THE BUTTERFLY AND THE FALCON


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.


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


Historical Note


When King Alfonso XIII assumed power in 1902 he inherited a Spain deeply divided. Spanish society was being squeezed between the pressures of modernisation and a lagging, anachronistic Conservatism. The constitutional assembly, the Cortes, had only limited authority. Not unlike the Russian Dumas in Tsarist times, it could advise the Monarch, but not overide his decision.


Spain had once been a great empire, but the 19th century saw it reduced to a shadow of its former self. Rather than move from an economy based on the exploitation of her colonies and a society dominated by the precepts of a Tridentine-style Roman Catholic Church, Alfonso was unwilling to countenance any liberalisation.


Slowly his rule began to unravel in the years leading up to the 1st World War as he repeatedly blocked any attempt at agrarian reform or democracy. Inevitably, this gave fuel to the growing number of radical political groups whose only avenues of dissent were sabotage and assassination. Eventually, his chaotic rule was brought to an end by Miguel Primo de Rivera, an Army General, in 1923.


Vowing to rule for only 90 days; long enough, he claimed, to root out corruption and pave the way for Democratic reforms; in fact his dictatorship lasted until 1930. By then Spain was bankrupt through financial mismanagement and little had been done to free up society. Eventually he was forced to resign and allow elections.


That election in 1931 was characterised by widespread electoral fraud, which saw an overwhelming victory by the right wing Catholic Party, the CEDA, and the 'peasant's Party,' the Radicals. The Left was badly fractured, with one of the leading groups, the Anarchists of the FAI/CNT, calling for a voter boycott. CEDA promptly began to peel back the few liberal reforms of the Primo de Rivera Government. Spain's economic problems deepened.


For the election of 1936 Manuel Azana of the Socialists, the PSOE, organised a 'Popular Front' of all Left Wing parties save the Anarchists. The Right promptly coalesced into the 'National Front' under Sanjuro, a General. The Nationalists had the support of the 'Falange Espanole,' the Fascists, led by Primo de Rivera's son. Their anti-Catholic rhetoric made them uneasy bedmates with the CEDA but their ultra-nationalism and violent anti-communism attracted the attention of those interested in Spain's spiritual rebirth as a World power.


The Popular Front won by a close margin. One of their first measures was to outlaw the Falange and exile an outspoken critic of reform, General Francisco Franco, to the island of Minorca.


Rumours of a military coup if the Popular Front won had been circulating for months. Franco had been implicated along with the Fascists. Azana attempted to head off trouble but he merely accelerated the timetable.


In June 1936 Franco secretly travelled to Tetuan in Morocco and raised the Spanish Army of Africa in revolt. Rebellions broke out on the peninsular led by groups of army officers and in desperation the Government provided arms to their Left Wing supporters. This included the FAI/CNT who successfully defended Barcelona against an attack by rebel units.


But Franco had allies in Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini.


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


August 2005, outside Vladivostok, Russian Federation.


The Kamov Ka27 helicopter fluttered just 500 metres above the
cold waters of the Northern Sea of Japan. Visibility was limited
to no more than a kilometre by a low, grey mist. The two pilots
had their eyes fixed on the central consol, and the pulsing
screen of the search radar.


"Kamov Victor Alpha this is Poltava," the headset crackled,
"have you a visual?"


"No, not yet, Poltava," replied the Kamov's senior pilot, "I
have her on radar 4 kilometres East of our position. It's very
thick out there."


"Roger, Kamov Victor Alpha. Switch to channel seven and tell
them you're friendly," Poltava instructed, "we don't want any
international incidents."


"Roger out." The pilot clicked the radio dial a few notches.
"Te Kaha, Te Kaha," he said in English, "this is the Russian
Navy's helicopter Kamov Victor Alpha. Do you read me?"


"Loud and clear, Kamov Victor Alpha. We have been tracking you
for ten minutes," came the reply, "just like old times, eh?"


"Yes, Te Kaha," chuckled the Kamov's pilot, "except we wouldn't
be guiding you into our Naval base."


"Rather the opposite, I think. I'm Lieutenant Rashbrooke, 1st
Officer."


"Welcome to Russia, Te Kaha, an historic occasion. The Guided
Missile Cruiser Poltava is waiting behind us to guide you in. My
name is Brian, by the way."


The bridge Officers on the Te Kaha looked at each other with
mild consternation. They weren't sure whether they were being
put on. "Brian?" remarked Lieutenant Rashbrooke, "not a common
Russian name, Kamov Victor Alpha?"


"Is because I'm a Kiwi, like you," came the reply from the
Russian chopper. The New Zealand Naval Officers looked at each
other in surprise.


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


Early 1937, near Madrid, Spain.


John watched the old man urge his donkey down the middle of the
cement road on the other side of the hedgerow. The animal
carried a stack of hay twice its height. A military lorry rolled
up behind, a Tatra, clattering and steaming from its overworked
engine. The militiamen shouted and cursed until the old man
moved the donkey to the side. John watched the exchange of
gestures, 'universal' he thought, chuckling.


Two men played cards under the wing of a parked Mosca. The
plane was covered in shrubs, except for its long nose. There,
the fat German mechanic laboured under the hot sun, the cowling
peeled back, and his oil-stained torso buried deep among the
bank of cylinders.


"Hey!" 'Oz' Calaghan called from the card game, "'Shagger,' we
need ya dingle!"


"Na!" John shouted back, "I'm broke."


"We'll take ya scrip, eh Roly?" he winked at his partner. The
Pole 'Oz' called 'Roly' raised his eyebrows knowingly. John was
adamant, however, those two knew how to relieve a mug of his
pesetas, that's for sure.


John leaned back against the wheel of his 'kite' and pulled his
battered straw hat over his eyes. This was siesta time and most
of the Spaniards were snoozing somewhere among the trees and
revettements. Only the foreigners were wandering about or
working. 'Mad dogs and Englishmen,' John thought, but it could
equally apply to the Aussies, Kiwis, Poles, Yanks, Germans,
Czechs, Russians and half a dozen other nationalities in Alcala.
'This is fuckin' mad,' he thought, 'Spain is fuckin' mad and all
those who chose to come and fight here are fuckin' mad too.'


He closed his eyes but couldn't sleep. The Spaniards, he
reckoned, could sleep anytime, anywhere. He reckoned they could
sleep standing up and flick the flies of their faces while doing
so.


Two years ago he hadn't considered joining a war, let alone a
Civil one. He'd been scratching a living dusting fields from an
Avro 504k, superphosphate, tons of the shit. He'd then seen in a
newspaper that the Spanish Republic was recruiting pilots. Well,
he hadn't been overseas in his life, not even to Australia, and
Spain seemed exotic, ancient, like some living museum.


The Spanish liked the 'Internationales.' John's blonde hair and
Anglo-Saxon features stood out in the streets of Madrid. His
first day there, he recalled, he was practically flattened by
the exuberance of a large well-wisher who plastered him with
alcoholic kisses.


The passion of the people in this country intimidated John. At
one, extraordinary hospitable and generous, then a careless
remark could set off an argument that could envelop the whole
street. Is there any wonder, thought John, that such a society,
long confined by rigid conformity, should explode into such
extremes of violence?


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


Near Madrid, in the Republican lines bordering the river
Benares, Benin sat propped against the wall of a bombed out
cottage. The remnant of the roof provided scant shade and she
longed for an olive tree and green grass. 


Nearby, two militiamen peered attentively through a loophole
knocked in the stuccoed wall. Benin idly watched them as they
tried to pick out a Nationalist Officer a little way off in the
enemy lines.


"Over there," one said, "he'll poke his head up again, you'll
see!"


"Who? 'El Gordo'?" the other replied.


"Yeah, the fat bastard! When he shows again I'll blow his
fucking ear off."


Benin listened to the snipers laying bets as to who would shoot
the enemy officer first. She smiled to herself, wondering wryly
whether it was entirely proper to gamble over the death of a
human being, albeit a Falangist. She'd seen men bet over a
spider race. Nothing surprised her anymore. 


Their position had once been a fine villa with frescoed walls
and marble tiles. Yague's artillery had demolished the place
before being withdrawn North to the Ebro front. The Falangist
militia had then replaced the Foreign Legionaires and Moroccan
Zouaves. The Blueshirts proved to be brave but incompetent when
advancing under fire. The militiaman of the Duretti Column had
inflicted many casualties.


'BANG! KA POW!' The snipers fired practically in unison.


"Ha ha!"


"Did you get him?"


"I blew his fucking cap off. Can you believe that? Right off
his head, I can't believe it!"


"You hear that, Benin?"


"Tell me when his head is in it," she told them.


"Next time, comrade, next time!"


She was tired. Tired of the boredom, the routine, the dirt,
flies, rats and, above all, the nerve snapping tension of
spending day after day in the front line.


To relieve the strain, the militiamen gambled or made jokes;
grim humour about death and disease. To them these things were
the mundane, the everyday, so they made jokes about them.


She thought about the days in Barcelona. It seemed an age ago
when the women called Perdita and Conchita arrived at the
sweatshop where she worked. They called themselves 'Mujeres
Libres,' the Free Women, and they came in under the banner of
the CNT, the Anarchist Trade Union Federation.


Perdita told the webstering and wool spinning women and girls
that their liberation was in their own hands. Freedom from wage
slavery and poverty, from the oppression and exploitation of the
bosses, was there for the taking.


The women all stood in confusion, until one of them, a young
girl called Maria reminded them all of what the Boss, that pig,
had done, and what continued to do to them.


She meant, 'that which was not talked about.' How the young
girls were taken into the office on the mezzanine floor, one by
one, day after day. How they then came back sullen, shamefaced
and silent. How those that refused were sacked and cast out onto
the street. How the manager of the Cloth factory was an evil
lecher who preyed on the young, the innocent. How he turned the
factory into his private whorehouse.


Benin had waited for the tap on the shoulder, had concealed a
bodkin in her knickers for when the time came.


But Maria had woken them all up and now rage gripped them. The
manager was hauled out of the closet where he'd hidden, stripped
naked and chased down the street by his screaming employees
armed with dressmaking scissors and cries of 'neuter him.'
Afterwards they broke into his liquor cabinet and held a party. 


'En Masse' the women of the Cloth Factory enlisted in the
Mujeres Libres. A few, like Benin, joined the Anarchist
Brigade's Barcelona Column as they set out to lay siege to Saragossa.


'And now,' thought Benin, 'the fascists were at the very gates
of Madrid and the Popular Front was turning in on itself.' In
the North, General Franco's Nationalist Forces were closing in
on Bilbao. In the South, they were advancing on Valencia
threatening to cut Spain in two. Trouble was brewing in
Barcelona between the Anarchist CNT/FIA and anti-Stalinist, Communist POUM on the one hand and the Moscow backed Communists of the PCE and the
Catalan Nationalists of the PSUC on the other.


In Spain's fledgling democracy the politicians had yet to learn
the art of compromise and conciliation. Each faction, each party
was determined to have their own way no matter what. The very
fabric of Spanish society had torn apart irrevocably in an orgy
of violence and destruction.


But here, on the banks of the Benares, there was only the empty
bravado of the opposing militiamen as they masked the terror
each one of them felt across the brown, shallow waters of the
river. Benin picked up her Labora sub-machine gun and moved at a
crouch to somewhere where she could empty her bladder.


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


At the airfield in Alcala the peace was shattered by the
banging of the gongs.


"C'mon, boys!" shouted 'Colonel' Vestuptivich, with his thick
Russian accent, "is formation over Toledo heading this way.
Please, we must fly!"


John woke with a start and struggled to his feet. The Colonel's
quaint phrasing always amused him. "Please, we must start
engines... Otto, you must put that fucking cover back now!" the
Colonel continued.


Alcala broke into action as engines coughed and wheazed. Smoke
drifted from the exhaust stacks and airscrews began to rotate.
From around the perimeter men came running, groundcrew and
pilots heaving their parachutes and flying gear. Within 5
minutes, the first of the stubby fighters was clattering and
banging towards the taxi area.


The Polikarpov I16 Mk 10 fighter, nicknamed 'Mosca,' (fly), by
the Republicans and 'Rata' (rat) by their enemies was the best
monoplane fighter in operational service in the World when it
began to arrive in Spain in late 1936. It was more heavily
armed, faster and better in every way against the Italian
supplied Fiat CR32 of the Nationalists except in the turn.
Republican pilots learned not to get into a close dogfight with
the Nationalist biplane. They made their attacks at full
throttle, at a speed the Spanish and Italian pilots couldn't
hope to match.


Russia supplied 300 of them to the Republican airforce, all
smuggled through the ports of Bilbao and San Sebastion past the
somewhat porous blockade of the 'Non Intervention Treaty
partners.'


One by one the little fighters bounced down the dusty field and
into the air. Above the base they formed into their 'flying V'
formation and headed south.


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


In the Republican lines on the Benares, Benin looked wearily
into the sky as she became aware of the droning aeroplanes. She
saw seven fighters in formation, monoplanes, with red-tipped
wings.


"Ours," she told her comrades, matter-of-factly. The others
shrugged.


"Hey, who's that?" one asked, pointing down the slope behind
them. Benin followed his finger to see a group of men running,
doubled over, towards their position. She was instantly on alert
until she saw the red and black scarves around their necks and
the black berets on their heads.


The newcomers fell into the ruined villa and took cover. "Fuck
off," the first one said, "you're relieved."


"Says who?" Benin snapped.


"Who cares?" one of her companions said, grabbing his rifle and
kit. Benin looked suspiciously at the relieving militiamen
before following her friends down the hill.


At the bottom of the low hill was a ruined village that the
militia used as a rest area. A large red and black flag flew
from the pole in front of the rubble that used to be the post
office. Below the CNT flag was a smaller one, the red, gold,
blue tricolour of the Republic. A dozen or so Militiamen lay
snoring in the shade offered by the broken walls.


Benin went through the gap that used to be the front door. A
section of the former roof had been resurrected into a rough
shelter. Beneath this was what passed for a headquarters with a
map table, chairs and a couple of 'staff officers.'


In the Anarchist Brigades, such positions were elected and
carried little real authority. The 'Commander,' too, was elected
by the militia and was expected to convey the unit's view up the
chain of 'command.' Curiously. the system worked well, even
during relatively complicated operations.


"Hey!" Benin yelled, "why did you pull us out of the line?"


"Calm down, Benin," the bearded commander replied, arms up
placatingly, "we just thought you needed a break, that's all. Go
into town, get drunk and have a fuck, my advice."


"Sure," one of the 'staff' added, "let me accompany you. We
could get drunk together and afterwards..."


"I'd rather fuck a pig," snapped Benin.


"Can I watch?" laughed the man.


"Go on, piss off, Benin. Let your hair down. You've done your
bit for the present." Glaring at the two men, Benin walked
slowly out towards her waiting comrades. Already they'd
commandeered a donkey cart. She tossed up her gear and jumped on.


A little way down the road towards central Madrid they came
across a column marching towards the front. "Hey," one of the
column called as the donkey cart waited for them to pass,
"that's a pretty Labora, comrade, let me have it?"


Benin clutched her machine gun protectively. She'd spent months
when this gun was the most important thing she possessed and she
was reluctant to part from it. "C'mon," the man persisted, "I've
only got this old piece of shit and five rounds." He showed her
his ancient rifle. Benin doubted that it would fire. The rust
was obvious around the lock.


"Here," she said after a long pause, "take it... and these,"
she added, shedding her bandoliers and cartridge boxes. The man
beamed with pleasure and fingered the silver grey mechanism of
the Labora. "Use it well, comrade," she told the man as they set
out again.


"Why did you do that?" one of her comrades asked, "why'd you
give that guy your Labora? Rare around here, those guns. Fuck, I
wouldn't hand it over."


"You want that boy to fight Franco's dogs with his bare fists?"
she told him.


"Rather him than me."


"That's not the proper revolutionary attitude," his friend said.


"No, but it's common sense," he grinned.


Benin got herself comfortable amid the bags on the cart and
dozed with the jolting, rolling motion of the cart.


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


John Greenhaugh banked his stubby aeroplane slightly to see the
jagged lines of scratched red earth. He thought it looked like
some giant had drawn a stick over the drab, olive-coloured
landscape. It reminded him of a child's first attempt with a wax
crayon. Back from the trench line were once dotted Yague's
artillery pieces. Now, their empty positions looked like
doughnuts from the air. Across the river, the Republican
positions were concealed with thick brush. One had to squint
hard to find any movement there.


White bursts of smoke erupted a few hundred metres away. 'Flak
40s,' John thought. He'd noticed a steady increase in anti-
aircraft fire from the Nationalists, all, no doubt, supplied by
their Nazi German friends. He was glad they were in the hands of
the Blue Shirts and not the Foreign Legion. The regular units were much better shots.


Although the little aircraft carried radios, the Republican
pilots had learned that the use of them brought swarms of enemy
fighters. Instead, they relied on hand signals from the lead
plane, one reason they maintained such a tight formation, so
they all could read them.


John saw the hand raised with the finger pointing to the right
and upwards. As one they climbed, banking roughly towards
distant Toledo. John swallowed with apprehension. The enemy
bombers were almost certainly escorted by the new German fighter
on the scene. Flown by regular German Luftwaffe pilots,
supposedly 'volunteers,' they'd heard they were called 
Messerschmitt Bf109s. They were at least 50kph faster than the
Mosca and superior in both climb and dive.


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


The cart bumped over the cobbled streets of the Madrid suburbs.
The juddering woke Benin. She opened her eyes to find out where
they were.


Across the street was a burnt-out church, it's wooden pews
dragged out and smashed in the street. The stained glass windows
lay shattered across the stone steps, their fragments gleaming
like spangles under the noon sun. Benin hoped the priest had
been inside it when the vandals came. She noted with grim
satisfaction the letters 'CNT FAI' scrawled in red paint across
the blackened stonework. She looked up at her two comrades. One
grinned and nodded towards the ruined building.


Two Civil Guards watched them pass with looks of contempt.
Benin was reminded that there were many in the Republican cause
that despised the Anarchists as much as any of Franco's soldiers.


"Hey, Benin," a comrade said, "where do you want to go?" 


She hadn't thought about it. "The clinic," she said on impulse.


"What, you sick?"


"I have a friend working there."


"Get drunk with us?" the other suggested.


"The clinic," she emphasised. The man shrugged.


By 1937 many of the Mujeres Libres women were working in
hospitals, women's health clinics (the first ones in Spain),
schools, where they taught the young women of the poor who
would've normally remained uneducated, and in the supply trains
and rear depots. Even the idealistic Anarchists had not fully
grasped the idea of women's liberation and, in some of the
columns, women were compelled to leave the front line. Of course
the men of the regular Republican army were outraged at the thought of
women fighting alongside the men. Spanish society was still
intensely patriarchical.


One of the woman forced out of the fighting units was the
famous Perdita. She was born Consuela Maria de Cisneros, a
daughter of one of Spain's leading aristocratic families.
Educated in Paris of the 1920s, she returned having been
subjected to the radical ideas current in the West Bank Bohemian
quarter. In Barcelona the Mujeres Libres were campaigning in the
interests of the working women of the poor for better health and
education and freedom from the utter control of men. Perdita
instantly signed up, it was a cause she felt was worth fighting
for.


There she met Conchita, Maria Martinez, one of the early
founders of the Anarchist women's movement in Catalonia. She was
then in her forties, an ex-nun, whose fierce passion for the
interests of her fellow women ignited many to the cause. Within
a few months, Perdita and Conchita had become lovers and the
spiritual leaders of the Mujeres Libres.


To join the Mujeres Libres meant leaving your past life behind.
It was as much a spiritual rebirth as any fundamentalist
Christianity. The women took on new names, minus family names.
That signified ownership and, after all, a maiden name was changed
when a woman got married to signify 'change of ownership.' Such
things were anathema.


From the time of the overthrow of the dictatorship of Primo de
Rivera in 1930 and the beginning of the Republic, the CNT
steadily came to control much of Barcelona. Its members
dominated the public services and heavy industrial workforces.
The CNT could close down the city anytime it liked.


Formed in 1911, the FAI, (or Federacion Anarchistas Iberias),
espoused its own brand of Feodor Bakhunin's Anarchist ideas.
When merged with the older Syndicalism of the CNT (Confederacion
Nacionale de Trabajores), a French idea from the early 1840s, it
became Anarcho-Syndicalism. 


Society was to be decentralised and classless. Production was to be run by worker collectives with a rotating system of representation to ensure no-one was corrupted by having too much authority. An Anarcho-Syndicalist community operated on a simple barter system with all major decisions
taken on a free vote of its members. Such communities were to be
self-contained and autonomous, sending representatives to regular planning committees at regional and national level. Such representatives, of course, were regularly rotated.


Along with the Anti-Stalinist, Communist POUM and the pro-Moscow, Communist PCE these political movements all had their militias in the event that they would need to defend themselves against a hostile Government. When parts of the Spanish Army revolted in June 1936 the desperate Popular Front Government in Madrid ordered the Militias to be armed because the they couldn't rely on the loyalty of their own army. 


Spain's armed forces were divided in two, the Army of Africa based in Spanish Morocco, and the Army of the Peninsular. Much of the Peninsular Army remained loyal, except for about 5000 Officers who defected to Franco and his General, Sanjuro. The Peninsular Army, however, was considered the poorer, the least trained and equipped. Nevertheless, with the aid of the armed militias, the rebellion was put down, except for Morocco and the Balearics. The insurrection was left with merely a toehold on the Iberian peninsular, centred on Algeciras, the Ports of Cadiz and El Ferol, and some territory adjacent to the Portugese border. The rebellion was rescued, however, by Nazi Germany who supplied transport planes to fly in units of Franco's Army of Africa, from Ceuta, Morocco.


Benin was deposited outside the clinic, now used as a hospital.
A line of men sat along the pavement outside, bandaged, some
playing cards and others dull-eyed in shock.


Perdita, her fine aquiline features now ravaged by strain and
overwork, moved to embrace her friend with the relief of someone
rescued from a desert island. To Benin, she was her mentor, her
Mother Superior, who had guided the youngster from poor working
class girl to a politicised defender of her people.


"Come, comrade," Perdita said with moist eyes, "we'll have a
drink and catch up." The older woman put an arm protectively
around Benin's shoulders and drew her inside.


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


The seven Moscas carefully stalked the enemy bombers to gain
the advantage of the sun. They were a typically mixed group, Fiat Br20s and Junkers Ju52s escorted by around half a dozen Fiat Cr32 biplane fighters. John scanned the sky until he spotted what he was looking for, six black dots well above them.


"Bandits, 6 o'clock high," he reported urgently, there not
being any point in maintaining radio silence any more.


"I see them," crackled the headset, "let's get in and get out,
fast."


"Roger." John banked towards the enemy, pushing his throttle
past the gate. The Mosca vibrated, the noise of the M25a Radial engine and roaring airstream over the semi-enclosed cockpit assailed his
ears.


The M25a aero-engine was a Russian copy of the American Wright Cyclone. Russia had acquired a licence for it way back in 1930. It was impeccably reliable, simple to maintain, rugged with a useful amount of power for the time. Just the qualities the Russian Ministry of Aircraft Production was looking for.


As they closed the bombers, streams of smoke from tracer bullets told them they'd been sighted. Focussing on the lumbering bombers, fast growing large in his gunsights, John tried to put out of his mind the Messerschmitts peeling into a dive above them.


John's Mosca streaked down on the enemy, firing bursts from his
four machine guns at anything in his path. It was an
exhilaration hard to communicate to someone that hadn't
experienced it. To zoom through an enemy formation, throttle
wide open and guns blazing. Time seemed to stand still. Action
rarely extended longer than 10 minutes at best, yet most pilots
swore they'd fought for a half hour or more after a dogfight.


Within seconds, the hovering Messerschmitts had dived on top of
the attacking Moscas. John was through and diving straight down
when he became aware of a shadow on his tail. He jiggled the
stick to upset the aim of the enemy fighter behind him. He'd
already worked out in his mind what evasive tactic to use. He
plunged straight at the ground below in a deadly game of chicken.


On the edge of the plain lay the river Guadarama as it made its
way to join the Tagus. The river lay in a valley cut deep into
the land and was an important navigational feature for pilots.
John had flown along this valley before in an I15 'Chato.' So
low, in fact, that the fixed undercarriage of the biplane had
water reeds wrapped around the wheel struts. At least that's
what was rumoured.


John flattened out some 50 metres above the dusty earth. He saw
the Messerschmitt was just above him and gaining. 'This guy's
good,' he thought, 'doesn't waste ammunition. Just waits until
he's close enough for a clear shot.' John jiggled and swerved,
but the maneuvring merely slowed him down, so he made straight
for the river valley.


They roared over a village. The square was packed with
Nationalist soldiers and they looked upward, white faced, as the
screaming fighters shot over their heads. John knew exactly
where he was, but he doubted the German was that familiar with
the countryside.


He hollered as he pushed the stick down and to the left, 'ee
ha.' He flattened out so close to the water that the prop sent
misty spray high into the air around the little fighter. John
looked behind. The Messerschmitt had overshot and was circling
around to his right. Before it could resume the chase, John had
gained a kilometre or more and was weaving down the river
valley. It was altogether too much for the enemy fighter and
John was relieved to see it disappear. 


A half an hour later the Mosca was gingerly touching down on
the bumpy airfield of Alcala. He looked around at the parked
aircraft, counted them to see who had returned and who was
missing. It was part of the job he hated. To lose friends in
such circumstances was the hardest thing to bear.


One failed to make it back, a Serbian named Kuzmecich. Oz had nicknamed him 'Koozer,' apparently one of the many Aussie slang words for penis. He was a quiet man with slow penerating eyes. They belied his quick reflexes and uncanny marksmanship, a natural hunter.


To be captured by the Falangists almost certainly meant torture
and death. So, at least the pilots believed. However the odds of 
surviving in enemy territory were good as the Nationalist forces
were thinly spread and communication difficult. John hoped he
would return, smiling, concealed in a hay cart. For all their
sakes, they had to believe such things were possible.


At the debriefing afterwards John was ordered to hand over his
aircraft to a new pilot, a Russian fresh from the USSR. The
Colonel told him he was overdue for a furlough. He took his kit and left 
quickly, catching a military lorry to Madrid.


John travelled to Madrid with mixed feelings. What would he do in Madrid? His life had revolved around flying and the squadron for so long, life outside seemed like a long past memory. He jumped off at an
overcrowded hotel and went in search of a room.


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


"What you need, my love," Perdita told Benin after the first
bottle of wine, "is a good fuck."


"So I've been told," Benin replied, wryly.


"And what's wrong with that? You can hand him back afterwards.
You don't have to keep him."


"I don't need men in my life, even for one night."


"Not every man is a perverted priest, Benin," she told her,
gravely. Benin looked at her hands folded in her lap. The wine,
the talk, had opened old wounds long plastered over. 


In the close knit poor suburb of Barcelona he was simply known
as the Father. He was well over sixty when Benin turned 14 years
old and had been the local priest for over forty years. The
position of a churchman in fanatically Catholic Spain was
unassailable when Benin was a young girl. He was God's man on
Earth. To defy the wishes and demands of the Father was like
defying God. One simply courted purgatory.


As long as she could remember, the Father, as familiar as her
own Papa, had touched her. It was always with affection, it made
her feel special. He would hug her, pat her hair, always in
front of her parents and she thought little of it.


One day, a few days before her 14th birthday, she recalled with
crystal clarity his hand drifting down her back to cup her
bottom. She didn't think much of it at the time and continued
laying the table for him. Benin remembered how her Mother had
panicked the day before finding enough food to give the Father
when he was to call the next day.


'Barely enough for ourselves,' Benin thought, 'and we would go
hungry to feed that fat parasite.'


"She must come to see me," he was telling her Mother, "she is
growing up." Benin recalled the knowing looks passing between
the adults. She was confused and she asked her Mother afterwards
why she had to see the Priest.


"It's because you're growing up and..." she hesitated, "you'll
soon be a woman. There're things you need to learn if you're not
going...  to fall into sinful ways." Benin was none the wiser,
but very curious.


She thought, however, that it must be something to do with
lust, sex and marriage. These things that are not mentioned at
home but were lambasted into them at Church on Sundays. 'For a
man to take someone as a wife who was not his wife was a sin. To
look at a man with desire who was not her husband destined a
woman to purgatory. A man lies with his wife for the purpose of
procreation.' And on and on. To feel the natural urges of a girl
in puberty was interwined with fear and recrimination. 'No
wonder,' Benin thought, 'that Spain was both fearful and
obsessed with sexuality.'


"Come child," he'd said before drawing her into the Rectory.
The curtains were drawn, unusually, and the office was dim and
intimate. The Priest sat on a plush sofa, his back to the thin
shafts of sunlight that filtered past the gaps in the drapes.
Benin stood before him fidgeting, nervous and confused. "Now,
child, Benin," he continued, "you are growing into a beautiful
woman. You will make a fine wife for some young man."


She nodded, managed to make a weak smile at the compliment.
She'd worn her prettiest dress, the one she'd normally wear to
Church. It had a bright plaid design and hung modestly down to
her ankles. Over the last year she'd shot up in height and had
grown hips. Her Mother had told her she was growing like a weed
and her Father would have to work twice as long to keep her fed.


Her bust had not blossomed like other girls. Instead, they were
just a hint of what was to come. All that height, though, was at
the expense of her waist, for she was a thin as a rake. "Have
patience, Benin," her Mother had said, "a year or two and the
boys will be falling over themselves." 


"Yes... very pretty," the Father went on. Somehow the way he'd
said it made Benin feel more nervous. This was not the tone the
family friend and advisor, the intercessor with God, used. There
was an edge, something indefinable and confusing. "Come closer,
let me get a better look at you." Dumbly she complied.


She was beckoned closer until she was within his reach. Then
his hands were on her, stroking her sides, down over her hips
and around to her bottom. He pulled her closer until she was
practically in his lap, his insistant hands mauling and groping.
"Beautiful!" he whispered, then swallowed and made a noise as if
he was about to choke.


Suddenly she was perched on his knee and his hand was bunching
up her skirt, his fingers moving up her leg inside the light
cotton fabric. Benin swallowed in fear and uncertainty. She
could utter no sound, her voice constricted in her throat.
"Brown eyes," he gurgled, "such depth, such beauty," as his hand
slid higher. Instinctively Benin squeezed her legs together, but
the Father pushed apart her knees with his hands.


Too poor to wear stockings, the feel of his rough hands on the
delicate skin of her upper thighs made her want to be sick. She
swallowed down the rising bile. "I must see how you're
developing," the Father said with authority in his voice. "Pull
up your skirt and down with your panties, please." She couldn't
refuse, it would be the same as defying God.


She stood, shuffled down her panties, and allowed herself to be
pulled down onto his knee once again. The Father gestured for
her to raise her skirt. The young Benin complied until she was
completely exposed.


Benin's skin seemed to crawl. She felt hot, but trembled as if
cold. The Father's fingers probed and pushed around her young
vagina, covered in a brown fluffy down. The Priest pulled her
leg tight into his crotch until she could feel his penis, hard,
pulsing and intrusive, under his cassock. He placed her hand on
it, pushed it back and forth while gurgling and swallowing. She
was aware of him breathing hard and dribbling from the corner of
his mouth. His face had changed to something ugly. Benin began
to sob until her tears began to run down her face.


Suddenly he ordered her to stand and get dressed. He left the
room quickly leaving the young girl to find her own way out.


Her Mother was waiting for her in the Church. Benin wandered up 
the aisle sobbing quietly. Her Mother hugged her and bade her
kneel before the statue of the Virgin. As she began to pray,
however, Benin got up and ran through the side entrance to the chancel.
In the alley beside the church she threw up on the flagstones.


"Benin?" Perdita asked, concern in her voice. Benin became
aware she'd fallen silent for some time. She felt a little drunk
from the wine, morose, perhaps.


"I need to go for a walk," she explained. Ignoring the worried
expression of her mentor. She got up and walked quickly out onto
the street.


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


Lieutenant John Greenhaugh wandered from hotel to hotel. Madrid
was full of Officers and Government Bureaucrats and they all seemed to have grabbed the best accomodation for themselves. Troops were quartered in Churches and halls and camped in tents in the grassy town parks and squares. No-one seemed to have any room.


He'd walked far into unfamiliar territory. Carousing soldiers
were everywhere, singing and arguing among themselves. Hookers,
too, beckoned him from doorways and street corners.


He passed an alley and spied a group arguing a little way
inside. He would have passed on by but for the angry cry of a
woman.


"Go away, get out.. bastard!"


On impulse, John turned back to investigate. A couple of drunk
soldiers appeared to have a woman pinned against the bricks. She
was small and slender, giving away at least 40 kilos each to the
men. It wasn't fair.


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


Rage consumed Benin. The two drunks were calling her an
'Anarchist bitch,' that she was both a whore and a lesbian. That
what she needed was a good, hard cock from a real man. She punched the
bigger of the two in the midriff but he scarcely flinched.
Instead, he groped her breasts. The other was laughing, egging
his friend on, telling him that he was next and he could've
picked one with big tits, he liked big tits. Their stale tobacco
and alcohol smelling breath sickened her.


All of a sudden the drunk's face disappeared to be replaced by
the wide green back of a Spanish Air Force Officer. She heard a
crunch like thin wood snapping and watched the drunk cannon
across the alley and bounce off the opposite wall. He then slid
down in slow motion to lie crumpled in a heap on the
cobblestones. The other drunk turned and ran, his progress sped
up with a kick to his fleeing rump.


Benin looked up in shock as her rescuer turned and raised his
cap in greeting. She was struck dumb, her jaw sagged.


"Madam?" he said, "are you all right?"


"Yes," she replied, automatically. She couldn't remember ever
being called 'madam' before. She should have been outraged at
his patronisation. Instead, she felt like a 13 year old girl
who's just spied the new neighbour's cute son for the first time.


The Officer was tall, broad across the shoulders, blonde with a
guileless, classically handsome face. He wore a green, Air Force
Lieutenant's dress jacket complete with pilot's brevet and a row
of ribbons. The pilot was clearly a very successful one. One
thing Benin remembered clearly from that encounter was the man's
blue eyes, deep and profoundly honest.


"Madam," he said and tipped his cap. As he turned to go, Benin
thought he looked German. Perhaps he was one of the many
foreigners enlisted in the Republican cause? Certainly, his
Spanish was halting, his pronunciation strange.


"Are you German?" she asked to his retreating back. She felt
panic, that this was a moment she needed to seize quickly.


"New Zealander, Madam," he replied.


"What... what is your name?" she asked.


"John," he told her, "John Greenhaugh... from Taranaki."


"Taranaki?"


"Yeah! A Province... in New Zealand."


"Ah!" She was disappointing herself. Her voice sounded timid,
not confident and proud of her sex, her class. This wasn't what
Perdita had taught. He turned to go. She watched him disappear
around the corner before she gathered herself. "Hey," she
called, "hey!" she repeated, louder.


"Yeah?" He turned back.


"You want to go for a drink?"


He stared back at her, his blue eyes flashing like a cat's in
the pale street lighting. "Yeah," he answered, "yeah, why not?"


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


They shared a bottle of wine together at the back of the
Montana Cantina, now serving as an Anarchist watering hole.
Armed Militiamen stood outside to ward off hostile intruders.


Benin found herself telling John about her life, about the
Anarchist Brigades and Mujeres Libres. He seemed to soak up
every word, every gesture. He was only 23, he explained, had
been taught to fly by his Father when he was 15, had been in the
air ever since. John adored his Father, he'd been in the RFC in
the Great War, an air ace, he insisted.


"I think," she told him, nodding at his medals, "that you take
after him."


"These?" he replied, modestly, "they give them out to
everyone." She knew it wasn't true.


He couldn't believe she was only 20 years old. Her face was
full of fatigue, of someone who'd seen more than was right and
proper. Nevertheless, her olive face and brown eyes were
beautiful. Her thick auburn hair fell to her waist when not tied
tightly in a pony tail.


Benin couldn't remember the last time she'd had a normal
conversation with a man. 'The cold fish,' they'd nicknamed her
in the Brigade. 'Ball breaker,' had been another comment. She
much preferred the company of women, they understood each other.


In fact she couldn't remember the last time she'd talked so
much. This big blonde man was relaxing to be around. He teased
detail from her, such as she'd never shared with another human
being.


At some point in the evening she'd made up her mind to sleep
with him. After all, she could always give him back afterwards.


"You have a place to stay?" she asked him, matter-of-factly.
She knew the answer already.


"Nope."


"Where's your gear?"


"Air Force Hostel. I left it there until I could find a room."


"Then perhaps you should fetch it?"


"Yeah... Ok." He seemed to take awhile to digest the import of
what she'd suggested. Benin watched realisation dawn slowly in
his face. It amused her and she began to laugh. The first time
she'd laughed in two years.


A Militiaman agreed to drive him in the unit's vehicle, a
delivery van with 'Camel Cigarettes' still faintly visible on
its high sides. A guard perched on the front bumper armed with a
Thomson machinegun complete with round magazine. John felt like
he was in some Depression-era gangster movie.


The Anarchists dropped him at the gates of a girls' Catholic
school, requisitioned as the Madrid headquarters of the Mujeres
Libres. Benin ushered him past the gates, where two fierce-
looking women stood guard. He followed her up stairs to a top
room. It appeared to be the former cell of one of the nuns, a
sparse room with a desk and single bed.


"Here," she told him, unceremoniously, and grabbed his kit bag
heaving it into a corner. "You mind sleeping against the wall?"
she asked. John shrugged. "Not much room," she continued, "but
it will have to do."


"It's all right," he mumbled, "better than a ditch."


"I've slept so long under the stars," she told him, "that this
seems so strange."


John undid his jacket and took it off. It was hot in the cell
and it had little ventilation. "Maybe we can go out onto the
roof?"


"Yes," she brightened, "help me drag this cot out. There's a
door to the roof just down the hall." Together they hauled the
bed outside, past a couple of bemused women soldiers. They found
a secluded spot, under the high narrow window of their cell.


It was cool, and faintly damp from the humidity. They squeezed
into the little cot together in their shirtsleeves and
underwear. Benin placed her Webley revolver under the straw
pillow, in case of emergencies.


They lay there for an uncomfortably long time, each wondering
when, or how, to begin. She nestled into his neck, looking
upward at the stars.


"What if we lose?" she asked, suddenly, "what are you going to
do?"


"The Poms and Frenchies, maybe the Yanks, will have to come to
our help. Perhaps the Russkies..."


"They won't come," she said firmly, "France and Britain fear
Russian control here. America won't interfere in European
affairs and Stalin is trying to build an alliance against
Fascism. He doesn't want to provoke those he wants as allies."


"The Government wants the dismantling of the collectives in
Catalonia and the return of farms and factories to their former
owners. The word is they want to disarm the Anarchist Brigades
to prove to Britain and France they are a moderate, democratic
and capitalist Government defending their so-called democracy
against totalitarianism. But," Benin said sadly, "it won't make
any difference so long as the Russians are here and they are the
only ones supplying arms to the Republic. You see the dilemma? We cannot win because Germany and Italy have no such constraints. They will support Franco with everything he needs to destroy the Republic. Without Russia we are doomed and that will happen very soon, I think."


"I see," John said, thoughtfully.


"So what will you do?"


"Go home, I guess. Maybe wait for another crack at the Jerries
and Eyeties?"


"Ah," she smiled, "you are an anti-Fascist?"


"Sure."


"Then perhaps we might meet again as comrades?"


"Sure," he agreed. She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. He
turned to look into her face and smiled back. Gently he touched
his lips to hers. She pushed at his questing mouth until they
became locked together, tongues playing. John felt her body
soften, move sensuously against him, until their crotches were
grinding together. Breathing heavily, she allowed him to explore
her body, run his fingertips over her breasts, down her tummy,
over her hip and onto her bottom. 


A fleeting memory passed and was a gone, the Father's hand
groping her like he was inspecting a prize hog. But John's hands
made her tingle with desire and need. Her friends were right
after all, what she needed was a good fuck.


John parted her shirt and followed with his lips. Her nipples
stiffened as he suckled them. She sought him, hard and pulsing,
with her hand, pulling open the buttons of his underpants, and
drawing his cock free. In response his hand pushed between her
legs and inside her panties. She shivered as his fingers found
her, played with her. She was open for him, gushing with desire.


Benin moaned as John pushed her panties down around her ankles.
They rolled and maneuvred on the narrow bed until she was lying,
legs spread and exposed, with John lying on top of her propped
on his elbows. She giggled at the awkwardness of it all.


His hard cock probed at her waiting pussy. Sucking in her
bottom lip, she seized him with her hand and guided him
downwards. 


"Y'sure?" he gasped.


In answer, her legs came up and crossed over his thighs. Her
hands grabbed his hard arse and pulled him into her. His
reluctance disappeared in an instant and Benin felt him fill
her, stretch her deliciously.


"Ohh," she gasped, and urged him faster. She pushed at him,
grinding her clitoris against the ridge of his pubic bone. "Uhh,
Ohh, mmm..."


They rocked faster together. John grabbed her lower bottom,
cheeks. The feel of his hands excited her, made her cry out in
lust. Benin had never orgasmed before on a man's cock, no man
had ever touched her deeply enough, either physically or
emotionally. But Johns beautiful, hard body stirred her. From
the very moment he'd entered her she was coming, and the feeling
kept growing and growing, spiralling out of control.


She remembered afterwards the feeling of being as helpless as a
rag doll, of not having any strength left, of howling and crying
out. His dick throbbed and pulsed inside her, sending fountains
of his warm essence to her very core. She remembered frantically
kissing him as he ground slowly to a halt, his chest heaving
with effort. She remembered sobbing into his shoulder as her
held her tight with his big, strong arms.


"Y' right?" he'd asked.


"Yes, baby... fine," she told him, before continuing crying.
'The dumb ox,' she thought, 'thinks he's hurt me.' She kissed
him on the cheek before settling back against his shoulder.


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


The ornate Romanesque façade of the Barcelona Telephone Exchange fronted a building of truly industrial proportions. More than a thousand workers, toll operators, technicians and office staff, worked in its labyrinthine interior. Since the 'July Days' of 1936, when General Franco began his rebellion against the Popular Front Government, the Exchange had been taken over and operated by a CNT worker's collective. 


Since December of that year, however, the Catalan Government, the 'Generalidad,' began complaining of 'irregularities.' Calls were broken off or sometimes misconnected. Politicians and officials suspected, too, that Government phones were being monitored.


Luis Companys of the moderate Socialists, the PSOE, headed the Generalidad. A fierce Catalan Nationalist when it came to dealings with Madrid, he was something of a conciliarist when trying to hold his shakey left coalition together.


First there was the PSUC, the Party of Catalan Unity, who were Socialist but becoming steadily under the sway of the PCE, the Communists. This bloc, though, was, in turn, increasingly under the control of the Russians. There were 18,000 members of the Russian Secret Police, the NKVD and its intelligence section, the GPU, in Spain at that time and many were posted to Barcelona, Spain's first city.


The PSUC/PCE's main protagonists in the Generalidad were the two CNT members and their companions on the 'far left,' the POUM, the Worker's Party of Marxist Unity.


The POUM was a new party, only formed in 1936, and a byproduct of the split between Josef Stalin and Leon Trotsky. Andres Nin had been a founder member of the PCE before gravitating towards Trotsky when he was in exile in France. He worked for a time with the revolutionary before the Russians coerced France to expel Trotsky. Returning to Spain, Nin formed the POUM.


The POUM and many of the CNT committees shared the same view, that the 'July Days' had been the beginning of the Spanish Revolution. This opinion was hotly disputed by the Communists, who proclaimed they were fighting for the preservation of a legitimately elected Government against Fascist aggression. Socialism had to wait, they said, until Franco was beaten.


In Madrid, Prime Minister Largo Cabalero was being put under intense pressure by the two competing sides. Deeply suspicious of the Communists, he was a moderate Socialist, a member of the PSOE and its Trade Union Federation, the UGT. He was alarmed, however, by the antics of the far left factions in Catalonia.


The Non Intervention Treaty Partners had stifled aid to the Republic. Only the Russians were prepared to court international disapproval by smuggling military supplies to the Popular Front. But that aid came at a price.


Firstly a third of the Spanish gold reserves, the fourth largest in the World, had been handed over to Moscow. Secondly, as sole donors, the Russians demanded a larger say in the affairs of Republican Spain. It was clear to Largo Cabalero that the Russians were primarily concerned with their own foreign policy.


That policy was Stalin's Anti-Fascist Alliance dream and the Fascist insurrection in Spain was a gift. It demonstrated to all the World Nazi Germany's and Fascist Italy's ambitions in Europe. Stalin was convinced that Russia was next on the menu after Spain.


But Britain and France viewed Russian influence in Spain with suspician and were horrified at the thought of a Russian 'client State' controlling entry into the Mediterranean. Blum's Popular Front Government in France caved in to British pressure in August 1936 and ceased covert supplies of arms to the Republicans. That decision, ironically, forced Madrid into the arms of the Russians.


Russian 'advisors', mostly GPU, pressured Cabalero to clean up Catalonia. In their view, the 'Far Left' was wounding the international reputation of the Republic. 'The Catalonian Government was being held hostage by the CNT's control of Barcelona. Government authority needed to be re-exerted.'


At this time of Stalin's purge of the Russian military and Party, inevitably Moscow's displeasure fell on Andres Nin's POUM. Opposition to Stalin's rule in Russia, in the shape of the 'Left Opposition,' was being eliminated. That opposition centred on Leon Trotsky and all political parties that identified with his ideas earned the NKVD's attention.


A story appeared in the PCE's Newspaper claiming the POUM's leaders were Fascist agents. According to the Communists, they were preparing the way for a German and Italian sea invasion of Barcelona. Remarkably, this gross lie gained a great deal of currency in Madrid and Catalonia. Even the CNT's leadership accepted the story as credible.


The CNT delegates to the Popular Front in Madrid seemed to be increasingly out of touch with events in Catalonia. It is likely they didn't comprehend the full ramifications when they they acquiesced to Cabalero's decision to seize the Barcelona Telephone Exchange. 


One person who understood the danger of provoking the 'far left' in Barcelona was Catalonian leader Luis Companys. However, he was more concerned at the time with Madrid's violation of Catalonian independence. His protests were weak, though, and had little effect on Cabalero's decision.


That decision couldn't have come at a worse time. Coincidently, the 7000 strong 29th 'Lenin' Division of the Republican Army was on leave in Barcelona. The Division were all POUM members, including many from overseas. An Irish Republican Army contingent were there as well as members of Britain's Independent Labour Party. Other's were supporters of the 'International Left Opposition,' and Leon Trotsky's 4th International, founded in New York City.


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


Benin woke with a start. The sun was well up in the sky and it bathed her face in its radiance. An aircraft droned overhead, a commercial airliner flying along the strict corridor reserved for civilian traffic. Benin saw the three broad bands painted on its wings, the red white and blue of the Dutch airline, KLM. She hardly noticed such things before. But now she thought of all the activities that still continued on in the midst of war.


The Dutch, one of the few Nations that continued regular air services to Republican Spain, no doubt also flew to Nationalist held cities, like Cadiz. 'Nothing,' she thought, 'must get in the way of making money. Certainly not morality.'


She became concious of her nakedness under the thin, grey blanket. She was cramped, and her arm was thrown over the slumbering body next to her. That body, too, was naked.


Unlike past lovers, she didn't want to instantly tumble out of bed and run for a bath. A bath to wash off the smell, the stain, of a mistake and too much hard liquor. Instead she felt the urge to play and molest him. To hold his hard penis in her fist and watch him grin.


Benin pressed herself against John's broad back and stroked his chest. His body twitched in sleep and she smiled. She slid her hand down until she found his penis lying, soft, on his thigh. Running a fingernail along it, she heard John murmur. He murmured again when Benin ran a hand over his arse, between his legs, and tickled his scrotum.


Slowly, John twisted his body around until he faced her, eyes watery from sleep. Benin braced herself against side board of the narrow cot lest she fall out onto the tiles. He was grinning softly at her, and pulled her closer. His semi-flaccid cock tickled the soft flesh of her thigh.


"Good morning," she said in deliberate English.


"Hi, are you well?" Benin smiled at his awkward Spanish.


"Si," she replied, before advancing for a good morning kiss.


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


KATZMAREK(C)