BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 19)


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.


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

Catalina's childhood home was an old, sprawling villa just
outside the village. It was a magnet for artists, musicians,
political radicals and those who a later generation would call
'beatniks.' The professor himself was a kindly, bespectacled man
with a well-trimmed beard. Catalina's Mother was an older
version of her daughter, a big ball of energy who loved to party
and paint impressionist paintings.


'Oz' was swept up into their orbit. He was a veterin of the
'anti-fascist struggle,' a hero of the Spanish Revolution who
had fought alongside 'the comrades of the CNT,' and he'd been a
fighter pilot who'd shot down 'Nazis and their Spanish, fascist
lackeys.' Self effacing, and naturally humble, 'Oz' found the
adulation a little hard to cope with.


For all the theorising and militant speeches made, the 'circle
of the struggle,' the informal Anarchist collective they styled
themselves as, only 'Oz' and Catalina had actually put their
bodies on the line.


Most of the 'circle' 'Oz' decided, were no more than
intellectual dilletantes and weird artists who'd no more clue
about fighting Fascists than he could paint a Picasso. 'Oz' told
Catalina that many of them thought they could blow the Nazis
down with hot air.


Catalina understood what he meant. She'd tried to explain to
him about the 'propaganda struggle' and how 'to educate the
masses' was just as important than shooting Nazis. But 'Oz'
said, all he wanted was a good plane to shoot the fuckers out of
the sky.


She helped him write an application to join the French Air
Force, the Armee de l'Air, but was turned down flat. 'The Armee
de l'Air does not enlist foreign nationals.' It said that maybe
he might be interested in the French Foreign Legion. 'Oz'
wasn't, he'd no ambition to be a 'ground rat.' He was a skilled,
trained, pilot, he reasoned, and the infantry was for those who
couldn't do anything else.


He finally wrote to the Australian Military Attache in Paris,
behind Catalina's back. He wasn't sure how she'd take it and
didn't want any dramas. The reply merely acknowledged his letter
and that the Royal Australian Air Force had nothing to offer
him. It was even more terse than the French reply. He still
flatly refused to see the British Consul in Marseille. 'It'd be
a cold day in Hell before he'd have anything to do with British.'


He began to think about his old friends, in particular John
Greenhaugh. He hoped he'd got away on that Soviet ship. He
imagined he would've been dropped off somewhere with his Spanish
lady. Perhaps they were living it up in London? He knew there
were two RNZAF training squadrons permanently based in England.
John would have signed up with the fighters. He couldn't imagine
him being kept on the ground for long.


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


And John wasn't on the ground. At that very moment he was
thundering across the Russian steppe in a formation of Il2
'Sturmaviki.' He was 'training the trainers,' those senior
Russian pilots who were going to teach young Russian air
recruits how to fly 'the flying brick.'


'Sturmavik' was Air Force slang for a ground assault aircraft.
Previously, it had been applied to the I16bis, a stop-gap
version of Polykarpov's famous fighter with a bomb rack and more
armour plate for the pilot. But the I16bis 'flew like a barn
door' and was 'as slow as a Fergusson tractor.' You can't load
more weight onto an airframe and expect the same performance,
John had repeatedly told the Russian engineers. But the Air
Force hierarchy wanted more bang for the buck and aircraft with
respectable performances were burdened down with heavier guns
and bombs.


For, John realised, Russian Generals wanted aircraft that could
pound tanks and strongpoints on the ground. They wanted 'flying
infantry support weapons,' not fighter aircraft. It was
expecting too much of an airframe to perform both roles in 1939.
But, in response to the argument that a 'sturmavik' had to make
it through a cordon of enemy fighters to perform their role, the
Generals only response was to build more 'sturmaviki,' to
overwhelm the defence with numbers.


It was the same policy of 'usure' that had obsessed the French
on the Western front in the 1st World War. Then, the French army
was to grind down the enemy in wasteful, pointless battles, by
sheer weight of numbers. The Russian Generals were proposing the
same thing with young, barely trained pilots in heavy,
unmaneuvrable aircraft incapable of defending themselves against
the crack Luftwaffe 'Jagdstaffeln.'


John could see the stupidity, the callous indifference to
casualties, that this implied and it appalled him. But he was
bucking a trend in the Russian military philosophy that had
existed, perhaps for centuries. Russia's greatest resource was
manpower. No matter they lost a battle, there was always another
army that could be raised, and another behind that.


The young 'Ivan' of the Russian military didn't want to die.
But, the Soviet army and system instilled him with a sense of
honour and duty that urged him into supreme acts of courage and
sacrifice. There was a certain fatalism about the Russian
character, an acceptance that this was the way it was and there
was no turning back. The engineers and technicians at the Red
Air Force Tactical Research and Weapons Institute at Novgorod
got on with the job and kept their private doubts to themselves.


But John was not Russian and it wasn't in his nature to keep
his mouth shut. He made his opinions known to anyone who found
the time to listen. But, even if they nodded respectfully, John
found that was often as far as it went. Russian officialdom was
sludgy with inertia and, from experience, few were willing to
step out of line. The only fast track to the decision-makers
possible was the GPU, the all-powerful intelligence arm of the
secret police, the NKVD. Only they had a direct line to the
Soviet Politburo and the Armed Forces Command. 


It took days to reach Rhykov, John and Benin's 'facilitator.'
His role in their lives was to ensure their well-being, their
'co-operation' and ultimately to ensure they didn't 'defect'
back to the West. Just how much 'clout' he had in Stalin's
secret police, John and Benin weren't sure. In fact, what rank
he had, if indeed there was military style ranks in the service,
they didn't know. But a word from him gained Benin a place on
the teaching staff at the University, a job she found she had
talent for.


Rhykov, they had a feeling, knew everything that went on in
their lives. He'd turn up at times when their relationship was
under strain. He knew what to say and he'd access to the finest
vodka in Russia. The GPU's system of part-time informants ran
deep into their lives, Benin was certain. She wondered just what
those dossiers contained. What opinions she'd expressed went
flying straight to Moscow to be filed into the archives of the
Kremlin? Would they come back to bite them? If John was no-
longer of use, what was going to happen to them and their child?
Would they simply be spirited back to the West? Benin didn't
think so. John's knowledge of Soviet aviation technology would
be far too beneficial to Western intelligence circles. Like it
or not, they were in Russia for a long stay. Perhaps they'll
never be let go?


And, Benin had often asked herself, what would they do in the
West anyway? What country could they settle in? New Zealand? She
wasn't sure where that was but knew it was far from everywhere.
She understood it was full of sheep and farmers, had small
cities and a very staid, English culture. She didn't even know
if they had Universities, or the Ballet.


Spain was out of the question now that Francisco Franco was in
charge. A large swathe of Europe had adopted a militant fascism
and was busy gobbling up anything they could chew. Czecho-
Slovakia was being dismembered, Poland was being hounded over
the Danzig Corridor and accused of all sorts of barbarities
against ethnic Germans. Abysinia in the Horn of Africa had been
brutalised by the Italian Army and Air Force. Mussolini vowed to
make the Mediterranean 'an Italian lake,' and talked of 'the New
Roman Empire.' At least Russia was safe from the Nazis, Benin
thought. It was far too large a country to be conquered by
anybody.


Rhykov turned up a week after John had made the call. John
explained his feelings about the direction the RAFTRWI was
taking. He told him the Red Air Force needed an 'air superiority
fighter' that could win the war in the air for the 'sturmaviki.'
He didn't feel right about approving the Il2 if it was going to
be sent in, unescorted, against Messerschmitts. Rhykov listened
to every word John said without interruption.


"When do you think Russia will go to war with the Germans?"
Benin asked when John had said his piece.


"Ah, if I had a crystal ball," he replied.


"But you're planning to?"


"We try to plan for everything," he evaded, "but we will see
what Herr Hitler has in mind. Meanwhile, we may have other fish
to fry."


"Who?" demanded Benin.


"Others," he said, "that have bad intentions towards the USSR."


"Such as?"


"Oh, I don't necessarily mean war," he said, "maybe we lean on
them a little?"


Benin got no more out of him. He claimed he may have been a bit
too 'candid' already and 'we'll see what we shall see.'


As for John's complaints, Rhykov said he'd make some
'inquiries' and convey his views to the big shots.


"As I understand, it's a question of strategy and having the
right tools for the job. We are not ostrichs with our heads in
sand," he grinned, "but Generals think they know how to win
wars. Stalin, he thinks he knows because his people keep telling
him he's right in everything. It maybe not a good idea to tell
one's boss he doesn't know anything, right? John, you need to be
more, ah, diplomatic, yes? You need to learn to grovel a little,
maybe? You piss Mikoyan off, yes? He is, ah, liked by big shots,
sure, but he's also good designer of aeroplanes. He knows how to
make planes go fast. Lavochkin, Gurevich, Gudenov, Petlyakov and
all the others are good designers. You maybe tell them a little
of what they want to hear and then maybe they'll hear what you
want them to, no? Is this right?"


John thought the logic inescapable.


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


Jana was being kept away from John deliberately. She knew this
instinctively because she was raised with the Soviet mindset and
knew the games the bigshots played. She was a 'distraction' to
him.


She was a distraction to everyone, it seemed to her. That's why
she'd been kicked out of the plum projects and sidelined with
the 'go nowhere' orders of Polykarpov. She didn't feel resentful
towards John. This was not his doing. Like everybody, he was
just doing what he's told.


Polykarpov's project was a depressing place to work. All the
staff there, including the designer himself, knew that they were
given an impossible brief. To turn an old aeroplane into a first
line combat aircraft.


Instead of laughter, jokes, as well as the serious discussions
he'd had with John during the Yak 1 project, her colleagues here
spent the long days bitching. It was wearying on the spirit and
she hated it.


She waited for the time when the plug was going to be pulled,
as they were all sure was going to happen soon. The Ministry
couldn't keep allocating resources to projects that weren't
going to produce results.


At the end of the Month they were going to have a pilot's
meeting. Theoretically, all the test pilots were to get together
to share ideas and to draw up a collective report. This report
was to go to the project director who was supposed to include
the pilots' opinions in his overall Monthly report to the
Ministry.


In reality, little time was spent on business and it'd lately
become an opportunity for the pilots to socialise, to get drunk
together. It seemed that test pilots' views carried little
weight, so why bother wasting time on reports?


But it was an opportunity to get together with John once again.
His opinion was one they'd listen to, she thought, he could get
things changed when they couldn't. In addition, she missed him;
missed him as a friend and whatever else might develop between
them.


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


'Oz' remained at the villa for three months. The seaside
village filled with visitors for the summer who lay all over the
beach like basking seals. He managed to find a little work,
renting deckchairs and selling icecream from a cart.


The international situation in Europe grew more and more
dangerous. Hitler made more threats towards the Poles, had
already occupied Prague and would soon swallow the rump of
Czecho-Slovakia. The British and French warned Hitler they would
guarantee the integrity of Poland's borders. The USSR was
ominously quiet.


France began calling up the army reserves. A defence mentality
persisted and extolled the virtues of her system of fortresses
to protect the border, in particular, the Maginot line.
Magazines and newspapers featured articles on this defence line
demonstrating its invincibility.


But the Maginot line ended at the Belgian border. Belgium
didn't want a bar of it. It was seen, perhaps, as a needless
provocation against Germany.


The village, like the whole of France, was a buzz with rumour
and speculation. 'German tanks would find a grave yard on the
Maginot,' 'Oz' was told by a banker. 'The biggest threat to the
French Republic were the Communists,' insisted a watchmaker from
Marseile, 'and everyone knows most of them are Jews.' 'Oz' told
the man he knew many Communists from Spain and most of them
seemed to have been raised in Catholic households. The man was
adamant, however, and said that all Jews 'needed to be sent
packing.'


"To where?" 'Oz' asked.


"To Russia, where they belong, among the Reds."


It was an argument he encountered many times in France.


As Summer wound down towards Autumn, 'Oz' announced to Catalina
that it was time to move on. He needed something to do and he
wasn't going to find it here.


He caught the train to Paris and reported to the Australian
Embassy for a passport. While he waited for it, Catalina caught
up with him there. She said she missed him and fancied a little
adventure herself.


His passport duly arrived and in August he and Catalina caught
the ferry to Folkestone in England. 'Oz' made an application to
join the Commonwealth Pilots Program, which saw Australians, New
Zealanders, Canadians, South Africans, etc, join the RAF. He was
promptly accepted. A whole different attitude had overtaken the
British since last time 'Oz' had talked to one of their
representatives.


To give Catalina some protection, he married her at a registry
office in London. He told her it was 'for revolutionary
purposes.' She punched him on the arm, but didn't seem averse to
the idea.


After some short induction training, where he proved to the RAF
instructors that he really *could* fly, 'Oz' was posted to
Duxford; to 311 Fighter Squadron. There, he was introduced to
the Hawker Hurricane and to a barrack room full of Aussies. 311
Squadron was Australian and he felt truly at home for the first
time in years.


His only disappointment was to discover that the RAF had not
heard of John Greenhaugh. He certainly wasn't among the Kiwis
who shared Duxford. He missed his old mate and was beginning to
wonder whether he was all right. 'That Kiwi,' he told Catalina
one evening, 'couldn't tie his shoelaces on his own.'


"Why?" she said in surprise, "is he too fat?"


"Nah," 'Oz' explained, "he doesn't care about anything else
except aeroplanes. There's no room in his skull for any other
information."


'Oz' was quickly promoted to Pilot Officer, and because of his
age and experience, was soon in line for Flight Lieutenant.


The Squadron was a happy one. They were young, these guys, an
average age of 22 and for many of them this was their first
experience of overseas. They worked hard and played hard. Even
'Oz' couldn't match their capacity for alcoholic beverages. But
these men were single, unlike 'Oz,' and he could always use the
excuse, 'the missus is expecting me home for dinner.'


On September the 1st, 1939, the German panzers rolled into
Poland. On the 3rd, France, Britain and the Commonwealth were at
war.


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


In Russia the news arrived at Novgorod with a shock. Stalin
gave a long speech where he revealed his Foreign Minister
Molotov had concluded a 'Non-Aggression Treaty' with Germany. He
told the people it was necessary and Germany had some
'outstanding issues' with Poland. He also explained that there
was to be a 'readjustment' of the Polish/Soviet Border and the
Red Army had already entered Polish territory to 'guarantee
stability.'


Like many, Benin believed Spain would enter the war on the side
of Germany. France would be caught in the middle and the
Meditterranean closed to allied shipping. Gibraltar must succumb
to a land assault. Italy, too, was expected to join in and, with
her powerful Navy given free rein in the Med, that sea must
finally become and Italian lake. The British would be isolated
and alone on their island with a new Continental System closing
its doors on her.


And Russia was going to stand back as an observer while the
Fascists and Nazis divided Western Europe between themselves? It
was betrayal.


Comintern, the 3rd Communist International based in Moscow now
included exiled Spanish PCE members like Juan Herdandez. They
released a tame statement claiming the war was 'a clash of
Capitalist interests' and 'had no interest for the International
Working Class.' Benin, at the University and better informed
than most in Russia, was astonished at the turnaround.


Previously, John's role at the Red Army Tactical Research and
Weapons Institute and shifted to instructor training for the new
aircraft entering service. A group of them would arrive, recieve
a week's conversion training on the little squadron of Ilyushin
Il2s based at the facility before going off to Advanced Training
Squadrons throughout Russia.


Meanwhile, they were all aware of a heavy build-up of military
forces West, not only towards the Polish, but also along the
borders of Finland and the Baltic States. It was bewildering as
the Kremlin was completely silent as to their purpose. Deals had
been done with the Nazis but no-one knew what.


He was now a Father, Benin having given birth to a son in the
wee hours of the 18th of August. Benin insisted their son be
called Garcia after the Republican Gun Captain who'd saved her
life on the Ebro. John added Brian, his Father's name. They were
moved from the Pravda to married Officer's quarters nearer the
base. John had been promoted a full Captain in the Red Air
Force, much to his surprise.


Jana, too, received recognition for her work and was promoted
Major. John still hadn't saluted her.


The 'air superiority fighters' of the Soviet Airforce were to
be the Yakovlev Yak 9, the Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG 3 and the
Lavochkin-Gorbunov-Gudkov LaGG 3. These were being manufactured
in significant numbers in factories all over European Russia,
but few were entering service with Frontal Aviation. Instead,
squadrons were being assembled farther East and kept well back
from Russia's borders. There was a threat, still, from the
Japanese, then squabbling with the US over the Empire's
involvement in China and possible ambitions in the Pacific.
Until Japan had decided which way she was going to go, Stalin
had to try and cover a possible Japanese foray into Siberia.


In 1938 Japan had clashed with Soviet Forces over the Amur
river. Then, the Polykarpov I16s had crucified Japanese
attacking aircraft. But since then the Japanese had acquired
much more capable aircraft. 


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


Despite their child, Benin felt even more distant from John.
Despite Rhykov's timely intervention in their lives, the
honeymoon had not lasted and they drifted back into separate
lives. Benin's Russian had reached such a level that she was now
teaching Spanish full time at the University. There was a creche
there for Garcia and she was able to feed him during her breaks.


John had little to say about his work and, that what he could
say, Benin rarely understood. They rarely went out together
except for a Sunday walk in the park. Benin threw herself into
her work, determined not to sit at home and mope.


At Novogorod, the test pilots had been formed into a 'Factory
Defence Air Regiment' with 12 factory fresh Yak 9s. Jana, as
senior officer, was the squadron leader and John, her deputy.
During their spare time, they practiced formation flying and
battle tactics. Such local defence squadrons were becoming
standard practice in the Red Air Force.


Jana finally got her chance to make things up with John. As
Commander of the squadron she got her own office, in fact it was
a shed out hear the airfield. Shortly after the regiment
assembled, she requested a meeting with her deputy, alone.


He sat opposite her desk with a look of apprehension. She
started with business, administrative matters, and he relaxed.


"John," she said, eventually, "I think I owe you an appology."


"For what, Jana?"


"For slugging you," she grinned, "and... for the things I said,
sorry."


"Oh," he replied, grinning sheepishly, "it's all right. I've
been slugged worse." Jana laughed.


"You, maybe, still want to be friends? Is important, now that
we fly together again, that there's no, ah, animosity."


"Sure," he agreed, "there was never any... animosity."


"Good," she said with satisfaction.


"You're a fine woman, Jana," he told her, "I'm sorry I treated
you like a..."


"It's all right," she grinned again, "I've been kissed worse...
a lot worse." They laughed together. The ice was broken. Jana
pulled out a bottle of vodka from her desk and declared they
needed to drink to the occasion. John explained to her he had
more work to do, but she insisted. "You must learn to follow
orders," she declared, "*my* orders!"


Jana's office was stuffy, there being little ventilation. She
took off her jacket and released the top two buttons of her
shirt. With her blond hair caskading over her shoulders John
couldn't help but notice how sexy the woman was. Her skin had a
sheen, from the closeness of the office atmosphere, but it
looked to John as if she'd just come out of the shower. He felt
a familiar stirring he tried his best to suppress.


Jana felt him looking at her with far from a respectful, junior
rank's gaze. It excited her. His eyes smouldered towards her and
the air in the room visibly thickened with tension.


The vodka had done its work and they were soon feeling the
effects. Jana stood, tottered a little, and said she needed to
pee. John stood and moved aside, giving her access to the door,
and she fell into his arms laughing.


"I think I'm a little drunk," she told him.


"Y'think?" he laughed.


She held onto his neck for support, her face inches from John's.


"This feels familiar," she said. Her voice had dropped, both in
pitch and volume. She was no-longer playing games. They both
advanced towards each others mouths.


Breaking, panting with excitement, she told John, "you right. I
*am* slut."


"No, I never said..."


"I am," she breathed, "I want... I want a fuck from you." She
kissed him again, passionately, her hand drifting down the front
of his pants. "And," she added, "I think you want fuck from me."


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KATZMAREK ©




