BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 26)


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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It was a particularly harsh winter, that of 1942/42. It hit the Germans hard, partly because they didn't expect to have to endure it. The temperatures were some of the lowest on record, but for the Russians, this was their country, their climate.


Like the others, Benin wore felt boots without metal studs. The metal caused frostbite, a lesson the Germans were slow to learn. The troops at Novgorod were issued with Winter uniform of white snow suits and fur hats.


Flying was possible on clear days. The Russian aircraft were fitted with skis and all their engines had heaters to prevent the oil from freezing. The Luftwaffe resorted to lighting fires under their's and most of the aircraft still wore the green summer camoflage. Thus they stood out like sore thumbs against the white snow.


The Germans had been using a synthetic oil and their tyres were made from a rubber substitute called 'Buna.' The oil froze solid and the tyres went brittle and fell to pieces.


Teams of mostly women kept the Russian airfields free of snow. The 'ready' aircraft were kept in steam heated hangars and could be got into the air in 10 minutes. The Luftwaffe, on the other hand, was practically immobilised and snow piled up over the parked aircraft.


The Germans had failed to take their objectives in 1941 and were now debating what to do after the spring thaw. The Generals wanted to continue with the push by Army Group North against Leningrad and an encirclement of Moscow. Hitler, however, had settled on a plan to attack to the South and to capture a city on the Volga known before the revolution, and today, as Volgograd. However, in 1931 it had been renamed after the Soviet Union's Secretary-General of the Communist Party, Stalingrad.


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With the Winter, both John and Benin were given furloughs. They decided to travel to Gorky, some 700 kilometres East, to visit Garcia. While there, John had been asked to check out a new fighter, the Lavochkin La 5. It was the Soviet equivalent of the US's Republic P 47 Thunderbolt, a great big brute of an aircraft.


There was talk of John being promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel and given an Air Regiment of his own. Soviet practice, however, meant that his job would tie him to the ground. Benin, too, was suggested for Officer's School in Moscow. There was talk of a staff job, perhaps even a job with the Military Intelligence Service, the GRU, because of her skill with languages. She was reluctant, however, telling John she'd feel too much like a turncoat.


"You should," he told her, "Garcia needs his Mother and, with both his parents fighting, he may be left an orphan."


"So?" she said, "you're his Father and I don't see you keeping yourself safe."


"Perhaps," he conceded, "we maybe should think more about our futures and that of Garcia? I know my reactions aren't as sharp as they once were. I'm being outflown by boys as young as 21."


"You sound like an old man," she replied, "these boys are only 6 years younger."


"I know," he shrugged, "I'm not sure how I can keep going, though. The odds of me surviving till next Winter are practically nil. The older I get, the more interested I am in the future, that there must be a future. I've had enough glory and now I want to survive. I wish Rhykov was here, he'd tell me what to do."


"But, John, Rhykov is *not* here and I don't think you're likely to see him again. Men like Rhykov have no futures, they only have the present. Death stalks them, is their constant companion. You, on the other hand, have a future if you're willing to sieze it. You don't want to die, I can see that. I *will* take that job in intelligence, if for no other reason than I can be a Mother to Garcia when the fascists have gone. I'll do this if you accept promotion and be grounded from combat."


"I'll think about it," he shrugged.


Benin felt as close to John on that train as she'd ever felt. He put his arm around her protectively, just like the old days, and her head rested on his shoulder. The carriage was cold and he wrapped them both in a blanket.


The carriage was reserved for Officers, but John had bullied the train guards to let her on. 'John sure knows how the system works, now,' she thought. It was a mixture of aggression, status, and the knowledge that, at the end of the day, the Guards would do anything to stay out of trouble. John convinced them they would be if they refused his request.


For 700 kilometres there was nothing but endless steppe, buried in a carpet of snow. The train rolled on through unrelenting sameness, broken only by passing troop trains and isolated villages. The enormity of what the Germans were trying to do hit home. From Gorky it was still nearly 1000 kilometres to the Urals and, beyond that, the vastness of Asiatic Russia. This country gobbled armies whole, surely Hitler was aware of that?


In December, Siberian troops had arrived in Moscow and driven the Germans out. Finally, Stalin was convinced that the Japanese weren't going to attack Russia. Only after they'd stormed into the Pacific, however. Unlike the Red Army in June, the German retreat had been orderly and they settled into Winter quarters.


Moscow was safe, and Stalin continued to build up forces for an offensive after the thaw. His Intelligence Services were telling him that the next attack was likely going to be in the South, from Kursk, Kharkov and Rostov; against Voronezh, Stalingrad and into the Caucasus. Stalin, though, was convinced the Germans were going to renew the offensive against Moscow and Leningrad.


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The temperature was hovering about 15 below when they arrived at Gorky. The sky was dull and gloomy, deep snow lay everywhere. They trudged to Professor Shapashnikov's along paths freshly cleared by women and children.


The apartment was just two rooms, it was far too small for Benin and John to stay there. But the Professor organised another apartment in the same block with a family whose sons were away in the army.


The family were delighted to host an air force Major as well-decorated as John. They gave up their bed; no, there was to be no argument. Garcia slept in a crib beside the bed. Already he was too big for it and his feet stuck over the end.


Food was rationed but they managed to scrape together a celebratory feast lubricated with a bottle or two of good vodka that John had access to. It was well into the night before Benin and John flopped into bed. They were so tired after the journey they went straight to sleep. John's arm came over her and she hugged it.


Benin woke in the early hours feeling her body awash with hormones. John was spooning her, his body pressed hard against her back. Memeories flashed through her mind; memories of lustful nights and mornings when they made love spontaneously. It had to be over a year since she'd had sex.


She could feel the ridge of his cock pressed between the lower cheeks of her bottom. His hand was clamped over her right breast, having found its way there in his sleep. John appeared to be hard and Benin wriggled her arse against him.


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Squadron Leader Reginald 'Oz' Callaghan suspected something was up when he was requested to attend a meeting at the office of Air Commodore Harland, base Commander. Besides the senior officer, there were three others present.


Two wore civilian clothes but with Military precision. The third was an Army Staff Colonel, rather a 'John Bull' type.


"Squadron Leader," Harland began, "these two are from the Ministry of War, Ryan and McGaskill, and this is Colonel Bullock from Military Intelligence. They... ah... requested an interview with you about..."


"Sir," interrupted the one called McGaskill, "I understand you were in Spain during the troubles there?" 'Oz' nodded, confused. He had a natural distaste for anonymous Ministry men and Staff Officers. They always brought trouble and bullshit. "Tell me," McGaskill continued, "while you were there, did you meet Mr Antonov-Ovseenko by any chance?"


"No, sir!" 'Oz' replied, clearer. Antonov-Ovseenko was Russian Consul in Barcelona and the GPU's main man in Spain. Everybody there knew of him. If these Ministry men wanted to find out whether he was a Russian spy they'd have to work for it, 'Oz' decided.


"Tell me frankly, Squadron Leader," Ryan spoke up, "are you a Communist sympathiser?"


"Why did you enlist in the Republican Air Force?" asked McGaskill.


"First, sir," replied 'Oz,' "I'm not that interested in Politics. Secondly, I enlisted in the Spanish Air Force because they paid good money for experienced pilots and I was out of work. I knew nothing about Spanish politics at the time, sir."


"I see," Ryan said, "so you were a mercenery, fighting for money?"


"If you like, sir. But when the Germans started bombing cities and Franco began murdering civilians, it kind of became personal, sir." 


"Ah, is that why you stayed behind to fight on the Ebro?" asked McGaskill.


"Honestly, I don't know why I stayed behind. I had a friend who was looking for someone. He needed help, so..."


"This wouldn't be John Greenhaugh, by any chance?" Ryan asked.


"Yes, sir," 'Oz' replied, startled, "can you tell me what this is all about?"


"And can you tell me where he is now?" Ryan continued.


"No, sir. He... ah... got away, sir. Haven't seen him since. I thought he may have gone to England but he never made it."


"Would it surprise you to learn that we know where he is?" Ryan looked into his face, trying to judge his reaction to the news. "Or at least, where he was 9 months ago?"


"Yes, sir, where?"


"He's gone over to the Reds. Does that shock you?"


"Yes, sir," 'Oz' replied, "I doubt he'd much say in the matter, though."


"Why do you say that?"


"He helped a Russian get back to his ship, sir. They must have kept him. It's all I can think of. John... he's not a great thinker," he grinned wryly, "I don't think he knew what he was getting into... probably didn't care either."


"So, you're saying John Greenhaugh wasn't a Communist when you knew him?"


"I don't think he was anything... didn't think about it. He was only interested in flying. If they told him he was going to fly, I think that was all the persuasion he needed."


"We believe John Greenhaugh is a Major in the Red Air Force, now," said McGaskill, "I understand he's a highly decorated Soviet fighter pilot. Does all this surprise you?"


"Well, sir, if John's in Russia... no, it doesn't surprise me. He's a very good pilot... instinctive. It's all he thinks about... except..."


"Except?" asked Ryan.


"Except for this woman?"


"Ah... you mean... ah" Ryan looked at a piece of paper in front of him, "Jana Ivanova?"


"No, sir. He fancied a Spanish woman called Benin... something. He went to look for her on the Ebro. She went with him on that Soviet ship."


"She a pilot too?" McGaskill asked, sceptically.


"No, sir. She was an Anarchist... with the Mujeres Libres."


"A woman Anarchist!" All four men looked at each other and chuckled.


"Listen," McGaskill said. "we have received a request from the Russians for assistance with their fighter defence. The Ministry of War has agreed to send a squadron of Hurricanes from the RAF to Russia. We would like you to command it, if you're interested. You speak Russian?"


"Not really, just a few words I picked up."


"That's good. We're trying to persuade the Russian side to let us have John Greenhaugh as a liaison..."


"It's important," piped up the Army Colonel, "that this... ah... experiment goes off without a hitch. The Russians are complaining that we're not doing enough to help them. The British Government hopes this token will shut them up. Bloody cheek, if you ask me, all the effort of the Navy and the Merchant chaps to get those convoys to Murmansk and they're still belly-aching."


"Quite!" agreed McGaskill, "but the fact remains that we need the Red Army to beat Hitler. If the Russians should make a separate peace..."


"We can't give them any excuse to bail on us," added Ryan. "The Americans may take some time before they can come into the war completely. Then they have the Japanese to contend with. I tell you, Squadron Leader, right now, Britain needs the Russians more than they need us. These... signs of cooperation are very important to keep them in the war on our side."


"Imagine," said Harland, "the RAF Hurricane chaps fighting alongside their boys. Maybe from the same airfield? Russian, British... all mucking in, what?"


"Yes, look, Squadron Leader," continued Ryan, "we all know that 12 Hurricanes are not going to do a Hell of a lot against what they're up against. But it's a symbol. Who know's, maybe we can show them a thing or two. A bit of healthy rivalry, what?"


"You interested?" asked Harland.


"I'll do it, sir!" 'Oz' said.


"That's the story," said the Colonel, "maybe you and Greenhaugh can seal British/Soviet relations over a pint or two, what?"


"I imagine vodka, sir," 'Oz' replied.


"Never touched the stuff," said the Colonel, sneering.


"You would, sir, if you've tasted their beer!"


"Perhaps we should send over a crate of Watneys?" smiled Ryan.


"I wouldn't, sir. Unless you want the Russians to break off diplomatic relations?"


"Quite!" Ryan replied, mildly offended.


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John's first sensation as he shook off the shroud of sleep was the feeling of Benin's warm body moving against him. He was still spooning her, her lovely slim figure was pressed tightly to him. She squirmed again, rhythmically, Gradually it dawned on him what she was doing.


Beneath the soft wool of her long, neck to knee underwear he could feel the sweet nakedness of her breast in the palm of his hand. It aroused him and he gently squeezed it.


Benin was thinking of those early mornings when he thought she was still asleep. He always awoke with a hard on, it would be bumping against her as he moved. Softly, he would stroke her arse then gently ease her panties down. Sometimes she would tease him and pretend to be asleep, just seeing how far he would 'molest' her. At other times, she was just too horny to contain herself and she'd turn over.


But was John still dreaming of Jana Ivanova? Was it, perhaps, any available receptical? She could feel him, now, hard and urgent, but she'd no way of telling whether he was responding to her.


His hand now found the point where she'd undone the buttons of her underwear and she held her breath as his fingertips touched her skin. She drew her hand free of her crotch as he snaked downwards. Then his fingers found where she'd been playing and stroked her.


After a few minutes he rolled her over onto her back.  Gently, he placed her lips on her's seeking a response.


"John?" she whispered. Her tongue was thick with desire.


"Mmm?" he replied, kissing her neck.


"You don't have to."


"Have to what?"


"Make love."


"Do you want to?" he asked.


"Maybe... do you still want me? What about Jana?"


"I... I've always wanted you," he said, "Jana? I... I just don't know. Y'know, one of their intelligence agencies put us together. I've never felt like it was ever more then a set up."


Benin knew he was lying, she could see it in his eyes. But, she realised, she wasn't that interested in the answer anyway. She put up her arms and he fell on her, kissing.


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RAF Fighter Command and their Russian counterpart decided that Southern Russia was the most profitable area for the Hurricane Squadron to be based. It was easier for them to pass through Persia and up through the Caucasus. A dispersal field somewhere near Stalingrad was suggested and one Soviet and one RAF Squadron would be based there.


Both the Russians and the British hand-picked some of their best pilots for the exercise. Certainly, it was difficult flying and the British could say they needed experienced pilots to handle the conditions. But, above all, this was a propaganda exercise and it wouldn't do for the pilots to let down the show.


Some of the Russians at least were familiar with the Hurricane. Some had been shipped to the Russians as part of Britain's contribution to the Red Army's war effort. But they were surplus, mostly obsolete models and the Russians didn't like them.


Similarly, the US contributed some P40s. But the Russians thought they were too fragile and little better than what they were flying already. Besides, these foreign aircraft caused maintenance headaches for the Russian groundcrews.


There was one exception, the Bell P39 Airacobra. The P39 was unusual in that it had the engine mounted in the fusilage behind the pilot. An extension shaft ran underneath the pilot's arse less then half a metre from his balls. This was done so the uncluttered nose could be fitted with a heavy armament, but it wasn't a general hit with the US Army and Marine pilots. They worried, too, about where that big Allison V12 motor behind them might end up in a crash.


But the Russians loved them. They were rugged, fast and maneuverable, and could take a lot of extra ordinance. Some 5000 P39s were shipped to Russia under Lend/Lease and Bell designed an upgrade, the P63, specifically for Russian requirements.


As a legacy of the Cold War, however, it's extremely difficult to find a photo, or even a mention of the Bell Airacobra in Russian service.


John had seen several Airacobra squadrons. The Russians called the Squadrons, 'Amerikaviks,' a play on words. To be an 'Amerikaviki' was considered an elite occupation. Air aces flying the Bell, however, were generally credited in the History books with flying a Russian aircraft, such as the Ilyushin Il2.


However, when John received his orders he was still in Gorky. The orders merely explained that he was to be part of a joint operation with the British and he would be given the temporary rank of Lieutenant Colonel. This was supposed to both impress the British and to insure John had the authority to deal with the locals. It wasn't, as yet, a permanent promotion.


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As the terrible Winter of 1941 ground on the Generals of Germany's OKW must have realised the potential disaster that Hitler's 'intuition' might be leading them. The Wehrmacht had suffered unprecedented casualties in the first 6 weeks of the invasion of Russia, some 60,000 dead alone. Many more German troops were dying in the ice and snow.


The German front line had doubled in length as it had advanced deep into Soviet territory. Defences had to be kept manned as well as attack forces assembled. The beginnings of a manpower shortage were confronting the German Staff.


The Nazis presented the invasion to the rest of Europe, the German occupied countries as well as those still outside their control, as a 'crusade against Bolshevism,' the great evil. They actively recruited troops from throughout Europe to fill the gaps. Spain sent a Division, and the Hungarians, Croatians, Latvians, Estonians, Italy, etc all sent troops, more or less willingly. There were also minuscule and wholly insignificant contingents from France, Scandinavia, Greece and even a dozen or so bewildered British.


But all this didn't disguise the fact that, unless the Blitzkrieg could be put back on track in the Spring of 1942, then the result would be a war of attrition in which the Soviets would have an overwhelming advantage.


But the Nazis had created a system of leadership which didn't encourage such doubts to be presented to the Fuhrer. His genius, after all, had not failed them in the past.


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KATZMAREK ©
