BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 9)


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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In late September 1938, high in the Sierra de Montserrat above the town of Tarragona, Gustav Hoss lead his mixed German and Spanish unit along the razor ridge overlooking the Republican outpost. They had trained for weeks for this operation under instructors provided by the Wehrmacht's Alpine Korps. Their mission was to capture the passes through the Montserrat to break the deadlock on the Ebro.


The batalion trudged through the snow among the high pine trees dressed in white onepiece suits and carrying their long skis on their backs. An elite unit, they'd all been equipped with a brand new sub machine gun that was to be standard issue with the German army, the MP38.


Further back, mules carried dismantled mountain guns, spare ammunition and other supplies. Still further back, more units of General Franco's regular forces, mostly mounted cavalry, were waiting for the signal to advance.


Much further South, in Castellon province, a sudden push by a mixed force of infantry and armour had gained the coast, cutting the road to Valencia.  A furious counter attack by Republican forces had failed to shift the attackers. The Republican army then dug in south of the town of Castellon and waited. Another stalemate ensued.


Generally, however, the Republican forces were in reasonable shape. The Nationalists had not destroyed it and they still held hill 666 on the Ebro preventing a general advance along the coast. While that running sore existed the Nationalists were denied Catalonia and Spain's first city, Barcelona.


And while the Government forces held the rivers Henares and Ebro the perilous lifeline to Madrid persisted. Franco had come to the conclusion that only by starving the capital into submission could the war be won. For the Popular Front, as long as Barcelona and Madrid held out, then the cause was still alive. As long as the cause was still alive, Prime Minister Negrin believed that Britain and France must one day intervene on the side of the Government. It was a fantasy that obsessed him right to the very end.


Hoss infiltrated his men behind the ragged line of defences that protected the pass. Skilfully, he attacked them one by one in a co-ordinated series of raids, a technique pioneered by one Erwin Rommel in the Austrian Tyrol during the 1st World War.


Within a few days, the Nationalists had advanced as far as Reus, a few Kilometres from Tarragona, and were shelling the town with their mountain guns. However reinforcements swiftly attacked from Tarragona and drove the Nationalists back towards the mountains. Another stalemate ensued.


But in early October, Valencia fell and Franco was able to concentrate his forces on the Ebro. If one battle proved decisive, however, that occurred between October the 30th and December the 8th. In quick succession, Castellon and later Vinaroz fell to the advancing Nationalists. Unprecedented concentrations of artillery were built up around Gandesa and they began bombarding the Republican lines around the clock.


Fighting hand to hand under cover of the artillery, the Falangists assaulted hill 666 with infantry. Armour again swamped the valley leading down to the river, but this time, the anti-tank defences began to wilt under the firepower of the Nationalists.


With panzers now threatening their communications in the rear, Miaja had to retreat. The abandonment of hill 666 was reasonable orderly and the Republicans began to pull back across the Ebro in the first week of December.


Meanwhile, the GPU agent known as Rhykov desperately searched through the Republican army for his fellow agents. The ancient Soviet light cruiser 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' hovered 50 kilometres off the Puenta de la Bana with its anxious Admiral pacing the deck. Benin of the 'Mujeres Libres' lounged in a dugout beside a 75mm howitzer and John Greenhaugh of New Zealand peered at the sky with binoculars.


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The old man pulled up the donkey cart at the checkpoint. His sombrero was yanked low over his face to protect his eyes. A soldier stepped forward, putting up his hand. 


"Hey, old man!" the soldier said, "where you going?"


"My village," the man replied, almost inaudibly.


"Eh! What's that? What village?"


"There... over there!"


"Identity papers?"


The old man pushed his hand into shabby coat, through his long, tangled silver beard. He extracted a piece of paper and handed it to the soldier. "What's this?" the soldier asked, "it looks like a part of an old poster."


"Pretty paper," the old man said. "You give back?"


"What's going on?" an Officer intervened. He stared at the old man, then the piece of paper.


"Pretty paper, you give back?"


"Give him his paper," the Officer ordered, "he's an idiot!"


"But sir? He has no identity..."


"Because he can't fucking read, you fool. He probably burnt them to keep warm. Boot him up the arse and let him go. We've got more important things to do."


"Go on," the soldier said, "you heard the Officer, piss off!"


The old man shook the reins and lurched off. Some way beyond the checkpoint, the old man turned into an old logging track. Somewhere up above the treeline he halted. Getting down from the cart, he took a long look around, ears cocked, before going to a nearby rotting tree stump. From a hollow underneath he retrieved a pack, ammunition and a Russian-made PPD machine gun. Releasing the donkey, he then jogged off into the trees.
 

After a couple of hundred metres, he again paused. He listened to the sound of the birds, the swishing of the wind through the trees. Confident there was no sound but that of the forest, he continued his journey up into the mountains of the Sierra de Montserrat.


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Rhykov didn't really like the SIM Officers. They reminded him too much of the worst qualities of their Russian mentors; callously brutal, unquestioning obediance to their superiors, inately suspicious of everyone and a taste for secrecy and intrigue. But they had their uses. 


Their lickspittal attitude to anything Russian, and the GPU/NKVD in particular, meant there was no task too small they wouldn't perform for him. He was certain, also, that when he swore them to secrecy, they would happily die before revealing his whereabouts. He referred to them as 'his personal Goon squad.'


Franco's soldiers would later execute anyone immediately who had the slightest connection to the SIM.


"I have information!" the SIM policeman, known as 'Gonzales,' happily told Rhykov. The thug was like a kid who'd discovered his Father's French postcard collection. "He's gone to the 'other side,' spying!"


"I knew he'd be out there somewhere. But where?" he asked the man. He seemed deflated.


"Gandesa... I think. My informants aren't sure... your man does what he likes and doesn't tell anyone," he said, almost apologetically.


"Well, of course he does!" Rhykov told the man, frustrated. "He's a bloody spy, for Christ's sake!"


"They say he's due back... sometime!" 


Rhykov threw up his hands. "Great! So he's coming back," he replied sarcastically, "so you've told me he's out spying, somewhere, and he'll be back, sometime? And I have a ship waiting that has to be gone in three days! Not 'sometime,' Gonzales, but 'three' days!"


"Could you ask the ship to wait?" Gonzales asked helpfully.


"I could, but it won't! It's needed, somewhere else! Go and bully some more people, Gonzales. Get me something specific!"


"I will!"


Rhykov didn't doubt that the man would be true to his word.


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'Oz' called him 'Early Emil.' The Messerschmitt Bf109E fighter first made it's appearance the night after the two men arrived at Amposta. 'Emil' was the nickname the Germans had for the newest of the Messerchmitt fighters to arrive in Spain.


The fighter skimmed in low over the town, strafing, before heading down to the Puenta de Bana to harrass the shipping. It appeared dead on 5am when everyone was still recovering from last night's bingeing. It shot a lorry full of holes before zeroing in on the host of small coastal freighters. John and 'Oz' saw the black disks on its wings with the white St Andrews cross of the Nationalists. The nose featured a cartoon bumble bee, complete with a long sting. John was impressed by the skill of the pilot. He hankered to be back in the air.


The pilot must have seen the two lines of anchored boats that must only be a lane for the landing of floatplanes or flying boats at night. It didn't occur to Rhykov's SIM policemen to inform the Russian that their secret was out. 


The Messerschmitt paid a return visit the next morning and dropped a 100kg bomb near a lighter.


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The anxious aide peered through the flap in the tent. He saw General Miaja at his desk with an oil lamp. Softly, he tried to get the General's attention.


General Miaja was something of contradiction among those who fought for the Republican cause. He was a career officer, from the Military Academy at Alicante, and from a noble family who'd supplied generations of Spain's senior officers. He was distantly related to la Duca de Medina-Sidonia who'd led the Spanish Armada of 1588.


He wasn't noticably political. In fact he eschewed politics and politicians. He wasn't that great a champion of Democracy either, claiming it was 'a recipe for chaos.' He certainly didn't share the Socialist ideals of the Government.


The Alicante had rebelled during the Officers Revolt of 1936 and Miaja might well have sided with Franco's insurrection, but for one thing. He believed the army was less fit to rule Spain than elected civilians. He was alarmed at what was happening in Germany and Italy and feared Franco was trying to import Fascism into Spain. Lastly, he apparently had some personal, historic grievance against General Franco and the two men had not got along for years.


He was deeply suspicious of the Russians, however, and their network of local cheerleaders and sycophants. Like most aristocrats, he believed Josef Stalin was 'a peasant and a bully' who 'keeps his people in bondage.' But he did have some respect for Gregory Retvizan. He saw in him the intrepid soldier like himself, noted the man's cynicism and honesty. His other Russian advisors were guarded, secretive, and he suspected they were all terrified of upsetting the Communist Party Chairman.


"What is it?" he said, staring at the hovering aide.


"The Russian, sir, Retvizan is here! He wants to see you." The General waved for the man to show the spy in.


"General!" Retvizan said in his heavily accented Spanish. "I believe you may expect a general offensive within the next week."


The GPU agent was dressed in his usual khaki battledress, bandoliers, militia beret and sported his sub-machine gun. His long greying beard was tucked into his coat.


"Why?" Miaja asked. Weeks of warfare had fatigued the General. He was thinner, his eyes sunken, and took longer to grasp information.


"Cavalry in the passes," Retvizan told him, "I have one of their mounts. Its owner didn't need it anymore."


"No doubt," the General grimaced.


"There are new depots... here," he pointed at the map on the wall, "and... here. Fuel for a whole armoured division. Brand new tanker trucks, Magirus and MAN models... all fresh from Germany. And Italian Lancias"


"Did you see any tanks?"


"My guess is they're 'en route' from Bilbao. Some new units too. I've identified a Falangist Corpo from the Madrid front and... the Foreign Legion is here."


"The Foreign Legion?" Miaja looked up in surprise. Weren't they with Moscardo?"


"They were, and my guess is that Moscardo is bringing his army to the party. It must mean a major effort with three forths of all the Fascist forces."


"If all that is true," Miaja pondered, "then your conclusions must be correct. Cavalry in the passes you say?" Retvizan nodded, "they must be poised to cut the Tarragona road." Retvizan nodded again. "I will alert General Modesto. He must block the passes."


"Blow the road!" Retvizan suggested, "then sow mines down the streams."


"If they had any mines... and the time to lay them, which I doubt they have. Thank you, Gregory, leave this with me. I must get to the communication tent..." He dismissed the Russian with a flick of the wrist.


Gregory left the General's quarters shaking his head. 'No mines!' he thought, and he had little faith in Modesto to block anything. 'The fellow must attack, now, before the enemy has time to concentrate. And before the armour from Bilbao arrives. Then the Cavalry can be damned because it will be they who'll risk being cut off.' But he was equally certain that Miaja will not attack. He had too little faith in his army. 'That is the problem,' he sighed. He made is way back to his horse.


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Rhykov heard the hooves of the horse and was instantly on alert. It paused by the little ruined villa that was his hideout. The horse seemed to trot away again but Rhykov sensed movement. He crouched behind a wall and eased back the cocking lever of his machine gun. Just then, a hand clamped him firmly on the shoulder.


"Damn!" he cursed.


"It's a wonder you haven't had your fool head blown off before now, Rhykov," said a familiar voice.


"I heard you!" Rhykov said, "I didn't want to dent your over-inflated ego."


"Oh bullshit! And only you could have sent that weasel of a Spaniard after me! He's as subtle as a block of Baltic pine!"


"Gonzales? He may be a pinhead but he's ours, Retvizan."


"Yours, maybe, but not mine. I'd have left him in a ditch face down. So what the fuck do you want?"


"I've come to take you home."


"Home? How? Barcelona is blockaded last time I heard."


"The 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' is parked 50kms offshore. Its seaplane is picking us up tomorrow night."


"Moscow sent a cruiser for me? How flattering!"


"Tut, your ego! Gorshin's out there!"


"Gorshin? So I take it Moscow has no idea what's going on?"


"Yes, business as usual!"


"Right, well, thank's for coming, you old Tartar. When do we leave? I'm sick to death of this fucking country."


"We slip down to Amposta. I've arranged to be picked up by the SIM who'll take us down to the Bana."


"Ok, do you mind doubling on that old nag of mine?"


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To Benin it felt like a dream. She opened her eyes and saw sky. Someone had her by the feet, she tried to struggle but couldn't move. A voice in her ear told her to be calm, that everything was all right. But the fake conviction in the tone of voice alerted her. She tried to recall who was talking but didn't recognise him. 


Then she heard other voices nearby; urgent voices and shouts of panic. She picked out someone calling a name, like Osviedo or Oswaldo, she wasn't sure. Someone else kept saying close by, 'easy, easy!' Whatever she was lying on lurched and jolted and someone cursed. Then things faded once more.


The next thing she remembered was being rolled about. This time it was on the flatbed of a lorry. She could hear the roaring of the engine and the smell of dust. Someone stood on her hand and apologised.


"Hey! Tell that fucking driver he can drive *around* the fucking holes. We've got wounded on board for Christ's sake!" That voice came loudly from someone at the back. Benin opened her eyes again and saw a brown figure in a peaked cap kneeling over a man on a stretcher. He was pressing down on the man's chest with a large bloodied pad.


Benin tried to ask those nearest her where she was and what was happening, but her voice came out as a croak and barely left her lips. It seemed ages before the jolting stopped and more men, and some women, began swarming onto the truck.


"Easy with that one," someone said, "careful!"


A figure bent over her, blocking out the sunlight. "Are you awake?" It was a woman's voice. Benin tried to speak but couldn't. Then she was slid off the truck, but the jolting and rolling was brief this time. Next she felt coolness as she was laid under a tree.


In the functioning part of her brain she worked out that she'd been wounded, but how and how severe she didn't know. She was aware of men groaning around her, and more distant shouts. Another lorry screeched to a halt and there was more commotion.


After what seemed like hours just lying there under the tree, a person came and knelt over her. A cool towel was placed on her forehead, something cold brushed her lips. She realised her lips were parched and cracked.


"I am Birgitte, I am a nurse, you will be fine, you have concussion and some shrapnel wounds. You lie still, please, and I examine."


The Nurse's voice was assertive, even terse, like someone used to taking control. She automatically did as she was bidden. Benin recognised her deep guttural vowels and halting Spanish as plainly Nordic or Germanic sounding. She opened her eyes and saw a face of a women in her forties, maybe, with a blond lock escaping from under a white head scarf. A red cross was stitched onto it.


The Nurse held Benin's eye open. She muttered 'ah ha' as she examined her. "Flesh wounds," she continued, matter of factly, "this needs to be dressed properly. They are butchers at that aid station."


"Where?" Benin croaked.


"Amposta!" the nurse answered promptly, "save your strength, please!"


"What happened?"


"You're wounded. I know nothing else. Rest, please, I will be back." With that she was gone.


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John and 'Oz' walked slowly up the dusty road leading out of Amposta and towards the Republican lines over the Ebro. They'd been unable to hitch a lift, they were dry and thirsty and in a bad temper.


In the distance they saw two men riding on a horse. "Hey!" 'Oz' shouted, "give us a lift?" The two men, however, ignored them and kept on riding till they were out of sight. "Fucking useless Spaniards," 'Oz' cursed, "couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery."


An Arado droned overhead, high. 'Oz' pointed the PPD into the air and opened fire until the magazine was empty. The aeroplane continued on its way, but 'Oz' felt much better. They found a tree and sat down to rest.


A short while later, John felt the muzzle of a gun pressed into his neck. "What were you shooting at?" a low voice said. John thought it sounded familiar.


"Aeroplanes!" he answered quickly.


"Idiots!" the voice spat, "it was too high. You waste bullets! How do you know it's not one of ours, anyway?"


"Are we flying Arado 95s now?" 'Oz' intervened, "Hitler giving us a few is he?"


"You know this aeroplane? From way up there?" the voice asked.


"Of course!" 'Oz' told the man, "high gull wing, big wheel spats, no mistake."


"Are you from the air observation post?" another voice asked, "are you the Australians?"


"I'm from New Zealand," John told him, "he's Australian."


"Ah! Then did you find your Anarchist Artillerywoman?"


"What?" John asked, "Anarchist? Benin? Where is she?"


"Ah, yes, Benin!" the man said, "such a pretty one. You have a good eye for the ladies."


"So where is she?"


"A gunner with the 5th Brunete Battery over on the left of the line. Probably 250 metres from your observation position?"


"You don't say?" The muzzle of the gun withdrew from John's neck.


"She's a Tigress, that woman. You must slap her and carry her away from this shithole. She deserves more than to die here."


"C'mon, Gregory," the other voice said, in Russian, "we must keep moving!"


"Patience, Rhykov! There is nothing more important than bringing two lovers together."


"Fucking romantic!" The two men disappeared.


"So who the fuck were they?" 'Oz' asked.


"Russians," John told him, shrugging.


Shortly after a lorry drove up and the two friends scrambled onto the back. It lurched off in the direction of the Ebro.


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KATZMAREK (c)


