BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 27)


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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Leninsk lay some 30 kilometres to the East of Stalingrad across the river Volga. It had been projected as an industrial city but the war had overtaken its construction. A few factory buildings had been built but now they were just empty shells. The equipment had been shipped East of the Urals.


A concrete runway had been laid out before the war for a future airport. No terminal building or hangars had been yet constructed but during the Winter some prefabs had arrived and lay ready to be bolted together.


4/155 Interceptor Squadron was using the field when Temporary Lieutenant-Colonel Ioann Khrinov arrived to take command of the station. Formally, he'd been called John Greenhaugh, but had since began to use a Russified version of his name. It caused less problems.


The 4/155 had a variety of equipment, some Yak 1s, Yak 9s and LaGG 3s. Mostly these were second hand as this theatre of operations was consider low priority. The men of the 4/155 tended to reflect that status being of average quality. John had to turn the 4/155 into showcase squadron in less than a month. Then, the British Hurricane squadron was due to arrive and the bigshots wanted to impress their ally with the strength and quality of the Red Air Force.


John brought with him his Adjutant from the 44th Guards 'Novgorod.' He was all the Squadron could spare, but if he was going to improve the 4/155th he needed both good equipment and pilots.


Benin was in Moscow at the War College. She was taking her Officer's course  there. Moscow was now an armed camp with an entire Soviet Army dedicated to its defence.


Jana Ivanova was still in Kalinin. She was forbidden to fly at present, her injuries from the crash a year ago had not healed sufficiently for her to return to service. Nevetheless she was being well-looked after and treated as a hero for her exploits.


She corresponded with John occasionally but the mail service was sporadic. John, in any case, wasn't the world's greatest writer and his letters were brief and contained little news. But Jana dealt with the hand she was given and got on with learning to fly again.


Upon his arrival at Leninsk, John immediately got on with the business of improving facilities. Decent communications and accomodation for both pilots and aircraft were a priority. Some new equipment was promised in the form of Lavochkin La 5s but that just complicated the task. His pilots would need conversion training and it all had to be done inside 4 weeks.


To get things done in the Soviet Armed Forces required a mixture of tact and bullying. From Stalingrad, however, he could summon large numbers of workers to construct the prefabs through the local Party Organisation.


Within a week, the first of the La 5s arrived. It was a LaGG 3 with a massive radial engine grafted on the front. The engines had arrived from the Americans, a Wright Cyclone 14. It was rated at nearly 2000 horsepower and was the most powerful aero engine available to Russian aviation. This was achieved partly by its 100 octane fuel and its 14 cylinders with a total capacity of nearly 43 litres (2600 cu ins). Finding adequate supplies of AvGas to run these brutes was a problem but the Soviets believed the extra performance provided by the powerful engine was worth the effort. The fuel, though, had to be imported as there were no refineries in Russia capable of producing it at present. This was brought up from Persia through the Caucasus. Limited supplies of the engine restricted manufacturing of the Lavochkin to just a handful per month and full production wasn't schedualed to take place until mid 1943. Until fuel and engine production problems could be overcome, the Red Airforce had to make do with what they had.


John adopted the first La 5 as his own personal aeroplane, a privilege of rank.


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It had been an arduous journey for the 'Special Detachment Squadron' of the RAF. First, there was the perilous leg by ship through the Mediterranean, subject as they were to attacks by German and Italian bombers. The two merchant vessels carrying the squadron's personnel and aircraft then had to pass through the Dardenelles into the Black Sea and to the port of Novorossiysk. The aircraft were then assembled and flown to Stavropol. There they were to wait while the Squadron's support vehicles caught up with them.


By that time it was the middle of April 1942 and the Spring thaw was just beginning that year. The Stavropolskaya Vozvyshennost (Highlands) was a mass of streams as the meltsnow began to run down towards the Caspian to the  East, and the Black Sea to the West.


The Hurricanes landed on a section of the main road to Stalingrad as the airfield was soft and treacherous. 'Oz' watched as each fighter landed in a series of hops and slides. Low foliage brushed the wingtips of the aircraft as they touched down. Thankfully, none of the Hurricanes were seriously damaged.


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At Leninsk, John had been told nothing about the personnel of the RAF squadron, except that they'd been hand-picked. His boys had worked hard to improve their skills, suffused as they were with a little ring-in talent the Red Airforce managed to assign.


Two were stunt pilots; experienced men from the pre-war Russian display team. In addition, he'd managed to poach a pilot from Novgorod complete with his Yak 9D. This was no small triumph as Russian High Command, Stavka, had been told to expect a German attack on the Central Front after the thaw.


Even so, the Squadron that anxiously awaited the British was a patchwork thrown together. There were 18 aircraft all told, four La 5s, seven Yak 9s of various models, three MiG 3s and four LaGG 3s. Together with the British Squadron's 14 Hurricanes, this was to be the fighter defence of the Stalingrad area in May 1942. As the ranking Officer, John was to be in command of the grandiloquently titled, 400th Allied Commemoration Interceptor Air Regiment 'Volga.' An insignia had been devised featuring the British and Soviet flags.


Top brass had been arriving all morning, including General Rokosossky, Commander of the Volga Military District. The local Party notables had turned up for the reception as well. They all made John decidedly uncomfortable, as he was not a natural diplomat. Rokosossky, well into his sixties and looking forward to a quiet war, had the habit of calling John, 'my lad.'


"Well done, my lad, an excellently turned out unit," he gushed, clapping John on the shoulder. In reality, he wasn't too pleased with having the spotlight turned on his command either.


That morning a temporary stage had been constructed and the aircraft spruced up and set in a neat row. The airfield had been cleared of slush and the prefab buildings all given a coat of paint.


At twelve there was a droning of engines and everyone rushed outside and took station. Hoving into view was a lone Litvinov Li2 transport, a licence built American Douglas DC3 Dakota. It lumbered around the circuit then bumped down in a flurry of powder snow. The Officials threw their hands up in frustration and retreated back inside.


John lingered to watch the Li 2 taxi towards one of the hangars. As the Shvetsov radial engines wheazed to a stop the door was flung open and a familiar slim figure stood framed, Jana Ivanova.


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'Oz' climbed a little and eased back on the throttle so he could do a head count. All appeared to be present and he breathed a sigh of relief. A couple of Russian fighters were providing an escort. One of the lads in the squadron told him the Russians do everything in pairs so they could watch each other. Someone else decided it was because one was apt to break down.


Their reception in Russia thus far had been excellent. They'd been feted and praised and no request had gone unanswered. It seemed important to the Russians that they should be impressed with their hospitality. Whether it was international politics or just some national character, 'Oz' couldn't tell.


Their escorts appeared to be a pair of Yak 1s. They reminded 'Oz' vaguely of a Curtiss P40 Kittyhawk. In fact, he mused, most of the Russian aircraft appeared to have a Western equivalent. It was either that they'd stumbled upon the same requirements as other Air Forces and designed similar aircraft or they'd been assiduously copying everything that came out of the West, 'Oz' couldn't tell.


Certainly, Russians had been enthusiastic about aviation from the beginning. The World's first four engined airliner had been designed and built before the 1st World War, the Sikorsky Il'ya Muromets. It seemed a possible answer to Russia's transportation problems. It was a start, even if it was slower than a freight train.


The ground below gleamed with melting snow. It ponded in small lakes and swelled the great rivers of Southern Russia into torrents. The land stretched in all directions broken only by the distant silvery slash of the Volga. Their guides pointed the squadron towards this landmark.


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Marshal Klimenti Voroshilov was Deputy Premier and Chairman of the Defence Committee in Moscow. He'd been tasked with the defence of Leningrad but had displayed a certain tactical weakness and was replaced by Zhukov. He was, though, an efficient organiser and inspiring leader of men. A new Russian heavy tank, the KV1, was named in his honour.


A Stalin loyalist, he was in part responsible for the Red Army's shocking lack of preparedness on June 22nd 1941. Besides Richard Sorge in Tokyo, whose personal friend was Eugene Ort, German Defence Attache, other Soviet spies correctly predicted the day as well as the composition and objectives of the invasion. The 'Lucy Ring' of Lucerne, led by German Rudolf Roessler (Code Name 'Lucy') and known in Moscow as 'the Musician,' even furnished the names of the Corps Commanders and the exact number of tanks the Germans had. On June 18th a German deserter crossed into the Russian lines near Kovel' and gave the exact time of the attack. Still Voroshilov and Stalin weren't convinced. Sorge and Roessler were all posthumously awarded Heroes of the Soviet Union in 1964!


But Voroshilov had keen survival skills and managed to shift the blame onto People's Defence Commissar Timoshenko and then Chief of Staff Zhukov. His subsequent promotion perhaps owed more to the fact that he'd successfully protected the arse of Josef Stalin from criticism and found other scapegoats to blame for the fiasco.


But as Jana Ivanova stepped down from the Li 2 to make way for the Marshal, John knew he had a very big fish on his hands.


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Their escorts led them right to the airfield. The Yaks circled and went into land in advance. 'Oz' could see many people on the ground and what looked like a small band. A Russian Douglas was parked nearby and a line of Soviet fighter aircraft lined up on display. He thought that if the Germans decided to bomb the place, now would be a golden opportunity.


He led the Hurricanes into the approach and they lined up in single file behind him. One by one they touched down and teams of groundcrew guided them into parks opposite their Russian opposite numbers. Only when the last of the squadron had parked and switched off did 'Oz' unstrap himself from the cockpit. He breathed a sigh of relief. None of them had made a heavy landing or botched an approach.


'Oz' watched as groundcrew doubled about making sure everything was precisely in order for the official reception. A man hopped onto each wing of the Hurricanes to assist the pilots. Another placed a small ladder by each so the Englishmen could climb down without jumping. A Sergeant chatted to 'Oz' in pidgeon English, he couldn't understand a word the man said. Standing in a line, 'Oz' could see the first tier of Officers waiting to welcome him. 'Oz' saw John in the middle, he was unmistakeable, a good 3 inches taller than the others.


John had no idea the leader of the visiting Englishmen was 'Oz' Callaghan. He stared at the man with growing disbelief, saw him take off his flying helmet and replace it with a service cap. Still, he was sure he'd made a mistake.


Just then there was a shout and a brass band began to strike up a tune vaguely resembling 'God Save the King.' The bass drum was being hammered so enthusiastically it managed to drown out the cornets.


The Soviet reception committee then looked to their left and saluted as the British and Soviet flags were run up flag poles. 'Oz' caught the hint and nodded to his men to do the same.


After that, a blond woman approached in the uniform of a Major in the Red Air Force.


"Welcome," she said, "my name is Major Ivanova. I'm on the staff of Marshal Voroshilov, Chairman of the Soviet Defence Committee and Deputy Premier of the Soviet Union." 'Oz' was stunned, overawed by the occasion. Obviously this meant a great deal to the Soviet Union. He was terrified of making a gaffe. He managed to stammer a greeting to the Major. He vaguely recognised the name as the woman the intelligence men in England had mentioned was having an affair with John. If so, he had excellent taste. "Please, you come this way?" the Major continued, "what is your name?"


"Squadron Leader Callaghan, ma'am," he told her.


"Ah!" They walked towards the group of officers. First Jana introduced him to General Rokosossky. The General shook 'Oz's' hand warmly and saluted. Down the line he finally stared face to face with his old friend, now Lieutenant-Colonel Ioann Khrinov.


John's eyes bulged with recognition and delight. 'Oz' could see he was straining to maintain decorum. Rokosossky was looking at them, curiously. 'Oz' didn't want to let his friend down in front of the assembled Brass.


"Squadron Leader Callaghan, this is Lieutenant-Colonel..." Jana started to say.


"That you 'Oz'?" John said, "you old arsewipe! What the Hell are you doing in Russia?"


"Look who's talking?" 'Oz' replied, "y'sure you can talk like that in front of the General?" he lowered his voice.


"Rokosossky can't speak English," Jana advised, "you two know each other?"


"Spain," John told her.


"Well, this has been a day of surprises," she said, grinning at John, "c'mon, we can't keep Voroshilov waiting."


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A hangar had been laid out for the reception, with rows of tables, bunting, British and Soviet flags, food, and enough booze to ensure all could be left roaring drunk if they wanted.


'Oz' was placed alongside Jana so she could translate for Voroshilov, whose English was poor. On the other side of the Marshal was Rokosossky and to the left of 'Oz' sat John, in full uniform. 'Oz' could see his friend was as nervous as he amid all the Soviet bigshots. The Marshal and Rokosossky were due to leave for Stalingrad soon for more official receptions. Jana had obtained permission to remain at Leninsk, ostensibly to assist in settling in the British pilots.


Voroshilov asked intelligent questions about the Battle of Britain and the performance of various enemy aircraft. He told 'Oz' that the Russian and British forces had much to share with one another and looked forward to seeing the Hurricanes in combat. After an hour or so, the General and the Marshal made apologies and left. Everyone else breathed a sigh of relief. That was the signal for the serious drinking to take place.


John and Jana leaned forward and stared across at one another. Jana could see John was dying to ask her questions.


"Colonel?" she said in Russian, and smiled at him.


"Lieutenant-Colonel... temporary," he corrected.


"Any more booze?" 'Oz' interrrupted.


"Signal a waiter," John explained in English, then continued to Jana in Russian, "you work for Voroshilov? How come? What do you do for him?"


"He requested me from from the Reserve... he needed a pilot. What do you mean, 'what do I do for him?' What do you think I 'do for him'?"


"Hey! Are you two arguing or what?" 'Oz' asked, bemused.


"No," John shook his head, "we're discussing business," he explained in English.


"Duty!" Jana corrected him in the same language, "there's no business!"


"Ok!" 'Oz' said, looking from one to the other.


"So," Jana smiled like a cat and bolted her glass of vodka, "who did you have to fuck, Ioann Khrinhov? All that gold on your collar's dazzling me." She spoke Russian evenly and full of spite.


"Would you like me to change places?" 'Oz' asked, "I really need to learn the lingo."


"I'm sorry, Squadron Leader," Jana said sweetly, "it is very rude of us. The Lieutenant-Colonel has become quite Russian, hasn't he?" John caught the barb, but 'Oz' missed it.


"Yeah," he agreed, filling his glass, "he's 'gone native,' so we say. Back home we'd call him a 'Chalky Abo!"


"'Chalky Abo'?" Jana raised her eyebrows, "I don't know this term."


"Aboriginal," 'Oz' explained, "in Australia we say a white man who lives and talks like an Aboriginal is a 'Chalky Abo'."


"That's very funny," laughed Jana, "'Chalky Abo?' Yes, Lieutenant-Colonel Chalky Abo!"


"And what are you?" John said, sarcastically, "Major 'Mistress'?" Jana immediately bristled.


"Whoah, kids!" 'Oz' put up his hands, "I feel a little tension in the air!"


"I punched you once," Jana snarled in Russian, "don't think I won't do it again just because you're a bigshot now!"


"You want we should go behind the hangar?" John asked, also in Russian.


Jana began to chuckle at the memory. John's anger dissipated and, he too, burst out laughing.


"There, kids!" 'Oz' said, wryly, "that's settled! And how's that Spanish lady of yours, John, Benin wasn't it?" 


John and Jana's faces fell, mid chuckle.


"All right," said John, "she's all right."


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As the evening wore on, some of the band began playing dance music. The few women present were in high demand. Not being nearly enough women to go around, many of the men danced with each other.


Jana waltzed with most of the English pilots, those still standing, while John brooded or talked over old times with 'Oz.'


"Tell me honestly, John," 'Oz' said eventually, "you and the Major... how long?"


"It's nothing," John replied, gloomily.


"Aw, c'mon! You haven't taken your eyes off her all evening. You been two-timing Benin?"


"I... I don't want to talk about it." 


'Oz' shrugged, "she's a fine looking woman, that's for sure!"


"What about you?" John asked, "you got a woman tucked away?"


"Married," he confessed, "a French lady called Catalina."


"Catalina? That's Spanish!"


"Yeah, long story. She works for MI6. Something to do with the French Section. She can't tell me much."


"Benin's training for Intelligence," John told him, "the GRU, can you believe it? She has to make an oath of allegance to Joe Stalin himself. I'd never have believed it a year ago."


"Well, that's war, you see? We all end up in places we never thought possible, eh?"


"Aye," John agreed, "that's so true!"


They were interrupted when Jana tottered over. "Lieutenant-Colonel?" she said, extravagantly, and held out her arms. 'Oz' winked at him as he stood.


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Benin felt self-conscious in her Lieutenant's uniform. She wore the blue band around her cap with the single red star, the cap that struck terror and uncertainty in some sections of Soviet society. But instead of the NKVD badge on her lapel, she wore the small, plain cypher of the GRU, Military Intelligence.


Unlike the NKVD, which was separate from the Military with it's own chain of command, the GRU was controlled by the Commissar of Defence and was a section within the Red Army. Like the NKVD, the Political Police, the GRU had swollen dramatically following the invasion and now encompassed a wider variety of roles.


She was still surprised, however, when she was posted back to Novgorod. 'There is an urgent need for someone fluent in Spanish,' was all she was told. It was only after she arrived behind the lines that she found out why.


She was met immediately by a GRU Captain who escorted her to a compound on the East bank of the Volhov. There, in a reinforced concrete building, she was taken to a room where two GRU Officers were waiting.


"We'd like you to translate for us," they told her, "we have a number of Spanish prisoners, Fascists!"


"Fascists?" Benin said in surprise, "what are they doing here?"


"Division Azul is over the river. Franco sent them to help out his buddy Hitler."


"Blue Division? Falangists?"


"Falangists," agreed the GRU Officer.


"Send them in," Benin said in a tone of pure malice, "and, sir, you don't have to be kind to them on my account."


"You, perhaps, would like to be left alone with them?" the Officer grinned.


"If possible, sir!"


"Unfortunately, Headquarters want's them alive."


"Pity!"


But rather than the hardened Falangist thug she was expecting, the lad they brought in reminded Benin of a terrified boy. Fatigue and unspeakable horrors, were written all over the young face. He'd obviously had a terrible time and, unexpectedly, Benin's maternal extincts wanted to comfort the frightened lad.


Signs of recent frostbite had swollen and cracked his lips and caused sores on his face. His eyes darted about the room, or were downcast as if he expected to be bludgeoned to death any minute. The GRU Officer looked at Benin and grinned at the surprise on her face.


"Ask him his name and Service Number," he asked Benin. She repeated the question in rapid, fluent Spanish, which jolted the boy back to reality.


"Private Pedro Guzman," he told her, his voice sullen and childlike.


"Portuguese?" she asked.


"Spanish... from Vigo. My Grandfather was Portuguese."


"Ah!" Benin translated back for the Officer who carefully noted it down.


"Senora?" the boy said, "what... what is to happen to me?" Benin duly translated for the GRU Officer who explained that he'd probably be marched back to a detention centre.


"Providing," he added, "that he's not guilty of any crime. Ask him his unit, duty and how long he's been in Russia."


The lad turned out to be a chef's assistant who'd been in Russia throughout the Winter. He'd been captured in a trench raid. He told them the Spanish had inadequate Winter clothing and had lost many men to frostbite and disease. He added that he wanted to go home to his Mother. The boy's misery almost made Benin weep. She had to remember what the Fascist artillery and dive bombers had done to her beautiful home of Novgorod to keep her composure.


"We all of us want to go home," the GRU man told him, "except some of our homes are occupied by vermin who've left us orphans in our own land. I am a native of Minsk," he added, "and I can't go home because your people have taken over my house and killed all my relatives!" When Benin translated for the Spaniard he looked down, and in a weak voice he apologised. "Your sorrow," the Officer replied, "won't return my Mother to me."


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Jana danced a little too close to John than was strictly proper. If some of the others noticed, they were tactful. 'Oz', however, grinned to himself as he watched them circulate slowly around the dance floor. He thought of Catalina far away and he missed her terribly. The drink had started to make him morose and it took the high jinks of some of his men to snap him out of it. A drunken English pilot began dancing on a table in a crude imitation of Burlesque. John and Jana, however, seemed not to have noticed.


"I missed you," Jana confessed, "Kazan is a depressing place in Winter."


"I missed you too," John told her.


"Don't lie to me," she snapped, "I know you were with Benin in Gorky. Did you fuck her?"


"Um..."


"Of course you did, why wouldn't you? She's pretty and I bet she's good in bed."


"Um... I don't want..."


"You don't want to talk about it? Was it that bad?" she teased.


"No, it was..."


"Tell me?" she moved closer, "you're getting hard just thinking about it, aren't you?"


"Don't, Jana, not here... in front of all these..."


"Tables turned, lover? Remember how you felt me up that day? In front of all those bigshots?"


"I remember."


"Good!" Her hand snaked down and gave the front of his pants a rub. "How does that feel?"


"I want you," he whispered in her ear.


"How?" she giggled, "across a desk? Over a sink?"


"Anyhow!" He wanted to take her then and there and everyone else be damned. The crash hadn't seemed to have left any permanent damage at all, except for a slight awkwardness to her gait. Her khaki jacket was open and her necktie discarded. As John danced close he could catch a glimpse of her perfect cleavage. The memories of those times when he sucked and nibbled her breasts flashed before his eyes. Jana deliberately bumped into his erection with her hip.


"Your quarters or mine?" she whispered.


"Mine, it's bigger."


"Has it a sink?" she grinned.


"Yes. And a desk."


"Then let's go before you have an accident."


"Follow me in a few minutes," he told her.


"You sure you can walk?" she laughed, "without tripping over that thing?"


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John made his way to his quarters and took off his pants and loosened his shirt. He was still stiff as a board just thinking of Jana Ivanova and what they'd be doing shortly.


He opened the door a fraction and looked out. It was some minutes before he could see her strolling nonchalantly towards his quarters. As he watched, she fended off a drunk who'd put his arm around her. Presently she arrived at the door and took a surrepticious look around to see if anyone was watching. Satisfied, she quickly darted inside. John grabbed her and kissed her long and passionately.


"So," she said, a little breathless, "you must tell me about Benin."


"Why?" he asked.


"Because I'm curious... and a little excited! I'd like to know what she does for you... and what you do for her."


"I don't..."


"Don't be a spoilsport," she said, rubbing his pants. "You must tell me and I'll take off my clothes. If you don't, well..." she teased.


"Ok, ok," he said, a little desperately, "Benin... well, she likes it... ah... in the morning."


Jana began to unbutton her shirt. "Go on," she urged.


"She likes to pretend she's asleep and I... well... play with her arse."


"Mmm," Jana hummed, and took her shirt off. She turned around and stuck out her bottom. "Show me?" John began to caress her, slipping a hand between her thighs. "Yes," she sighed, "you have got nice hands, expressive. So you play with her arse? What next?"


"I slide down her undies."


"Do it!" she hissed. Jana had undone her trousers so John pushed them down. Next came her panties until she was naked from the waist down. "Next?"


"I slide my dick along her crack."


"Yes," she gasped, "I'm sure she'd like that! Baby, let's get on the bed... show me what you do to her?" Jana laid down on the bed and John got on behind her. He eased down his underpants and freed his cock. Jana held him in her hand and slowly worked him. "Is this how you fuck her, John?" she asked, "from behind?"


"Sometimes," he explained, "and sometimes she rolls over on her back and..."


"And?"


"And we do it... with me on top."


"And how do you want to do it now?"


"On top," he groaned, "I want to see you... see your tits... look into your face when..."


Jana shuffled onto her back. She'd taken off her bra and her breasts lay on her chest, magnificent as they always were. "You want..." she gasped, "you want me to... spread my legs?"


"Yes!"


"Have I a nice pussy, John? Is it as nice as... as Benin's?"


"Yes, I... I like it."


"It's ready for you, baby!" Jana guided John inside her and he eased up her until he was burried. She groaned at the sensation, the feeling of fullness, and the intimacy. "John," she said as he began to move, "I don't mind, y'know."


"About?"


"That you have... Benin. Tell her I'll... always hand you back... afterwards."


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KATZMAREK ©






