels. John pinched himself. Yes, he was awake and this wasn't a movie.


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John was invited to breakfast in the Officer's mess the next morning at 7am. The ships's officers sat at a long table attended by two ratings. Despite their 'classless society,' John mused, there appeared to be a distinction between officers and men, just like any Navy.


Rhykov sought him out and sat next to him. He asked after Benin. John told him he hadn't heard this morning. He told him about the 'Marine's report' and how he and Benin had apparently been promoted. Rhykov roared with laughter and explained to the other officers. They, too, broke out into laughter.


"I do not know where they got that idea," explained Rhykov, "but I'd enjoy the privileges while you can. The sailors here," he explained, "think the marines all have brooms up their arses and are stupid. No doubt the marines have their own stories about the seamen. The officers all love hearing things about the marines. You've made their day," he grinned.


"So what are you?" John asked, "you aren't a sailor, are you? You some kind of spy?"


"Some kind," he replied, "and it's better you don't know. You were a pilot in the Spanish Air Force, huh?" John nodded, "what was your rank?"


"Tenente!"


"Ah! Then it might do to use that rank around here. I found that on a warship, er, hierarchy is important as we live in close quarters. Something about knowing your place and knowing who to salute and all that bullshit. I think that men need these distinctions or they are uncomfortable, no?"


"Ok."


"Good, then we will use Russian form, no? 'Leytenant Aviatsiya,' Lieutenant Aviator?"


"And Benin?"


"Ah! I think 'patient' for the time being. She is an Anarchist, yes?" John nodded, "then I don't think it's a good idea to spread that around. She might get into trouble with the Police."


"What for?" John asked, alarmed.


"We do not have the political freedom in the USSR to call yourself such. This ship is part of Russia, with all the fuckheads as well as the good people. I say to you," he dropped his voice, "be careful who you open your heart to. Is something we understand in Russia from cradle."


Their conversation was interupted by the marine from last night. He asked permission to speak to John, then marched over and saluted.


"Colonel, SIR!" he began, ignoring the titters around him, "the Captain is awake and wants to speak to you, SIR!"


"Very well, thank you, er..." John replied in a bored fashion. The officers around him could barely contain themselves.


"Marine Myashechev, SIR!"


"Good, thank you Marine, ah..."


"SIR!" the marine turned and marched out. John followed quickly as the officers roared out laughing.


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Benin was sitting up when John arrived. She was being fed soup by a corpsman through an oxygen tent. The corpsman stood and proferred the soup bowl to John. He accepted it and took over the task. When the man had gone, he ducked under the tent and pecked Benin lightly on the lips.


"Hi," he said, "how are you feeling?"


"Like shit!" she moaned, "you?"


"Much better... now!"


"Good. Can't talk much," she said, "hurts!"


"Then don't!" he told her, "we're safe now, we're going to Russia!"


"Russia!" she gasped, before being wracked with a coughing fit. John made to summon assistance but she stopped him. When she'd collected herself she said, "Russia? What... the fuck... have you done... to us?"


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KATZMAREK © 









