THE BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 6)


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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As the Battle of the Ebro drifted on into September 1938, it took on all the drama, and international attention, as any battle in France during the 1st World War. Casualties, sickness from unsanitary conditions, and the new horror of systematic bombing from aircraft as well as the usual relentless artillery bombardments, were horrific. Fully 12% of all Republican soldiers who fought in the War were killed, and a good percentage died on the Ebro.


Falangist success in the North and South had released new Nationalist assets for the continuing sore of the Ebro. Gradually some three Nationalist Armies, De Llano's, Yague's and Moscado's amassed along the front. Unprecedented masses of artillery batteries and armour were collected and the full resources of the German Condor Legion were devoted to the battle. This was going to be the decider, the final breaking of Republican resistance.


It was about this time that Juan Negrin, Prime Minister of the Popular Front Government, came up with the desperate scheme to persuade General Franco to send home his German and Italian allies. He would send home all foreigners fighting for the Republic, including the International Brigades and the Russians, and 'invited' Franco to do the same with his Germans and Italians. 'Let this issue be decided by Spaniards,' he declared.


Accordingly, in a grandiose statement to the World's Press, he announced the recall of the International Brigades to take effect on September the 23rd. The plan continued even after a stoney silence from Franco. Meanwhile, Nationalist forces continued to build up along the Ebro.


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As John convalesced at the Swedish Hospital at Sabadell, he watched the Republican cause deteriorate. Fueding within the Government deepened and was gleefully reported in the various broadsheets printed by the different factions.


PCE Militiamen and their Russian NKVD advisors hunted down the remnant of the POUM leadership. Disgruntled CNT members assassinated a number of their Communist rivals. Socialists bickered with the Russians over the influence they were having on strategy. The CNT ministers were sacked from the Government, which had moved to Barcelona. The Andalusian Assembly was wound up and the remaining free territory there came under the direct control of the Government. Similarly, the Generalidad was suppressed by Negrin.


In the North, the Basque Government was dissolved. 'Euskady,' had practically ceased to exist in any case. A motly collection of CNT, Basque seperatists and other Left Wingers split into guerilla groups and went on fighting. Gradually, they would coalesce as ETA, 'Basque Homeland and Freedom,' which still exists today.


The 1st Escuadrillo was to be disbanded, John heard. There was not enough Moscas left in working order for the squadron to continue. The Spanish were to be reassigned and the foreigners, like himself, sent home. Even the Russians appeared to be packing.


He'd not heard from Benin since he'd left to return to the squadron at the opening of the battle. He began to suppose she must be dead.


If so, he wanted a grave to grieve over. If she was alive he wanted to bring her out of this hellhole. He knew he couldn't live the rest of his life not knowing. New Zealand? He had nothing to return there for. 'Complacent, self-righteous, little country in a faraway corner of the British Empire,' he thought.


'Oz' Calaghan was preparing to leave. He stopped by with a bottle of ouzo he obtained from some Greek volunteers from the 'Dimitrov' Batalion. This they downed quickly until they were good and drunk.


"Eh!" the Australian said suddenly, "you're not leavin' are ya?"


"Nope!"


"Mug!"


John shrugged, "no point... ain't no point goin' home."


"No point stayin'." 


"I need her... need to know..."


"Waa? How long... how long you know her? Days? Hours? Yer a fuckin' mug."


"Long 'nuff... long 'nuff to know... I know..." John's head slumped.


"Fuckin' romantic!" the Australian spat.


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Outside, in the roadstead off Barcelona, warships from Britain, France, Italy, Germany and Russia anchored in uneasy proximity to one another. The Royal Navy's HMS London lay between Germany's 'Admiral Graf Spee' and the Soviet 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya.' There was no fraternising between the crews. In fact there was little contact at all that wasn't strictly business.


Admiral Gorshin found it depressing. Whenever Soviet ships called at Western ports there was always something; a dance, maybe, a guided tour or even a formal lunch for the officers. He thought Barcelona was the least desirable duty he'd ever had.


'The Internationals were pulling out,' he'd been informed by Moscow, 'Soviet citizens were to be collected by a flotilla of transport ships. The 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya's' role was to oversee the evacuation.' 'And to let it be known to the Germans that the Soviet Union wasn't going to be pushed around,' Gorshin thought. 


The 'London' had insinuated itself between the two enemies. It was a clear warning to two of the cheating members of the 'Non-Intervention Treaty' that His Brittanic Majesty wasn't going to put up with any 'irregularities.' 'Bloody English!" Gorshin mused, 'forever hypocrites.'


'There was more than one way to take sides,' Gorshin pondered, 'more than one way.'


Compared to the clean lines of the modern ships of the other powers, the 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya' looked old-fashioned. In fact the ship was originally laid down in 1913 as one of 6 cruisers of the 'Svetlana' class. The War and the Revolution had delayed completion and it wasn't finally launched until 1923. Some attempts at modernisation had occurred over the years but her guns and propulsion were still the same 1913 design. The German 'Armoured Cruisers,' that the English dubbed, 'Pocket Battleships,' would have no difficulty at all overcoming the Soviet Cruiser's modest armament.


The British, French and Russians had supplied a fleet of merchant vessels that were to carry off the estimated 60,000 or so foreigners. These thronged the roadstead. A negotiated truce with the Italian 'Legiero' ensured that no ships were to be bombed during the exercise. Gorshin noted that HMS London had her anti-aircraft guns manned, just in case, as indeed, did the 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya.'


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Benin and her gun crew improved their dugout until it was reasonably habitable. A shield from a destroyed gun served as a roof, the walls were butressed with timber baulks and they'd made little alcoves where they could sleep.


Sleep, however, was at a premium, what with round the clock shelling and frequent bombing by German planes. But the mind adjusts to the noise and constant fear. Benin found she could doze for an hour or more, yet be instantly on alert if need be. 'Rather like a cat,' she thought.


It had been three weeks since Captain de Castries had been killed. He seemed like a distant memory, now. Three others had been killed and several had been wounded. She wondered when it was going to be her turn.


The Gun Sergeant was still with them. He'd recovered from his bout of concussion and had sought out his old crew. Regretfully, he told them, the young lad, de Castries son, hadn't made it. He'd died that evening. Father and son together, this was a filthy war, Benin thought.


She wondered every night about John Greenhaugh. Had he been shot down? Or maybe waiting to be evacuated with the other foreigners in Barcelona? She knew it was the latter. She refused to believe that a big, confident man such as John could be lying in some anonymous grave somewhere.


At night she wrote in her diary by the light of a flickering wax candle. She drew little sketches to pass the time; sketches of John as she last remembered him, and of the little Mosca, although they hadn't seen any Republican aircraft for some time.


The International Brigades had been withdrawn from the lines to be replaced by conscript units. Benin thought they looked like frightened school boys, their ill-fitting uniforms hung limp and baggy and their rifles looked too big for them to hold. The tanks were now driven by Spanish crews, although 'drive' was hardly the word. They were all dug in as static artillery, there not being enough gasoline for them. They all waited in apprehension for the coming storm of the expected Nationalist attack.


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Barcelona was in a curiously festive mood on the morning of the 23rd of September. Perhaps it was the two weeks without daily bombing? Perhaps it was just the chance of having a celebration in the middle of the misery of a civil war?


The International Brigades were to march through the streets to receive thanks from a grateful people for their contribution to the cause. The volunteers were to form up in their batalions, their National colours flying together with that of the Spanish Republic and the 3rd Communist International.


Most numerous were the French, followed by the German members of their outlawed Communist Party, the KPD. Poles formed the next most numerous nationality followed by the Italians, British and the Americans. The 'Dimitrov's' were there, consisting of volunteers from the Balkans and Greece. Somewhere in among the marchers was Iosip Broz Tito, the future leader of Yugoslavia.


John Greenhaugh was invited to march behind the British 'John Bulls,' in a mixed group of volunteers who had fought with the regular Spanish Military. There were 1000 of them, from all three services, and they were  to march under the Republican tricolour wearing their regular Spanish military uniforms.


John was staying. His task of finding Benin seemed impossible until a stroke of luck in the form of his friend/tormentor 'Oz' Calaghan, who turned up a nugget of hope.


"This American Sergeant..." he told him over a bottle of good Kentucky Bourbon, "a supply Sergeant... they know everything... hear all the gossip..."


"Yeah, yeah, what did he say?" John asked anxiously.


"Settle down, Shagger... He says he saw a girl... slip of a thing... real cute. He wanted to fuck her but she told him to fuck off."


"That's her!" John told him ruefully.


"Thought so! Anyway, she was with a gun crew on Hill 666. Not that usual, y'know, girls fighting at the front these days..."


"Yes, yes... and?"


"Well, this Sergeant said she was wearing one of them red and black scarves and..."


"That's got to be her!" John said excitedly.


"Y'sure? The Sergeant said she was a real bitch?"


"No doubt about it!" John grinned.


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John had difficulty walking, but he was determined to march. He felt he was also representing his comrades who couldn't be there. Those that had died fighting fascism in the service of Spain.


'Oz' walked beside him. John couldn't remember him ever buttoning up his green uniform jacket before. He wore his service revolver that he'd never used except to take pot shots at rats. This rough Queenslander put a gentle, steadying hand on John's back. 


"Yeright, mate?" the Australian said under his breath.


"Yeah, fine." John was going to miss him.


John stumbled, winced, as a shot of pain erupted up his back. "Lean on me, Kiwi," he heard 'Oz' tell him. John was a good half a head taller than the Australian. He grinned at the thought of them both keeling over in a heap.


An arm grabbed him around the armpit from the other side. It was Otto the German and John's feet were practically lifted off the ground. Lustily the German mechanic began to sing 'La Internationale' in a deep bass baritone. Others around them took it up. John and 'Oz' hummed because they'd never learned the words.


Everyone in Barcelona seemed to have packed the streets. Members of the Government clapped enthusiastically as they passed the Council Chambers. "Thanks for nothin' you fuckin' bunch of morons," 'Oz' called out. Juan Negrin himself waved to the Australian, not understanding a word he'd said.


Girls with baskets of flower petals ran forward and threw them at the marchers. Women ran forward and embraced some of the men, showering them with kisses. It felt more like a victory parade than a retreat. Some CNT men walked beside the 'Internationales' carrying their red and black flag. The escorting Civil Guard grudgingly allowed them to continue. If they wished to pay their own tribute, then they weren't going to interfere.


They marched to the big wrought iron gates of the Port where they performed a left wheel onto the wharves. In the confusion of thousands of milling troops, a little cluster formed around John. Gone went his Green jacket and someone handed him a coat of anonymous Khaki. Another person gave him bandoliers and a sub-machine gun, a Russian PPD. His air force cap was replaced with a black beret emblazoned with a red star. John thanked his friends and disappeared into the crowd, back towards the gates. 'Militiaman Juan,' he practiced his new identity, 'but,' he thought, 'he'd better keep his mouth shut.' His Spanish would never pass for a native.


Out the gates, he skirted the crowds of well-wishers until he found a deserted alley where he could catch his breath and plan his next move. 5 minutes later he heard footsteps and retreated into a doorway.


"Hey!" he heard a familiar voice, "Shagger! You need to crouch down, mate, you stick out like a telegraph pole on a picket fence."


"What the fuck..."


"You couldn't find your way out of a pub at closing time, Kiwi. And you looked like a bullock in a flock of fuckin' sheep back there. Couldn't let you get your brains blown out, could I? Fuckin' mug!"


"Fuckin' mug!" John agreed. He went to hug the Australian but he backed away. Instead he batted him across the face with his big hand. "Fuckin' mug!"


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Meanwhile, on the Ebro, the miserable protagonists were enjoying a rare hiatus from the fighting. A chill wind was starting to blow over the inhabitants of Hill 666. There was a shortage of blankets and Winter clothing. They huddled in their dugouts burning whatever wood they could scavenge.


Food was becoming scarce, the blockade, the loss of agricultural resources to the Nationalists, a shortage of fuel for transport, meant that supplies had to be labouriously brought up by mule from small coastal freighters defying Franco's warships and aircraft. As hunger began to bite, even the mules looked interesting.


Ammunition for the guns was down to 5 rounds a day. They took the peace as a chance to build up a small reserve, ready for the day when the attack would come. But they had precious little of anything with which to fight.


The army they faced had grown more professional as the Republican side had wilted. Each one of their soldiers had a 'coal-scuttle' helmet and 'field-grey' uniform. Their long trousers were tucked into boots wrapped in puttees. Generally, they wore the blue shirt of the Falange, except for the Moroccans and the Foreign Legion. Gradually, their weapons and tactics developed typically German characteristics. Later, on a grander scale, it would come to be known as 'Blitzkrieg.'


Not that long before, the British General Basil Liddell-Hart had theorised on the use of armour as a spearhead on the modern battlefield. Tanks, instead of being infantry support weapons, would be grouped in 'armoured' Regiments, then Brigades and Divisions. These should be used to pierce an enemy line and exploit the inevitable breach.


Military men everywhere had read with interest Liddell-Hart's ideas. Generals like Germany's Heinz Guderian gained the interest of their chiefs and set about forming the new Divisions. Germany was to have 10 of these by the beginning of the 2nd World War, but it was in Spain that the new tactics were first explored.


The Soviet Red Army was another enthusiastic follower of Liddell-Hart. The Russians shipped to Spain 100s of T26 and BT5 tanks to test under real conditions. A new unit, the International Tank Brigade, was formed with Spanish and Soviet crews. This was held in reserve, equipped with their best heavy tank of the period, the BT5, for an opportunity to test the new concept. That opportunity, however, never came.


New air tactics were developed by the Germans and tested under battle conditions. These were developed from ideas first tried out in the 1st World War by pioneer designer Hugo Junkers. Heinz Udet was a deciple, and future German air aces Adolf Galland and Werner Molders finely tuned air/ground tactics to a high degree in Spain.


When the storm finally broke on the Ebro, it was spearheaded with massed armour backed by Hugo Sperle's Condor Legion. A feature that was to continue through Catalonia and final victory.


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The road South was heavy with two-way traffic. Lines of soldiers trudged reluctantly towards the Front. Returning were the wounded, and some who looked in remarkably good health. This throng struggled with civilian traffic, mostly the donkey carts of local farmers and refugees.


Such an important road, lying as it did along the coast, was protected by Republican Destroyers and gunboats out of Tarragona and minor Ports such as Villenueva y Geltru. These were subjected to attack from time to time by warships and aircraft based on Majorca in the Balearic Islands. Nationalist warships, in turn, were stalked by the small flotilla of Republican submarines out of Barcelona and Ciudadela on Minorca, the last Government held island in the Balearics.


John and 'Oz' watched a Republican Gunboat cruise slowly out to sea. Its tall stack poured tons of sulphurous brown smoke into the blue sky. It looked puny against the vastness of the Mediterranean. A lone sentry in an ocean that had steadily become Falangist.


They had thumbed a ride on the back of a donkey cart full of hay. John, still aching from his wound, dozed in relative comfort. Inland, they could sea the blue mass of the Sierra de Montserrat. Not as forbidding a range as, say, the Cordilleras or the Pyrenees, but it served to confine the Nationalist advance to the Ebro valley.


"Hey Kiwi, you awake? Shagger?" 'Oz' nudged the big man.


"Mmm?"


"What are you going to do when you get to the front? 60 or 70 thousand soldiers..."


"100, so I heard."


"Ok, 100,000 soldiers and you're looking for one girl? I wouldn't take a number at those odds. And you can't walk far enough to take a crap."


"I'll get there, I'll find her."


"There're a lot of casaulties up there, mate..."


"I know, Oz," he shrugged.


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Winter rains came early that year. Heavy clouds were driven in from the sea by strong Easterlies and dumped their loads along the Meditteranean Coast. Farther up in the mountains a sludgy rain fell on the extensive network of trenches that formed the Republican lines. 


With sodden trenches, poor food and the cold, disease became an equal killer to Falangist bombs.


Benin was growing thinner. Her limbs seemed heavy and she couldn't keep warm. Dysentery was starting to break out in the trenches. She watched the crew of the 75mm Howitzer wander around as if sleepwalking, or huddle together shivering. It seemed only a matter of time before they'd all be sick and unable to fight.


She'd stopped writing in her diary, the effort was just too much. Instead, she crouched for hours in her alcove, under a blanket, just staring at the grey wall of the trench.


She longed for something to happen, a retreat or a Nationalist attack. Anything to break the monotony and the discomfort.


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© KATZMAREK






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